The Reluctant Daddy

(Continued from NATIONAL PASTIME PT 4)

“Daddy, is it true you’re a nartha-ssistic asshole?” My son Ethan asked me out-of-the-blue this morning while stuffing Lucky Charms cereal into his mouth.

“A what?”

“A nartha-ssistic asshole.”

“I think you mean ‘nar-sa-CISS-tic asshole.”

“Yeah, that.”

At first I was a little taken aback, but then I thought for a long moment, gave him a sidelong glance, and said, “Let me think about it.”

“Ok.”  he sighed.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, when I was talking to  Granpa ‘Big Mike’ on SKYPE, he said he read your blog and said you have selective memory and are a nartha-sistic asshole.”

“Narcissistic.”

“Yeah, narcissistic asshole.”

As my son Ethan munched on his high sugar, high calorie, high carb cereal and I choked down my pathetic egg white omelet, I took a few moments to consider what my child was asking. I could have scolded him for cursing, but thought better of it, as in my mind the use of the word ‘asshole’ in conjunction with term ‘narcissistic’ seemed appropriate and was in keeping with the spirit of the description applied to me.  I was however slightly perplexed as how to answer my son’s question truthfully and without bias.  On one hand, I knew myself to be a narcissistic asshole of the first order, but as any narcissistic asshole will tell you, you don’t necessarily wish to be reminded of it by your child who can eat as much sugary cereal as he wants and  NEVER gains an ounce, while I must resort to eating low carb, low taste, ZONE-style breakfasts and am still morbidly obese according to that hateful Wii Fit. Those fucks at Nintendo who created that piece of shit deserve to die! Who wants a machine that not only tells you that your core strength is completely lacking, your balance is like a 90-year-old in traction, and you’re fatter than shit?  Christ – isn’t that what your mother is for?!

As I debated the ‘narcissistic asshole’ description in my mind, my thoughts drifted happily to my dad, ‘Big Mike,’ who spent his precious spare time on Sundays patiently catching the baseballs that his young, misanthropic son threw.   Big Mike, without any kind of comment, paid for the picture window I had broken and worked tirelessly to perfect my throw. By the end of that spring, I could throw and catch as well as any of the other boys on my Little League team and even got to play right field for two whole games!

I am happy to report that after that first hideous season, I never returned to Little League due to my father’s abandonment of me in favor of my younger sister, who had by the grace of God, become a star tennis player. I am however eternally grateful to my dad, for if he hadn’t been in his own way,  the original asshole narcissist, I wouldn’t have the wonderful memories of our time together, nor developed the ability to win every  ’Let’s-get-fucked-up-and-play-Strip-Beer-Pong’ contest I enter.

“Yes, I  am a narcissistic asshole.” I said proudly to my son Ethan.

I also made a mental note to add FIELD OF DREAMS to our Instant Cue on NETFLIX, for not only did I feel incredibly nostalgic about those catches with my dad, I wanted to see if Kevin Costner’s ghost dad was as cute as I remember.

(Continued from NATIONAL PASTIME PT. 3)

This afternoon, my son Ethan and I had a game of catch in our front yard.  Yes – yours truly, the eternally ‘flamboyant’ bon-vivant who possesses absolutely no interest or ability in competitive sports threw a ball to my son in an improvised outfield, which in our case was the dog shit covered City of Los Angeles median directly in front of our house.  Ethan, clad in his gloomy ‘uniform’ of mental institution green cargo shorts and black skull t-shirt made a mad dash down the median, careful to avoid the ‘gifts’ left by our careless neighbors, and heroically caught the baseball that I expertly pitched. Even I was impressed with the throw, as it was perfect arc and sailed through the air like a bird in flight.

That’s right bitches, despite my artistic and urbane inclinations, I am able to throw a baseball with a verve, vigor and skill rarely seen in men my age. Unfortunately, my macho baseball throwing skills are rarely called upon when doing Tequila shots at The Abby or haggling with the poor souls at John Varvatos who probably despise me for my relentless bargaining.  Yes, as cliche as it sounds, this girl will gladly torture some poor unsuspecting sales associate for two hours to get my additional 10% ‘celebrity discount’ on my already deeply discounted cashmere hoodie. Forget the fact that I’m neither a celebrity nor worthy of such a discount, I’m getting that bitch for less!  Whether throwing a baseball to my son or throwing attitude at some retail queen, I play to win or I don’t play at all.

I would like to say that in 1973 when my dad, ‘Big Mike,’ was putting me through my baseball paces in the suburban desolation of South Jersey we bonded like Kevin Costner and his ghost father in FEILD OF DREAMS.  Speaking of FIELD OF DREAMS, if in the final tear-jerking scene, rather than getting all misty and shit about having a catch with your old man, you, like me,  focus on how weirdly hot Kevin Costner’s dead dad is, YOU’RE GAY! Anyway, ‘Big Mike’ in his zeal to perfect my pitching arm, produced a large bucket of ancient baseballs and had me stand on an improvised pitching mound consisting of phone books. I was instructed to pick up each filthy ball and throw it to my dad who had by now donned a catcher’s mask and held up his catcher’s mitt expectedly.  Per my dad’s instructions, I picked up the first ball, wound up, and hurled the ball as hard and fast as I could.  My dad’s expression turned from expectant to incredulous as we both watched my first pitch of the afternoon drift wildly to the right, easily clearing our fence and smashing right through the plate glass picture window of our neighbor.

(To Be Continued)

(Continued from NATIONAL PASTIME PT. 2)

You may be surprised to know that I am a little dubious about ‘No Bullying’ policies instituted at schools these days. Of course, no one wants to hear those unpleasant stories about some weepy middle school girl overdosing on Sominex because her classmates label her a ‘whore’ or ‘slut’ on MySpace. Had I been labeled a whore or slut in middle school, I would have been overjoyed as I am a fierce proponent of the there’s-no-such-thing-as-bad-publicity school and would have much preferred ‘whore’ or ‘slut’ to my assigned moniker ‘fag.’ In my mind, whores and sluts were glamorous and desirable ‘fallen’ women who wore red silk underpants, and slept with all the hot teenage guys, where as ‘fags’ were bad at sports, utterly undesirable, and much to my chagrin didn’t get to sleep with any of the hot teenage guys. I’ll take ‘whore’ or ‘slut’ over ‘fag’ any day, thank you very much!

It was 1973, and in those days, there were no enlightened educators, childcare providers, or in my sorry ass case, suburban little leagues instituting ‘No Bullying’ policies. Undaunted by my nervous puking, my clueless father nudged me forward, carelessly throwing me to the little league wolves who seemed hungry for fresh meat.

From what little I can remember (I’ve spent decades repressing this shit) most of the boys on the team were outright hostile as I had absolutely no interest in the game, nor possessed the talent to either hit, catch, or throw the ball in any kind of meaningful way. To them, I was some freakish liability, who spent inning after dreary inning seated on the dugout bench staring off into space. Like most children who can intuitively sense difference, the boys on my baseball team decided I didn’t belong, and when they weren’t outright ridiculing me, treated me with cruel indifference. My father ‘Big Mike’ remained blithely unaware of the situation, and would from time to time schedule humiliating meetings with the coach to ascertain why his son was rarely, if ever, on the field.

The coach, an Italian immigrant with the suspicious sounding name of Sergio Cantalupi, politely explained in broken english that I was “How you say in English…a dreamer not a player.” To my father, Mr. Cantalupi might has well have shrieked “Your son is a ‘Finocchio’ (Italian for gay) and belongs in a dress!” Horrified, my father then and there decided that he would implement a rigorous home schooling-type baseball regimen. My guest star dad, who had never taken any real interest in me before, decided his only begotten son was going excel at baseball whether he liked it or not. It was in those ghastly, grueling sessions, that a ‘No Bullying’ policy would have come in handy.

(To be continued)

Hey gang…I’ve finally joined this century and have made my first VLOG. I hope you find it as frightening as my written shit.

Love,

Daddy