There are only two ways to truly know someone: sleep with them or take them bowling.
Phoenix Aime was the woman of my dreams. So, I took her bowling.

Paid for a game. Rented shoes. Got the little, sticky bracelet thingy that said Slippery Joe Lanes.
That way if we got in some sort of accident on the way home,
the guy at the morgue could identify us as bowlers. Anyway, here's the bulleted list of what I knew about Phoenix up to that point:

• She looked like Diane Keaton circa 1972
• She talked with great pretension concerning craft beer
• She only patronized two restaurants: Denny's and IHOP
• She was eight years older than me
• She kissed my sister once on a dare
• Her shoe size was 7
• She was perfect or a near synonym

The bowling alley was empty save a World War II vet in a wheelchair and his wife at lane six,
and they were barely there. Country music played over the loud speaker. And I felt cozy. Predictable. Like a payment plan on the QVC.

That was until Phoenix said, "I forgot something. I'm going to go talk to Mack real quick."
Mack worked the front desk, according to his name tag. Talk to Mack. She just talked to Mack. Mack was sleeping with her. I untied my shoelaces. Oh, Mack, love your red polo with blue tiger stripes.
I pulled my sneakers off. Oh, Mack, I love it when you dip your finger in nacho cheese and feed it to me. Slid my right foot into bowling shoe. Halfway in with the left, and my socked foot struck something plastic. A stick of tiny deodorant. Like unsavory truck-stop-to-truck-stop deodorant. Oh, Mack, I love it when you deodorize -- so hard. Pull the strings tight on the left shoe. Oh, Mack, rub the deodorant until your underarms are SO CHALKY AND WHITE.

"You okay?" Phoenix asked.

"Yeah, what do I look like something's wrong?"

She carried a seafoam green bowling ball with a ****** Mary insignia. "It looks like you triple-knotted your shoes there."

And I said something dumb like, better safe than sorry.

"Sorry about leaving you all alone. Mack holds onto my ***** for me," she said.  I bet he does. "I hate talking to that guy." What? "He's a vegan."

Now, at that time in my life, I was a vegan. And had planned some stirring remarks about the processing of sweet little piggies into cancerous hot dog machines on the way to pick her up. Thought she would think me full of passion, "on fire" for a cause, you know? The wise thing would have been to say, oh well, I'm a vegan. But instead I asked, "What do you mean?"

"You know serial killer's get a last meal before they're executed, right?"

"Right." Where the hell is this going?

"Well, have you ever heard of someone on death row requesting a last meal that didn't involve some sort of animal product? Gacy had buckets of chicken, Bundy had a medium rare steak, even uh, ****, what was his name, McVeigh, Timothy McVeigh he had two pints of mint chocolate ice cream. Dairy."

"I'm not sure how this refutes veganism."

"Nobody is a vegan for their last meal. Nobody. I'm not going to subscribe to a diet that I can't follow until the very end. Live every day like your last, that's my motto."

"That's your motto." I said. To be a great listener, just repeat the last three or four things anyone says to you and raise your eyebrows a little bit. (Examples: "My dog died." -- "You're dog died.", "I never ate breakfast burritos again." -- "Never ate it again.", "I love you." -- "You love me.")

Over Phoenix's shoulder, over by lane six, the wife wheeled the World War II vet up to the lane. And he tossed the ball. Good team, I thought. Want to know someone take them to the bowling alley.

Phoenix removed a glove from her pocket. She had her own ball. Brought her own badass, jet black bowling gloves. And if her carnivorous tendencies hadn't already put a ***** in the Golden Days of Josh and Phoenix, that glove did.

She typed her name first on the scoring computer. Didn't ask if I wanted to go first. That's fine. Approached the lane, three fingers inside the ****** Mary. She brought her bony arm back with the grace of a ballerina tucked away stage right in the shadows. Mary cut from grace slid down the lane with a spin.

Strike. I couldn't really see the pins from my angle. But I recieved a transmission via the "yes" and arm pump. That was two marks against her, and I was going to three. I'd call it strikes, but well, the whole bowling skew.

Here's a bulleted list of what a "yes" and arm pump immediately taught me:

• She takes bowling serious.
• If you take bowling serious, when do you relax?
• She'd never relax.
• My life would be tucked shirts, matching belts and shoes.

For six frames, I picked up fours and sevens. Phoenix, though, nothing but strikes. I threw a gutter on frame seven. Like a normal human being, I shrugged. Made a face out the sides of my mouth. Kept it light.

"I thought you were a grown *** man," Phoenix said.

"Me too."

What happened next, I willed. I'm not god or anything like that. At the time, just cosmicly ******.
Her step stuttered. 7-10 split. "Mack!" she screamed. "Floors are slicker than a used car salesman's hair."

From across the alley,
"Sorry, Phoenix, baby. I'll bring you some nachos. That make up for it?"

"Ain't gonna knock down two pins is it?"

"So, uh, no nachos then?"

"Actually, go ahead and bring those."

She lined up. Back straight. Legs together. She rolled her neck. "You're about to see how it's done."

And I didn't. She broke it down the middle. Field goal. In that moment, that holy moment, I was knowledge plateau. Vindicated.

For about 10 seconds.

Mack swaggered over, nachos in hand. "Phoenix, sweetie, you okay?"

"Do I look okay?"

"No, that's why I asked."

"Just give me the nachos."

"Ah crap." Mack had gotten his pointer finger in the nacho cheese.

"Let me see it."

And right there, right in front the ****** Mary seafoam green bowling ball, she slurped the cheese off his finger."

Frame seven, a good as time as any to call it a match. The wife of the World War II vet kissed her husband's forehead. Handed him a ball. As I walked by, hand on shoulder. "Struck gold, dude."

What do Vintage and Antique have in common?
Here’s a clue, a Hound Bus with a yesteryear start
So the clue wasn’t any help you say
It’s the Greyhound Mack Bus 1931
The Front could be considered something from the Ford Model-T
So since the secret is out, and you now know what I am talking about
There were many variations of the 1931 Mack, but some with my liking is the Camel Hair seat and even a little Seat in the middle of the aisle for a little Tot

But Dazzle in the sleek Navy Blue and White
The 1931 Mack is quite a sight
It has a unique look
Imagine Mr. MAGOO calling the Hound Bus Mack 1931 a road hog
But the Mack’s response would be “My Headlights flashing in stating never forget as it is a Vintage in the Greyhound Fleet”
Now that is really neat
But I have seen the 1931 Mack Hound Bus up close and personal
It was 2014 at the Meadowlands in New Jersey celebrating Greyhound’s 100th Anniversary and the 1931 Mack was exactly the way it was always pictured
But wait, there’s more
I have a Toy Model of the Mack 1931 Bus Burlington Trailways in my Personal Bus Collection, and it is made out of Plywood and the Greyhound 1931  Dieast
Well time really moved fast, and our journey did last
As a Buddy to Buddy would say, “So long Mack”.

Upon a mountain in some older days
there lived an aging dragon
He lived in a cave so near yet so far
that if could not be reached by wagon.
Now, the dragon guarded something so special
it was not yet known to you or me
So many before tried to find it
and none had succeeded, but that didn't
stop ol' Mack McGhee.
Ol' Mack was no thing of beauty
but he was strong in his middle age
He had a personality so greedy and cocky
that he really had no personal gauge.
He wanted what the dragon hid
though what it was, he did not know
So one fine day he set out on a journey
no preparations--he just wanted to go.
Well the first day was fine and so was the next
but on the third, he began to tire
So ol' Mack sat down in the dust and heat
and he made himself a fire.
He soon fell asleep under a sea of stars
seeing as the following day, he had to walk more
He'd get to the dragon, he knew he would
even though the walk was becoming a bore.
The next day he awoke to the blazing sun
burning his ugly face
So he arose and began to walk,
looking for a shaded place.
Ol' Mack pressed through the desert
and soon he came to the mountain
There was shade, it was an oasis
there was even water bubbling in a natural fountain.
He wondered if this was it,
"Is this what the dragon is hiding?
If this is it, it was far too easy.
My time I was certainly biding."
He decided it wasn't enough,
he'd have to climb to the top to find
the treasure that the dragon was hoarding
the very thing he couldn't keep from his mind.
So he climbed and he climbed for hours
and finally he reached the cave
"Oh, good," he thought, "I can finally rest.
I feel like I've been climbing for days."
"WHO GOES THERE?" boomed the dragon
"It is I," answered Mack, "I've come to get your treasure!"
"The thing that I guard is behind that rock," said the dragon,
"I'm not sure it's treasure by your measure."
"I'm sure it is," said Mack
and he ran behind the rock
What there he saw was so simple and plain
that it came as quite a shock.
Behind the rock on the wall of the cave
was the phrase "Be impeccable with your word."
"That's it?!" exclaimed Mack, "there has to be more.
I came all the way just for that? This is absurd."
"That it may be," said the dragon, old and wise
"but it's a phrase to be held true by sinners.
And now, because you are one of them,
I must eat you for dinner."
And he did.