Why did I walk out? Well, for starters I told her the last place I wanted to be was at a barbecue on my Sunday afternoon. Now, before you go and call me un-American, realize that I hate the heat. Actually, what I really wanted to do was park my ass on the couch and watch Jeter do what Jeter does best while sipping suds direct from Colorado's best brewery. Is there anything more patriotic than that? I tell you this, sir, no one -- and I mean no one -- knows the pursuit of leisure better than I. That's American.
And by the way, did I ever tell you what I hate more than the heat? Fuckin' hot dogs. Before you go and say, "Everyone loves hot dogs..." bear in mind why I deplore them. They remind me of my dad. Don't get me wrong, he was a good-enough guy who worked hard and loved his son but when my parents got divorced, weekends were tough.
It was around 1954 and men certainly didn't have the options or the carnal opportunities that seem so plentiful today. My Saturdays with Pop were really Saturdays with Spiro and his hot dog cart. My mother -- a chronic worrier -- easily dressed me for 20 degrees colder than it ever was. Are you so shocked now why I hate the heat? I was never sure of who Pop was schtupping every week, but I knew it took about three hours and cost him a finske for my babysitter Spiro the Giddy Greek. To this day, I remember that laugh and that god awful music that he managed to find on his transistor. And me? Is it any wonder why I became a pissed off little bastard who begrudgingly ate his wieners on the curb with a trusty Coke by my side?
That's why I hate the heat.
That's why I hate barbecues.
That's why I hate hot dogs.
And by the way, did I ever tell you that my name was Frank. Yup. The irony...
Music: Me Kalese Mi Arhondisa. It can be downloaded HERE.