Friday, July 3, 2020

Atlas/Mustache/Nature Abhors a Twink


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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