An emblematically obese owner of an awesomely rustic bowling alley in Cleveland, Ohio, once told us: "A true bowler will not go to a martini bar." He was referring to the yuppie ten-pin establishments that have been popping up in cities all over the country, where the lanes are impossibly glossy, the lights are strobing, and some rapper with Lil before his name is droning over heavy bass. Listen, that's not America. That's not even bowling. It's some bastardized farce of the sport that Rush Limbaugh will be forced to play in Hell. We miss that solemn, old, oak-laned Cleveland temple to the converted 7-10 split. And here in Miami-Dade, the martini bars posing as bowling alleys outnumber the real thing by a count of, oh, six to one. No slight to Coral Gables' Bird Bowl, a fabulous place, but it's often overrun by teenagers, with their cell phones and their hair and their dastardly chewing gum. It's enough to make a true bowler sojourn a county north to Manor Lanes Bowling Center, where the lanes aren't too waxed, domestic brew comes $8.50 a pitcher, and — we aren't nearly cruel enough to make this up — on Tuesday and Thursday nights, unlimited bowling costs $10. Until 2 a.m. There's no catch. Welcome to America.