If you've never heard Teddy Atlas talk boxing,
you should. He's trained some of the
best. And he's passionate.
I love him.
He is so riveting. He has the vernacular
of an every man, with the wisdom of a sage and the eye of an artist for the
fight game. He is to boxing commentary what Liebling was to writing about
boxing.
I envy that because I feel so out of touch with
what used to light me up. Too many
disappointments either make you work harder or they shut you down. I did both, in that order.
I complain a lot. I'm tired.
I resent the fact that my office job wears me down and drives me to
drink. You need time to nurture a
creative career. And as I get older, I
don’t have the energy, even if I do have the time. The problem also, is that I don't have a
manager, and I haven't had a boyfriend in a decade. (it's longer than that but
who's counting). I think I need
anti-depressants.
I know I am a creative soul and I know I have a
lot to say/express. But all of the
disappointments have compounded and made my outlook sour. After my divorce, I found what felt like a
soul mate, but it was stopped in its tracks.
He had a heart attack at forty-four.
And then two years later, my father died. All this while I’m trying to uphold a circuitous
comedy career.
I do attend the pity party often because I just
do. This thin-mustached gay felt
compelled and had the lack of taste to point it out to me one evening at a
friend's cocktail party in Manhattan. Everyone was swaying around the piano taking
turns singing showtunes. Someone had
asked me why I don’t sing.... I felt a pang of resentment about the size of the
Grand Canyon. I responded, “just what I
need, another endeavor that doesn’t go anywhere,” and without missing a
beat, moustache blurted out, “bitter party of one.” OK Mr. lanky twink with your ballsy
retort. First of all, you didn’t sing
either, so GFY. Second, you admonished
me and a friend for catching up in the kitchen (he said, “um, the party’s out
here”) like a strict housemaster in a reformatory school. Um, who deputized you to be the kitchen
traffic-controller. Third, go back to the South. But then I thought, he’s probably talking
about himself. Most people are harboring
self-loathing, unproductive thoughts, while others don’t even try to follow their
passion outside of the 9-5.
Maybe his snark covers up the fact that he’s
always a side piece and never the main dish.
He looks like a muppet with his glasses and big nose. That, and he probably hasn't ever landed an
audition. I digress. I am bitter, but I don’t need a
bisexual lamp post to tell me in front of a whole room full of people.
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