Art Imitating Life

Since September of last year, Emily and I have participated in a handicapped bowling league. The premise is that everything is super laid back. You come, bowl three games with some friends, drink a pitcher or three of beer, and have something to look forward to every week. We play for modest cash prizes at the end of the 14 weeks, but otherwise there is nothing at stake, aside from (very unimpressive) bragging rights. It’s not even a sanctioned league!

My point is this: it’s supposed to be fun.

But there are some who seem to take no joy from this weekly recreation. There are a few people we bowl against who are paying $13 a week (plus $2 for shoes, if the don’t bring their own) to do nothing but scowl. They bowl a strike, and it’s a straight face: no jump, no arms raised in victory, no fist pump. They feel no joy.

DUDES! It’s bowling. You’re paying money to enjoy yourself. Smile one goddamn time. You’re bowling!

I have a plant in my cube at work. I have come to really love this plant. But there has been a bit of a problem: the plant had no name. So, a quest for a name began–with the idea that the piece I took from this plant and put in some water at home to turn into a second plant (hooray thrift!) would be [Plantname, Jr.]. Two people suggested I name the plant after myself: one person suggested “Art, Jr. and Art III,” while the other was making a mean joke and suggested “Stupid.” I also momentarily considered Ralph and Jefferson. None of these seemed right.

But I think I have it now.

The plant at my desk will be known as The 1987 Minnesota Twins.

Which, then, makes the plant at home The 1991 Minnesota Twins.

I’m not sure what kind of plant it is, so don’t ask. I will say it looks like this:

(Note: Yes that is my work’s only copy of the Chicago Manual of Style, and YES it lives at MY DESK BECAUSE I AM THE GREATEST.)