Last week the city council shot down a six-lane bowling alley on Lower Greenville Avenue next to Good Records, denying zoning for a $1.5 million project there because activists told the council the bowling alley and attached bar would draw hordes of loud drunken outsiders to the neighborhood.
Jen Sorensen
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Really? We can't have a bowling alley? Old East Dallas is now opposed to bowling alleys attached to bars because they threaten us with moral ruination? For the life of me, I can't get the lyrics from The Music Man out of my head.
The Music Man was a hit Tony-award-winning Broadway musical by Meredith Willson and Franklin Lacey in the late 1950s, made into a hit movie in the early '60s and kept alive ever since in countless high school productions. It's about a scam artist who goes to River City, a hick town in Iowa, and convinces the populace they need to buy marching band instruments from him in order to rescue their youths from the corrupting menace of a pool hall.
So all last week I'm reading back over the dire warnings about the corrupting effect this six-lane bowling alley is going to have on my part of town, and I can't stop hearing lyrics from The Music Man.
If I close my eyes, I can almost see professional Lower Greenville neighborhood activist Avi Adelman doing the Robert Preston part from the movie.
I imagine a big neighborhood picnic at Tietze Park one hot Saturday afternoon. Avi has mounted a picnic table to catch the attention of a vast crowd. Hundreds of moms and pops push in closer to hear him.
"Well, either you're closing your eyes to a situation you do not wish to acknowledge," Avi starts out, "or you are not aware of the caliber of disaster indicated by the presence of a bowling alley in your community."
Now Avi steps down and dances out front to the ominously building thrum of snare drums in the background. He waves his arms to and fro, weaving the yokels into his spell:
"Ya got trouble, my friends, right here, I say, trouble right here in Old East Dallas! The first big step on the road to the depths of degradation, I say, first, medicinal wine from a teaspoon. Then beer from a bottle!"
A shocked moan goes up from the crowd. Mothers and fathers snatch sons and daughters by the earlobes, eying them accusingly.
"An' the next thing ya know," Avi tells them, "your son is bowlin' for money in a pinch-back suit. And list'nin' to some big out-a-town jasper, hearin' him tell about horse-race gamblin'!
"Ya got one, two, three, four, five, six lanes in a bowling alley. Lanes that mark the diff'rence between a gentleman and a bum, with a capital B, and that goes with O and that stands for bowling!"
Now we yokels, utterly hypnotized by Avi's sermon, chant it back to him: "Trouble! Oh, we got trouble! Right here in Old East Dallas! With a capital T that rhymes with B and that stands for bowling!
"We've surely got trouble! Right here in Old East Dallas! Right here! Gotta figger out a way to keep the young ones moral after school!"
When I watched some of that city council meeting last week, I could still imagine the crowd whisper-chanting in the background: "Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble."
What the hell? When did Old East Dallas become River City? I thought we were the hip part of town. When did we become a bunch of Bible-beating yokels? I must have slept through that part.
Look, I've known Avi for years, and I respect him for what he does, and I'm not going to start now accusing him of being a scam artist in a 1950s Broadway musical. For that, maybe tune in next week.
Avi and I talked last week after the vote. He and the other activists have an entire conspiracy theory about the bowling alley. They say it's a speakeasy cover story for some gigantic rooftop snake pit that's going to be like a scene from Dante's Inferno. It's an interesting vision. Take some years off me, I might want to go.
What troubles me more is Avi's vision for what he thinks the future of Lower Greenville ought to be. I don't want to get boring, but when he talks about it I start hearing that damned marching band music again.
I asked him last week how he sees the future. He said the street, which is lined by low-rise 1920s brick buildings on 25-by-50-foot lots, is "designed for community retail."
Community retail? I admit, it knocked me back for a second. I had to think. I said, "community retail is a pretty big shift."
"What shift?" Avi said. He said that's what was there before it became a bar zone in the 1990s. "That's the zoning down there," he said, "with mom and pop stores like the original Bluebonnet [an organic grocery store] and the African bookstore."
I said, "You're really looking at the elimination of the so-called entertainment district."