Lucky Strike

“I owe everybody a rub down,” Meg said, frowning.

I guess I started the whole thing off on the wrong foor when I left a message on my father’s answering machine that jokingly said, “I hope you have a lovely day celebrating the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Oops.

The afternoon (let’s face it, the morning was a loss after Chris’ epic rock show Saturday night), found Abbi, Chris, Meg and me at Film Cafe’s All-You-Can-Drink brunch drinking, well, all that we could. The eggs benedict was terrific, but I was there for the mimosas (though I took some derision from The Abads on said beverage choice).

From there we stumbled back into the sunlight (when’s the last time you turned on a buzz during daylight hours?), and ambled down Ninth Avenue to Holland Bar (where the remains of one patron remain inturned above the bar). The regulars may not have shared my enthusiasm, but the jukebox rocked.

I spun Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues,” The Band’s “Ophelia,” Kenny Rogers’ “Lucille” and The Rolling Stones’ “Street Fighting Man” before Meg one-upped me Air Supply’s “All Out Of Love” and the afternoon’s penultimate plan fell into place: two sets at Leisure Time Bowling high atop the Port Authorty Bus Terminal.

It’s been years since I bowled, but — buzz notwithstanding — it came right back. Where, as a kid, my hands always felt too small and the ball always felt too heavy, today was my day. Well, in part. It was more Chris’ day; we split the sets.

It was a pretty excellent Easter, a long way from my days as an alter boy at St. Thomas. Quaffing pints beats a sip of wine. And remembering the “Our Father” can’t touch remembering just how incredible it feels to roll a strike.

“No doubt, son!” Chris said, “It’s the home run, the slam dunk, the hole-in-one of bowling!!!”