Super Bowl

All photos courtesy of Chris LaChall. Pub. Dec. 14 in SJ Scene.
The bouncer won't budge, standing between you and a bevy of clubgoers inside the low-lit alley. He checks your style and then your I.D. before shifting sideways to let you through.
If it wasn't clear before, it's strikingly so now: Bowling is no longer just fun and games, but much more at some alleys.
In the last three years, area bar owners have modernized, perhaps even glamorized, a pastime dating back to the Flintstones, setting up luminous bowling lanes in luxurious lounges throughout Philadelphia.
In the last three months, that trend has extended into South Jersey with the opening of Pinsetters Bar & Bowl, allowing "Guys' Night Out" to be bridge-toll free and to start a little earlier. Yabba dabba doo!
Whether they come to the Pennsauken center for the booze, food or rental shoes, bar-restaurant manager Shawn Reilly said its patrons are usually bowled over.
"When they walk in the doors they don't know what to expect," said Reilly, 25, of Philadelphia. "They're in a state of shock that this place got renovated from what it was to what it is now."
As unbelievable as converting a seven-10 split, new owner Mark Platzer spent four months converting the modest Maple Bowl into a palace of pins and pizazz.
Wanting to put a spin on the typical bar scene, the Haddonfield resident flew to Las Vegas to attend a bowling expo in the spring.
"I don't want it to be the traditional bowling alley," Platzer, 45, said. "I want people to enjoy the atmosphere if they don't bowl."
Cinnaminson resident and casual bowler Harry Aydin doesn't want the traditional bowling alley either.
While the modern -- if not new-age -- furniture may intimidate some, when compared to the bare, old-school alleys frequented by the more serious, league-bowling types, it's disarming for Aydin.
"My arm will hurt the next day," Aydin, 28, said, "but at least this atmosphere is nice. If you bowl 140 or 90 it doesn't matter. It's about having a good time."

In a dim setting spared from black lights and disco balls, 34 neon-trimmed lanes each lead to, yes, 10 pins, and to several overhanging projection TVs.
Its new second-floor VIP lounge, usually reserved for bachelor and bachelorette and corporate parties, has a separate bar and overlooks its 10 reserved lanes.
Bowling's look has certainly changed, but so has people's outlook on the sport, said Kannon, an on-air personality at Wired 96.5.
"Dorky is the new cool," said Kannon, 30, an admitted avid bowler from Philadelphia. "I think bowling used to be dorky, but there's a new trend in bowling where it's cool now."
"It's like that nightclub environment, but there's something to do," said Beverly Wojciechowski, 24, of Philadelphia. "There's that competition, a bit of fun, a bit of excitement. It's more than just coming to hang out."
Jason Freeman notices Pinsetters' overhaul more than anyone.
Freeman, who's worked as the head mechanic for the alley for the last two years, said he notices a change in the crowd dynamic.
"We're losing a lot of league bowlers because of the lighting and all that, but the partiers are really picking up," said Freeman, 19, of Maple Shade.
Pinsetters, at 7111 Maple Ave. in Pennsauken, opens its doors to only those 18 or older after 8 p.m. and to legal drinkers after 10 p.m.
Once in, its typical 21- to 45-year-old clientele usually heads for its restaurant or its bar, said Reilly -- and he doesn't mean snack bar.

Offering more than just pizza and burgers, Pinsetters' menu includes penne pasta, strip steak and crab cakes, all on the higher end of a $7 to $19.50 price range.
The full bar boasts a wide selection of martinis ($8), speciality drinks ($7), and a weekday happy hour from 4 to 7 p.m.
An additional "In The Biz" happy hour, falling between 11 p.m. and 2 a.m. on Sunday through Thursday, aims to appeal to the area bartenders and servers who just get done work.
"Usually when a business closes, their staff goes somewhere else," Reilly said.
And business is coming from all directions.
"A place like this doesn't really exist around here," Reilly said. "We're trying to open up a martini bar with a bowling alley. That's what we're doing. It's something to break up the monotony of just sitting on a barstool."
Once suffering from a dearth of decent bowling alleys, Philadelphia has changed lanes, now offering three upscale venues to chose from: Strikes Bowling Lounge in University City, Lucky Strike Lane in Center City and North Bowl in Northern Liberties.
While Strikes was the first boutique bowling center to roll onto the city's scene in January 2005, Lucky Strike is known as the nation's first "bowling lounge," setting up shop in Hollywood and infusing some of that sushi-eating, cocktail-sipping culture in each of its 15 other locations across the country.
Philadelphia's Lucky Strike is no different, casting a club ambience throughout its three tiers while offering a profusion of plasma TVs, plush sofas, top-shelf liquors, and well-done entrees, not to mention its lanes.
Like Lucky Strike, Pinsetters enforces a mild dress code that prohibits sandals and sleeveless shirts.

The Ugly Dog

Courtesy of Scott Anderson/Courier-Post. Pub Dec. 14 in South Jersey.

Karen Quigley had mixed emotions when learning her part-Chinese crested, part-chihuahua mutt was crowned the "World's Ugliest Dog" in June.
It wasn't because her bug-eyed baby was receiving the biggest backhanded petting known to the dog world; Quigley knew Elwood's ego was bigger.
The honor just wasn't in her manuscript.
"What am I going to do now?" the Sewell resident asked.
Before leaving for the annual World's Ugliest Dog Contest in Petaluma, Calif., Quigley spent nine months producing and self-financing her debut children's book, "Everyone Loves Elwood," a true story originally based on the dog's second-place finish in the 2006 ugliest mutt category.
"The story was about him not winning," Quigley said. "Not winning."
The bespeckled dog with the funny tongue lapped up a tidal wave of media requests, appearing on "The Today Show," CNN, "The View," and countless other programs before returning home with Quigley to a project previously estimated as 90 percent complete.
With the help of longtime friend and professional writer Loren Spiotta-DiMare, Quigley tweaked, appended and updated the rough draft without changing its message: Beauty may be in the eye of the leash holder, but acceptance comes from within.
Just don't expect Elwood to turn into a swan.
"He is what he is," said Quigley said. "He knows he's very handsome."

By way of his owner, the 2-year-old dog -- whose tongue wags more than his curly tail -- lends his celebrity to help support a number of animal charities, often drawing comparisons to Yoda of "Star Wars" fame for his pointy ears, to E.T. for his bug eyes, and to anyone sporting a white mohawk.
"I think he was always proud of who he was," Quigley said. "I think now he just gets a lot more attention because of it."
But Elwood didn't always receive so much attention.
Before Quigley gave him a final home, Elwood passed through two other owners: a breeder who was going to euthanize the unwanted, 4-week-old pup and then a woman who took in more animals than she could provide for.
Two days after taking in Elwood, one of Quigley's eight dogs, the proud owner got her first sense of public reaction when she carried the 6-pound canine into a Sprint store.
"What is that?" the onlookers asked.
Of all those squinting, only a little boy "didn't look at Elwood like he was a creature from outer space" and approached the dog.
"He laid the most tender kiss on this little dog's head," said Quigley, who sometimes even holds the pocket pooch while washing dishes.
"That was my first inkling that kids responded to him way different than adults," she said.
Although she recognized an audience existed for Elwood early on, Quigley only considered self-publishing a children's book in the midst of her first meeting with Spiotta-DiMare.
Quigley tried to push the pen over to Spiotta-DiMare, who, in turn, pushed it right back.
"You write it," Spiotta-DiMare told her. "You've lived his story. You write it and I'll mentor you through it."
Quigley chronicled the duo's journey into fame, but, to fully capture this pug's mug, she knew it would require either thousands of words or some pictures worth them.
So Quigley spent two months auditioning more than a dozen artists, enduring Martian-like exaggerations of Elwood and doubting the book's release. Then she called Kay Klotzbach, an art professor at Camden County College and a fellow Greyhound Friend of New Jersey.
Klotzbach, who was featured in the Courier-Post for her Greyhound art exhibit, was hesitant to commit initially as she had never illustrated a children's book before, but had to after seeing Elwood online.
"I thought he was the most interesting dog I've ever seen," said Klotzbach, a Lindenwold resident. "To be honest, I didn't think he was ugly. I thought he was cute, in an E.T. kind-of-way."
From May to August, Klotzbach spent time snapping shots of Elwood, sketching a storyboard and two to three preliminary drawings for each of the book's 17 illustrations.
Klotzbach got to know her subject as well as one could, right down to his chronic shaking and phantom body noises, and still can't quite understand Elwood.
"Dogs have standardized features. Some have bigger eyes, bigger ears, but there's no dog that looks like Elwood," Klotzbach said. "That's what made him so entertaining to draw."
Quigley said it was these quirks, along with his disarming charm, that made Elwood not only a crowd favorite, but the judges' top dog too.
And as it turned out, Quigley said Elwood couldn't have written the script better himself.
"Had he won (the first time), the book might be a little different," she said. "This is the way it was supposed to be."

The first printing of "Everyone Loves Elwood" -- about 5,000 copies -- arrived at Quigley's home on Dec. 7 and can be ordered through the Web site www.everyoneloveselwood.com or throughout Elwood's local book tour. The 40-page, hardcover book retails for $15 before shipping or tax with a portion of the proceeds benefiting charities of homeless and abused animals.
Quigley may have an additional loan to pay off, a 10-year-old car and eight dogs that need to go out, but she's already written her storybook ending.
"Whatever happens with it I'm so glad we did it," she said. "Even if I have this just for myself and I have to go back and work part-time jobs at Wal-Mart or Wawa to pay off the loan, I'm just so happy with it."

Gardner outruns sophomore slump

Knock, knock.
The principal of Eastern High School enters the classroom, then, in the next moment, pardons sophomore English Gardner, whisking her to the hallway.
Somebody's in trouble, her classmates think. They're not the only ones.
"Are you ready for your sophomore slump?," the principal jokingly asks the track phenom.
Gardner laughs, but - as she has done for all matters concerning track - answers seriously.
"Some people have slumps," Gardner says, "but I don't believe in them."
Perhaps the 15-year-old sprinter doesn't acknowledge the possibility of a slump because it would require her to realize last year's success, something she's been trained to forget.
"What she did last year doesn't really mean anything this year," coach Sonny Anderson said. "We're almost pretending last year didn't exist. We're starting all over again."
That sure is a lot of pretending.
So, just to play along, Gardner didn't double up at the indoor Group 4 Championship in the 55-meter dash (7.10) and the 400 (56.44).
That wasn't her who took first in the Eastern Championships' 55-meter dash. Gardner didn't claim another two all-group championships during the spring in the 100 and 200 (24.04) nor was she anywhere near the winning of the 100 (11.62) at the Meet of Champions.
The truth is that such accomplishments can't be erased from record books or memory.
"I don't really pay attention to what I've done," Gardner said. "If I do good or do bad, I just brush it off and move ahead."
Her competition won't soon forget the freshman who monopolized the headlines and the medals - and both her and her coach know it.
"She's got the target on her back," Anderson said. "People are going to be looking to come get her ... She doesn't fear anybody. But we also respect people so with that respect, we must continue to work hard."
There are some numbers, though, that Gardner cannot let go of.
Gardner said her mother, Monica, battled breast cancer last winter and at its worst, reached a Stage 3.5 out of four, a 20- to 30-percent chance of survival.
With added perspective, winter track - a season that is already seen as a mere warmup for the spring - became even less relevant for Gardner.
But her mother told her to never give up, to continue the fight no matter how bad the times are.
Gardner said she carried her mother's image and words to every starting line until she no longer had to; wearing a hat, Monica Gardner cheered from the stands at the Group 4 Championship, well on her way to recovery.
"Every time I ran, I ran out of her," Gardner said. "She was my motivation. She's pushed me, strived me and told me to not stop running."
Gardner kept running, extending her track season into early August with the Willingboro Track Club.
In that stretch she bettered every personal mark, running a 23.62 in the 200, an 11.6 in the 100, and lastly, at the Nike Outdoor Nationals, a 54.0 in the 400, an incredible time for someone with little experience in the event.
"I was in the slowest heat. I got third overall and knocked out six or seven people in the fastest heat," she said. "I had to work. I had to use all my resources to gut it out."
After competing in the National Junior Olympics in August, Gardner was in shutdown mode, hibernating until team practice resumed in December.
"We did crutches today [last Friday] in practice and it still hurts," she said with a laugh.
Gardner said she doesn't have the time - or height - to learn hurdles, not when she's busy perfecting her sprinting form, trying to stave off a sophomore slump, the spinning second hand and the second coming.
"There might be another English Gardner that pops out somewhere and do the same thing I did," she said. "You never know."

With Feeling: Oh, the rush

When focusing is a feat and inspiration is scarce, when a zodiac's worth of signs all point you over the cliff and you realize emo writing is lamer than a popsicle stick; when your metaphors no longer add up and you find yourself playing centerfield for Darren Dalton's Fifth Dimenson; when you're lost in a run-on sentence and can't find the brakes, when you forget that writing in the second person is condescending and lazy, you begin to fidget in your skin, wondering ...

I gave a speech today, my first to an audience larger than two conjoined Olive Garden tables. I first walked to the stage while pocketing the tattered one-page speech and brushing by a team of blushing girls – mostly minors – each carrying tin back to their seats. I know this because I was checking them out.

Wearing a tie and some shoe polish, but no jacket since that seems like the smug thing to do, I hurdled the four steps leading to the stage with two lunges – a modern-day record

The heart was working time-and-a-half, for sure, and veins bulged in ways that warranted Speedos. Remembering that now was now and this was this, I turned to face the naked crowd and felt for something in my pocket. I unfurled my speech and went blank.
--------

The previous presenter read a poem. He wore a jacket, maybe two, and rhymed in verse, telling of all the achievements the girls’ Team of the Year had done. The crickets loved it.

Even though the poem didn’t cure any cancer, it was still admirable if just for the overwhelming risk involved. The presenter, lost in his limerick, couldn’t feel the drift of clammy silence brought on by his race/pace/girl/world/shoelace rhyme scheme.

Not long after sitting back down with the mortals, the poet left the banquet for the comfort of home, probably telling his loved ones of his success. With proper care, the jacket never shrinks.

------

The goal never was to become a public speaker; it just came with the writing job. So rather than pretend to be a master orator, equipped with a deep, projected voice and sprinklers for eyes, I just stared nails into the podium and concentrated on not stuttering.

You’d have trouble overblowing my speech impediment. Unnoticeable to some and unbearable to others, my stutter was first uttered before the braces or acne. I was fat and five, my earliest recollection, and had an insatiable thirst for “j-j-j-juice.” (My inability to say the word fluidly didn’t stop me from being a juicaholic. Apple juice, Juicy Juice, Caprisun – it didn’t matter. I'd lap up spills from punctured Caprisuns faster than any Labrador. It got to the point where I didn’t care if it was real juice or just some orange drink shit, like Sunny D. I was a mess, but I divert ...).

It was about three years later – after countless sessions of tongue rolling, cassette listening, cassette recording, wall staring and me numerating the differences between soldiers and shoulders and thieves and phfffffs – when I found ways to hide the stutter.

One way was to become a mute. With "Edward Sissorhands" receiving good ratings, that idea sounded fine until remembering the daily role call, the pledge of allegiance and the weight of class participation, all stuff that matters when you're eight.

The other was to start every sentence with a magic word, one that fitted every occasion and was easy to pronounce. That word was "For." It's an impossible word to stutter, really. Like a boulder on a hill, the thought rolled off my tongue given that extra push, that cascading momentum, that "For". The only downside was sounding like an idiot.

As if channeling Yoda, a Shakespeare character or some golfer, I'd lower my waving, bloodless arm and announce to the class "For I have to go to the bafffoom, please" to the sound of a hundred merry trumpets. It didn't help matters that puffy, purple silk shirts -- only made from the finest silkworm ass in China -- filled my closet. Don't get me wrong: people loved it -- only just five centuries ago.

Maybe I'll get back to the point of all this later.

McDonnell challenges Sheehan's sprint

Photo courtesy of John Dye


EVESHAM - Instead of taking a lifeguard test in Wildwood last spring, Camden Catholic senior Kevin McDonnell competed in the 3200 of the Parochial A state championship, finishing fourth and eight seconds behind then-junior Mike Sheehan of Holy Cross.
All the lifeguard stands in Wildwood were full when McDonnell tried applying again, but he was undeterred, earning a whistle at Wildwood Crest this summer.
That’s not the inspirational part of this story.
While basking in the sun, McDonnell logged mileage on both land and water, developing muscle in his upper body and a mentality as dark as a tan.
“Every time I go out in a race I just want to hurt really badly,” McDonnell said. “That’s what I like to do.”
McDonnell did just that Saturday in the 3,200-long Cherokee Challenge against, among others seniors, Sheehan.
McDonnell got out fast but was dogged throughout by Sheehan and the specter of his killer kick.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” McDonnell said. “I had to turn my head every five seconds to see where he was.”
With Sheehan 10 meters in his wake for the last 800, McDonnell kept his form and his lead, winning by five seconds in 9:45.
Camden Catholic coach Dennis Quinn said his lifeguard experience saved him from being overtaken
“I think that really helped him out as far as finishing out a race because he never [finished as] good as he did today,” Quinn said.
The time was the fastest for the course being altered in 2004.
Meet director Chris Callinan said the new course slows a runner about six seconds with the addition a hill, a change Haddonfield sophomore Boo Vitez doesn’t mind.
“I love hills,” Vitez said. “All 107lbs of me gets up all those hills pretty easy.”
It was the rest Vitez had to adjust to.
An admitted “distance guy” with a limited kick, Vitez said he avoided a footrace with speedsters teammate Colin Baker and Shawnee’s David Forward in the sophomore race by going out unusually fast early.
“If it goes out slow and we’re all together I know they can all outkick me,” said Vitez, who ran a personal-best 4:36 in the 1600 last spring.
Vitez shot out from the pack with the sound of the gun, rounding the first 800 meters in 2:19.
But he was not alone.
Baker, a childhood friend, was on his heels and Forward lurked near but Vitez did not relent, dropping Baker on the looming hill and keeping Forward at leg’s reach en route to victory and history.
“Getting out hard took a lot out of their legs I guess,” said Vitez, who ran a 9:56, the best time ever ran by a sophomore in the race’s 12-year history with or without the hill.”
Moments before nabbing a new record, Vitez lost one to Triton’s Robert Rawls.
Rawls, a lanky freshman who placed fifth in the meet’s middle school race last year, took a summer’s worth of training – and the words of coach Kevin Pumphrey – with him to the starting line of the freshman race.
“My coach told me to stay calm and if someone goes out like a nut don’t chase him,” Rawls, 14, said.
Rawls kept close enough to the nutty frontrunner to surge past him before the one-mile mark. Then he passed Vitez’s freshman record of 10:17, finishing in 10:09.
“I was a little disappointed but it’s alright,” Vitez said, laughing.
Ocean City junior Brett Johnson didn’t break any records but, more importantly, he also didn’t break anything else.
Recovering from a season-ending stress fracture last spring and, most recently, a golf ball-sized lump on his right leg incurred from slipping on the slick boardwalk at a quad-meet Tuesday, Johnson won the junior race comfortably in 9:53, seven seconds ahead of runner-up Haddon Heights’ Josh Black.
Johnson’s win, along with a fourth-place finish by teammate Ryan Birchmeier – another member of the running wounded – in the senior race, propelled the Red Raiders to their second straight team championship.
Although mostly known to gauge the individual than the team, the Challenge showed Red Raiders as real state contenders, Johnson said.
“Everybody is going to be skeptical of us,” he said. “They know Ryan is coming back from an injury and he’s running well. Everybody knows that I’m coming back from a stress fracture and they’re going to test that. I definitely think we have something to prove.”

Sea Isle City 10-miler = hard

The plan was drawn in the sand, marked in footprints left 25 years ago when Rocky Balboa capped the Rocky III montage by kicking sand in Apollo Creed’s face en route to winning the world’s most dramatic footrace on a beach ever.
I had hoped to reenact that scene during a scorcher Saturday at Sea Isle City, but instead of finishing a seashell-chuck away, I ran 10 unforgiving miles, all while not wearing knee-high striped tube socks.
Instead I stunk up the beach worse than a month-old horseshoe crab carcass.
To know just how bad I performed, you first need to meet my competition.
Some opted to forgo socks or sneakers, a smart decision if not for the 2.5 miles of boardwalk, the stretches of burning sand, the rigid shards of seashells and the surrounding stampede of feet.
It’s not unlike a beach setting to inspire men of all sizes to show off skin, but during a race dynamic, some things are better left tucked within ones’ XXXL shirt. There’s no excuse for people to get seasick while on the shore.
Some topless runners reminded me of moving coat racks and others seemed as if they just stepped off a Venice Beach leg press.
As for the women, they always remembered to say “Excuse me” when passing.
The race started 5:30 p.m. on the boardwalk at an ugly 94 degrees.
Unless positioned in the front or the back, you couldn’t spit anywhere near the start without getting slapped or punched. I don’t know how camels do it.
An estimated 1200 sweaty runners huddled within a narrow block of boardwalk and did their best not to touch each other while awaiting the starting horn. Some must’ve not heard it go off. These people were soon trampled.
Stuck near the back, I zigged and zagged my best past the crowd, fully prepared to get between any handholding couple.
The crowd disintegrated with each passing souvenir shop. Once off the first mile-stretch of boardwalk, runners fell victim to the small patches of soft sand – the antithesis of quicksand – including me.
I trudged through the dunes until reaching the shoreline, pocked with bucket-sized waterholes, some serving as moats to sandcastles, since stomped on by me.
We rounded the cone, allowing me to see everyone slower than me. I took little satisfaction in this fleeting fact, feeling fatigued and my legs.
At Mile 3, I clocked in at 22:35 and thought about ending it and writing about my 5K within a 10-miler.
But there was no escape, even mentally: my imagined “happy place” was the beach.
So I bit down on my lip, turned my baseball cap backward, grew some facial hair and tried to hide the fact of running like a little girl; that is until a couple girls passed me.
Now off the sand, I pulled over to the side and put the ‘walk’ in boardwalk and stretched out any hidden kinks while sucking more air than a Hoover.
The rest of the race involved more sand, more stops and my same goofy grimace. If knowing my time makes you feel better in a depraved, sadistic way, I finished in an unofficial 90:45.
Although a loser shouldn’t be giving any shout outs, I’d like to thank the dozens of volunteers who handed out water. It
I’ll hopefully find a race to rebound at this weekend. But until then, you can find me at the beach doing my best ostrich impression.

The First Step

The last time I had reason to run, not counting any rabid dogs or mistaken officers, was a little more than four years ago, when I starred on Washington Township's junior varsity track squad, lapping spectators at an alarmingly rate.

All eyes would be on me during the last 100 meters of the 3200 as I would "bring it all in" for the team, including the dust of my competition, allowing the freshmen to set up hurdles.

But I was also often the last person off the track in practice too, logging in an average 40 to 50 miles a week.

The hope of spiking, whether from a growth spurt or from some revolutionary time-shaving gear, kept me moving.

Now 22, I've torn down my height chart, forever at a generous 5'9, and boxed away all my consolatory medals - both of them.

The time away from running may not have done me well from the look of things, such as my extra affectionate love handles, but it has done worlds for my confidence.

In other words, I'm as convinced of being a faster, stronger runner as I am of being delusional. Forget about my foot speed, my endurance or what my watch says -- I'm just faster. Somehow, this is true.

Unfortunately, one can't win a race on confidence alone.

For the past month I've been training for Aug.4's Sea Isle City Island 10-miler, starting with a trial four-mile race on July 4 in Pitman.

With the temperature ideal and the course marked clearly, excuses were hard to find so I improvised and arrived late.

The first mile, the run in shame as I coined it, was aptly my slowest, setting the pace for a 30:16 finish, two seconds shy of my fastest uncle.

People estimated I was anywhere from two minutes to 15 minutes late, meaning I could've had the current course record if it weren't for that regrettable price-check on sunscreen during a Wawa pit stop.

The lotion should come in handy this weekend with the 10-mile course being one-quarter board walk, seven miles of sand and the rest beached jellyfish.

The starting time may be 5:30 p.m., but I'm not expecting to run in any five o'clock shadow.

Although it wouldn't be my first 10-mile race, it certainly looks to be more challenging than the cupcake course of Philadelphia's Broad Street Run, which I coasted in 68:28 in 2006.

I've examined the course more intently than a metal detector, crunched the numbers and devised a workout regimen meant to simulate the beach-running experience, thus giving me an edge over the expected field of about 1,200 runners.

While averaging about 20 miles a week of running, I worked in such exercises as the
"sand-castle hurdle", "the sand-box shuffle" and lastly, the "sand-castle stomp", all while spritzing saltwater in my eyes.

No excuses this time, so long as there is no chafing. Or sand in my shoes. Really, you could tie a kite on to me because I'll be flying Saturday.

Either that or I'll crash and burn. Still, nothing that a little sunscreen can't prevent.