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(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)
Can it be the recent botox may have enhanced your testosterone profile? If true, then someone owes his mother a big SMOOCH for all of this newfound butchness! XOX