Doing Time At Red Lobster, or, Bowling For Punishment?

Sometimes the world just seems to fall right in place. Minutes after posting my previous blog (see below) about my good friend Sal's loss of his Dudeness, I came upon this story about a judge in Florida who "sentenced" a domestic abuser to a night where he--the abuser--must buy his wife flowers, take her to Red Lobster, and then to a bowling alley. The second "date" in this sentence is a meeting with a marriage counselor. In theory a well-measured sentence, in my opinion, especially because it didn't involve a Dude-erectomy, but as usual for me, I've got some issues.

First, though, I congratulate Judge John Hurley for his creative use of the law (for you Cuyahoga County readers, imagine what the sentence for Jimmy Dimora might be if meted out as creatively; I kind of like the thought of Jimmy, with tool belt, knocking on every door in the county and offering his home repair skills gratis). Not to make light of domestic abuse, but as Hurley deemed the violence in the dispute "very, very minor," the punishment--in theory to rekindle love--seems honorable, a decent alternative to throwing yet another person in jail and into the thicket of the criminal justice system. Kudos, Your Honor.

But, the particulars. Let's take a look at the judge's actual words in court: "He's going to stop by somewhere and he's going to get some flowers," Hurley said at a hearing, according to Florida newspaper Sun Sentinel. "And then he's going to go home, pick up his wife, get dressed, take her to Red Lobster. And then after they have Red Lobster, they're going to go bowling." First of all, creative sentencing, Judge, shouldn't preclude the use of exact language we all come to expect from legal proceedings. Now I don't know the entire story concerning this couple--maybe she loves Red Lobster and is always begging him to go and he refuses--but to specify the place of the meal while being so flippantly vague about the flowers smacks of judicial carelessness. I mean, following the letter of the law, the guy could "stop by" the Dollar Tree and buy a couple of plastic daffodils, no? He could drive through a cemetery and just "get some flowers" off an untended bump in the ground, no? Sure, the incident was "very, very minor," but we are dealing with a criminal here, Your Honor. "Stop by somewhere and get some flowers" leaves a little too much to chance, in my book.

And I realize Judge Hurley probably has a ton on his docket and a "very, very minor" domestic abuse case may not call for taking all day, but a little better precision with his language might cut down on the mis-interpretation possibilities. Look closely at this sentence: "And then he's going to go home, pick up his wife, get dressed, take her to Red Lobster." What do I know, maybe the offender is a nudist, but I think--given the official nature of court and all--"get dressed" should read something like "change into his finest clothing, maybe that velour jacket I've read about in the affadavit." And, "pick up his wife"? Okay, I won't pretend I'm teaching children how to write here and go on and on about the practical difficulties of lifting a spouse off the floor and then getting dressed, but come on, Your Honor, this is supposed to be about re-igniting the romantic fires of a relationship so that no more "very, very minor" incidents occur. Have a heart and do something with that "pick up his wife" line. And then there's the "after they have Red Lobster" line. Again, nit-picky maybe, but how does one, or two, "have Red Lobster"? Dining and dashing, chewing and screwing, feasting and fleeing, maybe? "We had Red Lobster all right," she grinned, wiping lemon juice off her chin as he and she ran pell mell to their vehicle. "We, Red Lobster," screams an untipped waitress as she watches the unpaying customers burn rubber out of the lot, "We've been had." Okay, fine, one does "have" McDonalds, Long John Silver, etc., but Red Lobster's better than that, and if this is truly about romance, don't tell them to "have Red Lobster," Judge, tell them to enjoy a quiet, relaxed, amorous culinary experience at Red Lobster (did you read to the end of the story where a Google user rates the particular Red Lobster as "quite possibly the best" in South Florida?). Red Lobster, hunh? Like I said, maybe it's her favorite restaurant, which is fine. And nothing against Red Lobster--I've had some scrumptious meals there before, and I am not a seafood lover--but for the purposes of the court, why not choose a little more romantic boite that isn't part of a national chain? And no, I will not be so cynical today as to suggest this whole story is bunk, a PR ploy planted by the good folks at Red Lobster on the cusp of their big time of the year, Lent. I will not even think of saying something as obvious as this whole story smells fishy to me. Not going to do it. Again, and this is just my own admittedly skewed bias, Red Lobster just doesn't sing romance to me.

Now I'm sure you think I'm just warming up, getting a little revved up on some stupid precise language anality and ratcheting it up a notch with a few digs at Red Lobster, only to let it all out on the whole bowling thing. Nope. I am not an avid bowler, but in pondering all the nuances of this story, I did some looking back on my own life and realized that every time I have ever "gone bowling" I have had a delightful time. Bowling alleys are batting 1.000 with me, which is more than I can say for just about any other experience in life, aside from eating mom's homemade chili. Despite whatever cheap flowers, despite whatever attire, despite "having" Red Lobster--despite whatever disappointments any of that possibly could hold for this court-ordered-trying-to-make-it-better couple--a night of bowling will cure all that ails or fails. Well done, Your Honor, after all. Maybe a few gutter balls early on, but you rolled a turkey in the tenth frame. I doff my rented shoes to you. Live happily ever after, couple in Florida.

No, But Thanks For Asking (And Other Weird Utterances)

So I've been on the new job for two weeks now. It's always fun to meet new people and discover personalities and the politics of a new work place. It's another bookstore job, but there are many differences, some I like, others I don't. I belong now, though, because the other day I had my first experience in the new place of the age-old dumbest question. As I was kneeling on the floor, clutching a stack of books and trying to squeeze one of them onto a bottom shelf, a customer asked me, un-rhetorically it always seems, "Do you work here?" The day I snap and fire off a "What do I look like, buddy, Rosie O'Donnell's hair stylist?" retort, I'll know it'll be time to retire. Until then, I'll silently endure.

But you get that one all the time. There have been two recent sentences spoken to me, though, one a question, one a statement, that have got me scratching my head a bit. A friendly new co-worker generously offered me one of her Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies. As I thanked her and dug my hand into the tiny cookie pouch, she said, "I love cookies." Hunh? Think about that simple sentence for a second. I love cookies. Isn't that really a universal euphemism for "I'm alive"? I asked her, "Does anybody hate cookies?" If someone does exist who actually hates cookies, is that not the saddest sack of humanity alive? One simple declarative sentence. Three words, one used dozens of times a day (I), one used probably a few times a day, if not always aloud (hate), and one that if not spoken must be thought of at least two hundred times a day (cookies). And yet I'd be willing to wager that in the conversation with my co-worker I was the first person in human history to put those three very common words together in a sentence: I hate cookies (just as I'd be willing to wager this paragraph is the first written expression, in any language--dead or alive--of that sentence, I hate cookies). You're living history as you read, folks.

But it was the question posed to me last night, in all sincerity, mind you, that perplexes me more than any other sentence directed at me this past week or over the past several decades, when I think about it. The question put to me roughly twenty-four hours ago was this: "Are you in a bowling league?" Now let's be clear right up front. I have nothing against bowling. I enjoy the game every time I bowl, which is about once every five years. It's like golf (a sport [yes, bowling is a game, golf a sport; start the boycotts and protests and letters of condemnation to the U.N. now] I am passionate about) for unimaginative people--you basically are playing against yourself, which really lends a great existentialist edge to the sport (game). I likewise have nothing against bowlers, (keglers, I believe is the technical term). Some of my best friends are bowlers (or would be, if my best friends indeed bowled). And if bowling leagues are good enough for Donny and Walter and Lebowski, they're fine by me. I can safely say I never see myself joining a Dungeons and Dragons _______--what, club, organization, cabal? or a quilters' circle or a parents of mimes booster club, but I would not, categorically, rule out the possiblity of joining a bowling league sometime in the future (the future of flying cars and holographic sex, ideally). Got it? Bowling, bowlers, and bowling leagues are all fine by me.

But what, pray God, what does it tell me about me that a nice young woman asked me, in all sincerity (fine, two nice young woman, totally separately, within about five minutes) if I bowl in a bowling league? Now I realize that context is 90% of Compos mentis; I was bowling at the time (the company Christmas Holiday party), and as Donny says, I was "throwing rocks" last night, but still. Can't a guy throw a couple strikes and pick up a couple spares without reeking of "Bowling League Guy"? These people have gotten to know me for two weeks, isn't that enough time to cross Bowling League Guy off the list of possible personality traits? Now it's probably obvious that I am neither a frequent shopper club card holder at GNC nor a Civil War reenactor, but the thought that I might be a Bowling League Guy makes me question more than I want to question about my outward demeanor. Do I need a (literal or metaphoric) wardrobe make-over? Or, God forbid, a total aura overhaul? All I know is I haven't slept, and I think I'm hearing automatic pinsetters in the gutters of my mind.

I know, I know, it's not so bad. The two nice young women didn't ask me if I was a member of the Hair Club For Men. They didn't ask if I had a metal detector they could borrow. They didn't ask me if I had any old issues of O The Oprah Magazine lying around. They didn't say, "With that form, I bet you're an expert curler, too." But then again, they didn't ask me if my Ferrari was in storage all winter. They didn't ask me how much I can bench press. They didn't ask me if Mensa Club meetings were as wild as they sound. And they didn't say to me, "Haven't I seen your bust in some Hall of Fame or other?" (I've long harbored a secret wish to be asked about my bust.) As Dirty Harry said to Briggs, "A man's got to know his limitations," I guess. I'm a guy who two weeks after meeting him you could plausibly see in a bowling league.

Truth is, in fifth grade, 1973-74, I not only bowled in the Huckleberry Hounds Bowling League at Severance Center Lanes, I will have you know I took home the hardware for best average in the league (a robust 100, as I recall; hmmm, another would-be career path I should have considered more seriously). No man should go to his grave without having won a bowling trophy.