I was one of the 16 people in America who watched the Tony Awards last night. I found most of it to be mildly amusing but some of the acceptance speeches were a bit nauseating. It was like listening to the thespian dweebs from high school gush about their “craft.” Mary Louise Parker, who is my pretend girlfriend, presented the award for best ak-tor in a play. When announcing the nominees, instead of saying Macbeth, she said The Scottish Play. Now, I’ve had some exposure to that community and I knew was she was up to, but it struck me as being an incredibly pretentious thing to do on national TV. And she wasn’t backstage; she was standing front and center at a podium. She didn’t see it, but I rolled my eyes. I think I’m going to have to have a pretend break up with her.
Other winners spoke a bit too long and lovingly about New York. I mean, Jesus Christ, it’s just a city for cryin’ out loud. I was mortified to realize that I might come off sounding the same way in this stupid blog when I prattle on endlessly about living here. So now I’ve developed a creeping paranoia about sounding like a high school dweeb getting an award every time I write about the city. Image is everything. I have a reputation to protect. I’ll tone it down a bit.
* * *
Father’s Day is the most unlikely holiday for me. I never thought I’d be on the receiving end of it, that’s for sure. Particularly at my age. 6-Year Old Daughter gave me a painted rock paperweight, a bookmarker with her picture on it and a bunch of coupons. I have coupons that entitle me to a back scratch, for some help washing the car, a hug, to have a story read to me, etc. I might have her read me a Bukowski poem.
Daddy’s got a few corners that don’t get much light.