There will come a time in my journey of man where things will inevitably slow down.  A backyard garden will be maintained.  College funds will be invested.  Fatherhood and husbandhood will be towering priorities.  It’s not anything I fear or reluctantly accept; it’s what I’ve hoped to accomplish on my time here.  I am eager to push my children on their first training wheel-less ride, and make Mother’s Day brunch with them.  It’ll be a new adventure in which in which I hope to succeed.

One thing I’ve looked forward to is that transition into the life of the patriarch.  Quirks that only your wife could love tolerate.  The occasionally killer delivery of a dad joke.  And my favorite: hanging out with the crew.

I remember my dad’s crew nights were spent in the backyard: spent propane tank, chopped steak, a cooler of MGD, a lot of Tagalog.  Those evenings after a hard day or week of work, washed down with cheap domestic beer and burnt meat.

My version of Tagalog steak & beer night has been decided: Harley’s Camarillo Bowl.  The local mainstay for painful middle school double dates and semi-pro lane hawks, this alley has proved an institution for evenings when you could no longer stand loitering outside of Del Taco.

There was a forgotten vibe resurfaced on a bowling night with my best friends last month.  Dollar bets for knocked splits.  Innuendo-riddled display names.  Coaching your girl through the motions in chucking a sphere down a plank (bowling wasn’t a thing in my wife’s Chinese adolescence).  At one point Brandon achieved his signature “Oh shit the ball bounced out the gutter and took your pin!” shtick and the Mrs.  completely fell for it.  It was innocent and dumb, and I’ve missed it.

Shooting the shit with your best friends is a habit too good to lose, and I expect bowling night a monthly occurrence for us when we need an evening to rewind to a simpler time.