June, 2003
A COFFIN AS BIG AS THE RITZ
NEW YORK- Manhattan is a riot of motion. Even the sidewalks move until I realize it's cresting ripples of urine. Maybe this is Venice.
I'm swimming up Madison to pay my condolences and then catch the Guggenheim's Spin Art retrospective.
My iPod plays Sinatra. In Manhattan it must be Frank. Sometimes I even listen to his dad Frank Senior.
Not one Starbucks. Starbucks are like hookers. They're everywhere until you really need one. And they charge far too much for a refill.
The call came at six a.m.
"Who died?" I asked.
"Remember Val?" Said my mother.
Seventh Inning Letch
LOS ANGELES- Christopher and I are in Pan Pacific Park playing "Whose Mom Might Have Done Porn?" while watching Little League.
One out.
Christopher's kid sneaks bites off a strawberry fruit roll in right field. My kid is picking up sunflower seeds off the dugout floor with his reptilian spit.
Yes, it's the next to last championship game. Today's winners all get slightly taller trophies than the losers.
Our boys, the Toronto Blue Jays, have a lock. But only because Rigo throws 45-mile-an-hour heat. Rigo claims to be nine. His parole officer and two ex-wives produced the documentation.
Bette heads over.
Pushing 80, Bette is Coach Barry's mom. She has a crush on Christopher. That's why his son plays and mine doesn't.
I'll Have The Muttonchops
DUBLIN, IRELAND- "Non alcoholic bourbon," I say.
"I'm not listening."
"Someone's going to steal my idea," I say. "Non alcoholic bourbon."
"I hate you."
We're eating dinner inside the Westbury, our hotel situated two blocks from Trinity College. Dark oak and the music of Franz Liszt engulf us. I am almost as happy as I am almost capable of being.
My wife drinks an expensive glass of Burgundy. I swig tap water and relax by reminding myself we booked this all through Priceline.
"She's upstairs in our room right now," I say.
"That's nice."
