Friday night, at the behest of my friend A., I went bowling for the first time since high school.
A. emailed me a week and a half ago saying she was getting a group of people together to go bowling, and wanting to know if I’d like to come. I felt a great deal of reluctance, but I couldn’t figure out why, so in the end I agreed to join them.
Now I know why I was so reluctant.
It was because bowling is the most heterosexual activity in the world.
I live in Manhattan, which is a gay island. I spend all my time either writing musicals by my gay self, talking to other gay people who write musicals, or having sex with my gay boyfriend. I am about to publish a book of gay haiku. I have successfully, if unintentionally, insulated myself completely from the heterosexual world.
But Friday night, throwing bowling balls at fluorescent-colored bowling pins and eating pretzels dipped in cheap fondue, I felt more alienated from the rest of America than I have since Jennifer Hudson got voted off American Idol last year.
In a case on the wall there was a bowling pin autographed by the Fab Five, but its salutary effect was counteracted by the bowling pin autographed by David Hasselhoff, so in the end I was left with nothing but the bad shoes, the sadness, and the pretzel fondue.