The Age of One Ball, Interrupted
“The only thing a novelist needs is a
remment of his balls.” Norman Mailer
I had to do
something after I read about how the Irish author Colm Toiben lost his right
testicle because of cancer.
I would have
felt nearly the same urgency if the problem had been with his left ball. But I
was even more sympathetic because I, too, have been betrayed by my right ball.
I’m sure
there are cases of the left ball misbehaving, but based on Colm’s and my own
experience, it seems that the right ball is more often the troublemaker.
Imagine
having one of the balls that was with you from the start, one of the only
semi-sentient beings who remember that wild ride that resembles going over
Niagara Falls in a barrel when the balls plunge out of your torso and land with
a soft plop into the waiting catcher’s mitt of the scrotum, suddenly gone.
Although the
last line of the story Colm wrote about his ball-related medical problems in The
London Review of Books ended with “the age of one ball has now begun,” I
must beg to differ with the three-time Booker Prize nominee.
I’ve decided
to give him my third ball so the age of one ball will be much shorter than Colm
expected if he accepts.
Yes, there
are some of us who have three or more balls.
I thought
briefly of the publicity I might get as a result of my donation, but I quickly
dismissed the idea of publicly taking credit for giving Colm a ball since there
was no telling how he would feel about it, and as the recipient, he is entitled
to his privacy.
This is
about rebalancing him, not blowing my own horn.
Two
To those of us with three or more balls, it’s always seemed
that having at least three balls enclosed in the soft, leather-like padding of
the scrotum is only normal.
It’s not like we feel any disdain or
superiority toward the 98 percent of men who have only two. Just like parents
who have more than one child feel like single-child parents really have more in
common with childless couples, so do we three-balled or more men feel like the
other guys really don’t get what having a full scrotum feels like. How could
they, the poor things?
Sure, there are some testicle experts who warn
against breaking up any family of balls even in cases where the man only has
two.
But once I heard about Colm’s situation, it
didn’t matter whether I had three balls or enough testicles to fill the
triangular rack that one uses before a game of pool.
There was no way I was going to leave him
walking around with just one ball as long as I had a spare to contribute.
When I first asked Colm about my plan for him
to take my extra ball, he was a bit taken aback. He thanked me, but said he
didn’t want it.
Perhaps I should have made my offer in a
letter, rather than by waylaying him as he walked, looking a bit out of
balance, from his seminar in Irish Lit to his office on the other side of the
Columbia quad.
But I gave him my card and told him that my
extra ball was available as a permanent loan for the newly depleted testicular
gallery between his legs.
Apparently,
the operation that would be required to insert my extra ball into Colm’s
scrotum is no big deal, according to the doctors I consulted. The one question
Colm will have to answer is whether he wants the ball I’m going to give him to
play a passive or an active role.
If Colm opts
for the latter, the surgery would be more involved on his side since its goal
would be to integrate the ball into sperm making and testosterone production rather
than just hanging there doing little more than providing testicular ballast.
Certainly, even
an unattached ball would give Colm the luxury of a rebalancing, but other than
this structural contribution to making him the two-balled man he once was, it would
really do little more than serve as a kind of window dressing, albeit a window
few peer into.
Even today some
scrotums don’t have the clear, one quarter-inch square Plexiglas observation
panel that like the nearly universal prevalence of circumcision is commonplace
for men of Colm’s and my own generation.
I don’t
think it’s unreasonable to feel that like one’s children after they have left
home, you want your given-away testicles to lead as full and productive a life
as possible. Would the testicle I was giving to Colm feel as fulfilled if he
spent his time just hanging down there, like a hood ornament on a car, although
pointed in the opposite direction, and serving a purely ornamental function?
I was torn
between my belief that when Colm replaces his missing ball, it is he who should
decide how fully engaged it is, men must be able to control their own bodies,
and my desire to see my donated ball live a full life.
After all,
that third testicle of mine isn’t going to go from my scrotum to Colm’s without
me having an operation as well. I mean, you can’t transfer testicles by wi-fi
or email. So, I will make some sacrifice, will have to endure some discomfort,
to make the ball transfer happen.
There is no
denying that if my testicle implanted in Colm’s body isn’t attached to the
sperm and testosterone producing glands, it will be living a less fulfilling
though still semi-sentient life.
Three : My Concerns as a Testicle
Donor
Another
consideration for me is that I wanted to be sure Colm would give my ball a good
home between his legs.
Of course, there are plenty of artists who despite making
great art aren’t enlightened human beings, but that is a risk I have to take
and given my fondness for Colm, I’d be surprised if he isn’t a decent guy who
will prove to be a good host to my donated ball. Still, I worried about
how smoothly my ball would be accepted once it had been transplanted into the
author’s scrotum.
Even though
my balls and I lived in San Francisco in the early 70s, that is, in the
flowering of gay life and culture before AIDs, I worried that there might arise
tensions between my ball and Colm’s remaining testicle growing out of their
presumed different sexual orientations.
I was afraid
this might be an obstacle to the natural camaraderie of balls sharing the same
scrotum.
Simply put,
my ball is a straight ball as far as I know, although if there was ever a time
to get in touch with any repressed gay side of my soon to be gifted ball, what
better time than when enclosed in a gay man’s scrotum, but assuming my donated
ball hasn’t been a closet case all this time, I worry that he may not be fully
accepted in a gay milieu such as Colm’s underparts.
There is
also the consideration of how my donated ball will feel, even if socially he is
completely accepted by his new roommate, about the many sexual acts he may have
to witness. I don’t see how he wouldn’t have
a front row seat especially if Colm, like myself and most other boomers, has
the plexiglass window.
I worry
about whether this exposure will make my gifted ball blush. I think that since
Ireland has joined the EU, the old joke about the default Irish sexuality being
gay when abroad and celibate at home no longer applies.
In any case,
Colm travels a lot. He even went to Turkey when he was writing his book about
Mary. So, without wanting to be heterocentric, I’m worried as any ball donor
would be about how my ball will adjust to an atmosphere that is likely to be as
risqué as a San Francisco bathhouse when I lived there.
I also worry
about political differences between the two balls that will now be sharing the
tight quarters of Colm’s mere, two balled scrotum. Even though the Troubles are
long over, my ball is basically an American ball and has no frame of reference
for whatever sectarian discrimination may still exist on the island.
In fact,
wouldn’t it be a fine development if my ball who I brought up to be like myself
vaguely Christian, sort of a by default Unitarian, is perceived by his new
flatmate to be Protestant and less than welcome because of that. Presumably,
Colm’s remaining ball like the rest of him is Catholic.
And
what if the two fellows don’t get along not because of sexual orientation
differences or religious ones, but over political issues such as how much
Ireland should genuflect toward Brussels, how long it should serve as a tax
haven for multinationals or what type of border control regimen is appropriate
post-Brexit.
I
don’t know anything about the political landscape of Colm’s scrotum. I must
admit my American provincialness leaves me unequipped to answer any of these
questions.
Just as I
hope my donated ball doesn’t get any less than a rousing welcome in his new
digs, I am confident that he will not
bully his new roommate, but will rather try to blend into the scene in Colm’s
scrotum without making any waves.
After all,
he is the expat, so it is on him within reason to conform to the culture and
customs of his new ball sac. Because of the way I’ve raised my balls, I’m sure
that he will quickly become a valued and well-behaved member of Colm’s
below-the-belt sexual organ line-up.
I wouldn’t
want my ball to be considered a pushy, uncouth Yank. He might not even bring
any of his rifles with him when he moves into Colm’s scrotum. Space will be
tighter in Colm’s two-ball scrotum so I don’t see why my donated ball can’t get
by with just his pistols.
Part Four: My Gifted Ball is a Selfless
Gift
But let me
be perfectly clear that none of these worries have caused me to reconsider my
offer or to seek any additional legal guarantees before I donate my extra, my
third ball to this artist whose work has brought so many hours of pleasure to
readers.
I just hope
that the welcome that my soon to shed ball receives will be heartfelt and that
differences between him and his new roommate will not turn into a source of
strife.
I don’t
expect to be invited to participate in Colm’s social life just because I’ve
donated a ball to him.
While I
expect we will continue to play the odd game of tennis when he’s in New York,
as we have done in the past, I certainly am no literary groupie who hopes to profit from my ball
donation to hang out with this man I so admire just because I have rebalanced
him in his center.
I’ll find my
satisfaction merely by knowing that my donation will allow Colm to once
again walk steadily on the greasy, uneven cobblestone streets that make up his
primary haunts at home in Dublin.
If I make it
possible for him to no longer be at the mercy of the big, uneven, wet
cobblestones on the narrow streets he must walk down to get to the Michelin
starred restaurants he enjoys patronizing, then so be it.
Maybe I’ll
get a line in his obit. I do think I’m entitled to that, but as I’ve said, I
made this offer with no thought of a quid pro quo, nor do I plan to wait around
for one.
I just want
Colm to be able to walk the streets and alleyways of Dublin, Paris, Barcelona
and other cities and towns well-balanced in this essential way. That will be
legacy enough for me.
Part Five: First Install Happens
A few months after I waylaid Colm on the
Columbia campus where he was teaching, I
got a letter from one of his lawyers expressing interest in my offer and from
there the arrangements for my donation fell into place quickly. I flew over to
Dublin and Colm and I had our respective operations just before Christmas of
last year.
The Irish doctors decided that if Colm chose
the full-install, it should be done in two stages. The initial transplant,
which was done during my trip to Dublin and the full-hook-up which was
scheduled for six months later.
As a leading literary figure, Colm is a busy
man and like many people who face elective surgery, he postponed having the
second, the hook-up operation, for quite some time.
I call my right ball, the one I gave to Colm,
Cysty, because he betrayed me by developing what turned out to be a benign cyst.
Even though I didn’t need surgery, he caused me a lot of worry and pain for a
four-month period. But I didn’t let that influence me when I choose a ball to
donate.
I was disappointed that Colm didn’t get Cysty
hooked up that first year, but I didn’t say anything.
Part Six : I have to ask for Cysty
back
I wasn’t
surprised that Colm got pissed when I had to ask him for the ball I’d given him
back. It turned out that the Johns Hopkins Medical School was launching one of
the first-ever multidisciplinary studies of men with more than two balls and
they were going to pay participants $24,000 each.
I couldn’t turn down that kind of money even if I had
to do something as difficult as retrieving the ball I’d given Colm. It was hard
to justify, but I did my best.
Consider that Colm is a world-famous author. He sells
a ton of books every time he publishes one and his, I think you call it a
back-list, contains a lot of titles that are steady sellers. On top of that,
every prestigious university in the world is falling all over themselves to
award this or that chair to him. These chairs are lucrative assignments
where they put him up in a house and he only has to teach one class a week.
I don’t begrudge him this success, but I wish he had
been able to understand from the start that for most of us, a payoff like Johns
Hopkins was offering, doesn’t come around every day.
When I gave him Cysty, I did mean for it to be a permanent
donation, but things change and both the receiver and the donor of a gift have
to be flexible.
I knew Colm wouldn’t see it this way at first. I had to work
to get him to take the ball and I knew was going to have to work hard to get it
back. But I had to do it. I needed the $24,000.
He didn’t even answer my first email. The next email elicited
a frosty response from his lawyer that could be summarized as “no way.”
Eventually, Colm offered me a deal when he cooled down that I
if I would relent, he’d help me get some of my work published as a book in
Ireland.
But I had to tell my hero that it wouldn’t do and that as
much as I’d like to take him up on his offer, I had to go with the money.
I kept pestering him and his lawyers eventually responded
with a proposal for joint custody of the ball I’d given him, but I think they
just used some boilerplate language from their matrimonial practice, which besides
being off-target legally, underestimated the degree to which a man’s testicles
are, if not wholly autonomous, thoroughly semi-sentient.
Part Seven: Semi- Sentient Explanation
Let me explain what semi-sentient means when applied to balls
and how it came to figure so largely in some of the disputes that arose between
Colm and me about my donation of Cysty.
While most undisturbed
balls pass their entire life in a non-sentient state, that is, not manifesting
any consciousness, this is not an absolute. This condition while it has
sometimes been described as being asleep is actually more like being in a coma.
Most testilces who have the good fortune to not be disabled by accidents or
cancer pass their whole lives in this state.
However,
when the scrotum is disturbed either by trauma or surgery, it causes balls to
wake up from their normal comatose state and begin to apprehend their
surroundings and in some cases communicate with their host body by waving their
connective tissue or uttering soft popping noises, which have some similarity
with the language used by dolphins.
The range of
these communications is limited, but the testicle can signal to the man in
whose body he resides that he is happy, fearful or in need of attention usually
because he has picked up early markers of some kind of illness or senses some
danger looming that will threaten at least the scrotum or possibly the entire
body.
Of course,
this communication aspect of balls only occurs, outside of transplant
situations, when the ball is fully engaged in the functioning of the scrotum,
namely sperm making and testosterone production. This was another reason I
wanted Colm to do a full install on the ball I gave him.
I wanted to
be able to stay in touch with my donated ball, Cysty, through the independent
ball communication system, a wi-fi network, and not have to beg Colm to drop his drawers
and allow me to look through his plexiglass panel to see how Cysty was doing.
I don’t even
know if Colm has a panel installed. Like the near universalness of circumcision
in America, one finds that there are always exceptions and with my luck just
when I need to communicate with Cysty and I have to endure the embarrassment of
asking Colm for a viewing, it might turn out that he doesn’t even have a
testicular panel.
This is one
reason I hope he keeps his promise to do a full install of Cysty, now that he’s
been returned to Colm’s scrotum after I had to borrow him for the Johns Hopkins
thing because all that movement in and out of Colm’s scrotum certainly means he
has been activated for the independent ball communication system.
Part Eight : Cysty Speaks One
When I first
got here Colm’s scrotum didn’t seem much different than Brent’s. It wasn’t as
spacious, but I wouldn’t be sharing it with two other balls, only Lefty. At
first, he was friendly enough. I couldn’t tell if I was having so much trouble
understanding him because of this semi sentient thing or because of his thick Irish accent.
I wasn’t
happy, either about having to give up my American passport, but Colm and Lefty
explained that we couldn’t travel together and have to present two different
passports every time we changed countries. I think Colm just didn’t want to have
to wait in two different customs lines every time he went somewhere.
As a regular
good old boy type of American testicle, I’d never even had a passport until
Brent hatched this plan to donate me to Colm.
I don’t know
what Brent expects to get out of this deal. Maybe he wants to get some of his writing
published before he croaks. Or maybe he just wants to hang out with Colm and
Colm’s friends like Lynne Tillman who are much better writers than he is.
Well, I
suppose it’s my being inserted into Colm’s scrotum that is responsible for the improvement
in my language skills because having spent all those years swinging around in
Brent’s scrotum didn’t make me a better speaker or writer. Plus, to be stuck
below the waist of a poor American wasn’t nearly as interesting as watching the
world go by from the vantage point of Colm’s ball sac.
I do
sometimes blush at the graphic sex scenes I have to witness and to a limited
extent participate in since I moved into Colm’s place, but it is a small price
to pay for all the posh scenes I’ve seen looking out at things through the
zipper of Colm’s trousers or when he and his boyfriend go to that nude beach in
Mendocino.
I’ve gotten
closer to nature in the two years I’ve been with Colm. With Brent I never went
anywhere, I never met anyone, my sheath was never stimulated the way it has
been since I’ve gone to live with Colm and Lefty.
But there’s
always some trouble in paradise. I got to admit I really haven’t hit it off
with Lefty. Colm has been pretty much a benevolent body to be transplanted into,
but one thing he won’t do is get involved with any of the disputes that are
always coming up between us guys in his ball sac.
Maybe
because in Brent’s body there were three of us and whenever a dispute came up
we would just settle it by voting. So I wasn’t prepared for all the arguing I’ve
had to do with Lefty.
He’s always
forcing me to decide our differences by doing some kind of pointing game called
one thrice three shot or something that I don’t really understand. You throw
out either one, two or three strands of connective tissue, the closet thing we
have to fingers, and this is where I get confused, if it comes out to be an
even or odd number or something you win.
Lefty is
either really lucky or he’s taking advantage of the way I don’t know the rules
to cheat me.
We don’t
exactly have fingers so doing that throwing out of some of our loose connective
tissue game along with our only semi-sentient intelligence results in me losing
those games that Lefty insists on using to decide who gets their way whenever
we’re having an argument about something.
Part Ten: Cysty Speaks Two
One thing
about being locked up in a scrotum with another ball is that nobody ever goes
anywhere so you can get really sick of your companion ball. At least in Brent’s
scrotum, we had the shifting alliances that come about when you have three balls.
Am I
entitled to feel slighted because neither Brent or anybody else asked me if a.
I wanted to leave my two brothers and b. if I was going to leave, did I want to
move into Colm’s scrotum?
Even though
Brent refuses to address the issue, I’m sure he picked me for exile in Colm’s
ball sac because I developed the cyst that time. In my defense, let me point
out that it wasn’t my fault and anyway, it turned out to be benign.
Although
Colm did write this beautiful and harrowing story about how he lost his right
ball, Colm’s not the only one balled guy out there who could do with a rebalancing.
Why send me to him just because he was able to write about his testicle
troubles in a big outlet?
Didn’t I
have a right to be consulted about where I was being transferred to? No matter
what Brent says, I’ll never believe this exile in Colm’s scrotum isn’t retaliation
for developing that cyst. Does he think I was my fault? Why doesn’t he read up
on biology instead of chasing writers around town, hoping, as he’s written in
that stupid blog that their skills will rub off on him like pollen falling from
a flower.
Lefty Speaks
I was never one to believe all those
slurs against Yanks. But Brent’s ball, he’s called Cysty for some reason, has
been a real pain in my scrotum. He moved in with a pistol, girl.
He’s always whining about when his
subscription to some rifle magazine, the National Rifleman or whatever it is,
is going to arrive.
If I have to hear him ask Colm one
more time in that annoying Yank accent what’s wrong with the Irish postal
system that his gun magazine hasn’t been forwarded from Brent’s scrotum, I’m
going to go nuts.
I don’t know maybe Brent’s other two
balls are stealing his magazines. I don’t know and I don’t care. And then
there’s the way he eats and how much he eats. He’s huge.
Even though Colm is always taking us
out to the finest Michelin starred restaurants in Paris and Barcelona and Cork,
all he can do is talk about how much he misses the pizza and subs, whatever
they are, that he used to eat in New Jersey. And, girl, don’t even get
me started on how he dresses, it looks like he’s a fifth former on the way to
gym class.
Brent
The fact that Colm has been able to
resume his active social life with the lavish dinners at the Michelin-starred
restaurants in Paris, London and Cork that he must navigate those European
streets with the big, uneven cobblestones with his so called friends who would
never donate an organ, much less pick up a check, is none of my concern.
Why would he give me any thought when
he is deftly walking down cobble stoned ancient alleys that lead to the
expensive Michelin starred restaurants that he is so fond of without tripping
and possibly breaking an ankle or maybe falling and getting a concussion on his
noggin, only because he can walk these, uneven, treacherous to the unbalanced
in the scrotum man that he would otherwise be, but for my selfless gift. No, I
have no expectations in this regard.
There was no quid pro quo in my
donation of Cysty to him and I would never start whining about the terms of our
exchange after the fact. Even though he seems to have forgotten about me
altogether and never even calls to play tennis anymore.
Part Ten: Colm
One thing about Brent’s gift that nobody in the press has paid
any attention to is that until he got involved nobody knew that my remaining
testicle, Lefty’s, voice sounds like RuPaul’s.
It’s not that I’m in the slightest degree ashamed that my left
ball sounds like a drag queen. Anyone who knows me, anyone who follows public
life on this island, knows that I’m one of the Irish gay community’s most
outspoken voices in celebration of the diversity of our community, but the
sound of my remaining ball’s voice was really nobody’s business until Brent
publicized it. I don’t sound like a drag queen myself though there would be
nothing wrong with it if I did. I only mention this because we gay people in
Ireland are entitled to our privacy.
Americans like Brent who have done nothing more than donate a
ball to us should respect the privacy of the scrotum, which is as important a
foundation of the life of our island as the privacy of the confessional was
before all these dreadful scandals.
To make fun of the sound of my one remaining, original ball’s
voice is not only sexist, it is like making fun of what we call in Ireland, a
special needs person, because whether it’s any personal characteristic of a
person, the way they look or the way they sound, it is hardly fair comment when
applied to the retarded, kids or body parts, which for centuries were believed
to have no consciousness and which we recently learned are semi-sentient.
The same guidelines, if not more stringent ones, as would be
applied to the handicapped and to children, must also be applied to mine and
any other man’s balls.
I think it is only fair to question why Brent should feel he had
the right to reveal this information just because he came into possession of it
via a report from his donated ball. I don’t in general have any problem with
Brent and Cysty staying in touch. But as I’ve said, I don’t see why those
communications should be made public.
It’s similar to an unapproved by me release of my personal
medical information, which just because I wrote that story in the London Review
about my balls-related medical condition, doesn’t mean the rest of my medical
and personal affairs should be an open book.
I must also say that while Cysty was a modest enough guest in
our first go-round, now that I’ve had him hooked up, he’s acting like he’s the
boss below my waist, but really who put him in charge? The last thing we Irish
need, for aren’t we ourselves alone the first colony, is a transplanted
testicle with imperialistic tendencies starting to give us orders. Lefty, who
can be a cheeky drag queen said we should call Cysty, Mr. B & T, that is, Black
and Tans.
But this is just one example of the way Brent has taken
advantage of the situation he helped create. I won’t deny that his donated
testicle has improved my ability to walk down the cobblestoned streets and
alleyways of our old cities here in Europe and generally improved my quality of
life, but it is also fair to say I never asked him for the donation and if I
had it to do over, I might still have accepted Cysty, but maybe I would have
put more thought into the structure of our agreement and had my lawyer set up a
NDA or a semi-NDA over which I’d have control before I accepted a testicle
donation so Brent couldn’t release personal information about Lefty, and in
effect, me, on that stupid blog of his.
Part Twelve: Brent
The truth is that Colm is guilty of not supervising his scrotum
sufficiently. Most men, and this is a perfectly normal and fine approach to the
stewardship of a man’s below the belt assets until something goes wrong, pay
little attention to their balls.
But once Troubles arises, they should pay attention to their
testicles. If Colm had done that it would have made for a much easier
transition for Cysty, which as you may have heard had a lot of trouble blending
in despite his best efforts during the first few months he was in Colm’s
scrotum.
One thing I can say is that it certainly wasn’t a question of my
ball’s upbringing. He’s a well-mannered ball. Maybe there were some cultural
and religious differences that would have made his adjustment to the new
scrotum difficult even if Colm had been paying attention, but a little
oversight from the man whose body was going to benefit from my donation
shouldn’t have been asking too much.
(work up from here)
Lefty
Was I pleased to have this straight, tacky American ball shoved into my scrotum?
Of course not, girl. When Colm finally
told me he was coming, I tried to keep an open mind, but, girl, a straight Yank
ball dumped right into the middle of the only home I’ve ever known?
Of course, I hoped for gay and
cute, but when he got here and turned out to be straight and no looker, I tried
to keep an open mind.
But still, girl, what bad luck to get an NRA member, I didn’t even know
what the NRA was, girl, but I sure learned fast with this Yank talking about
how much he missed his rifles and his pistols and then to have to witness the
hissy fit he threw because I guess the Irish Post Office wasn’t forwarding his
copies of the NRA magazine, the National Rifleman.
And, girl, I’m telling you, he wouldn’t shut up about it. He kept telling
Colm that if he’s such a big deal writer, by then he’d started with the three
time Booker Prize nominee bit used sarcastically, then why couldn’t Colm get
the Post Office to look into why he wasn’t getting his magazines. Then he
switched to how horrible it was that we don’t have wi-fi. You see what I
mean, girl. You can see what a bummer it is sharing a scrotum with this pushy
Yank testicle.
Part Fourteen: Brent
Despite some of the low points, I’d have to say the whole thing, the
donation of my extra ball to Colm was a success even if it got a little tricky
when I had to borrow my ball back from him for the Johns Hopkins thing. I did rebalance Colm and he liked being rebalanced
because he was happy to get Cysty back. I got the cash from Johns Hopkins even
though the tax bite was horrendous, nearly 50 percent, it was still a fortune
for me. I did the right thing borrowing Cysty back.
I was glad I was able to get Cysty back into Colm’s scrotum. He’d be the
first to say that he likes being rebalanced, that he likes being able to walk
on those greasy uneven cobblestone streets and alleys to get to his favorite
Michelin starred restaurants.
I’m glad too that my donated ball is being exposed to Colm’s
international world rather than just being stuck in my scrotum. Not that either
of my other two boys are complaining. I’m also proud that Cysty is fully hooked
up now making testosterone alongside Ru Paul or whatever his name is.
Colm Has A Ball Shower
It was a touching little ceremony that Colm organized to celebrate
Cysty’s return and his getting attached and going to work. It was a testicle
shower.
Colm hired some caterers and threw a nice party. There was lots of white
wine and few different kinds of stout, in case you thought all Irish stout was Guinness.
There were also some excellent examples of farm to table cuisine that showcased
the flavors of the Irish organic farming movement.
He didn’t have to do that, but it was a nice gesture especially since
he’s obviously not going to hang out with me anymore or even go back to the
days when we played tennis once a week.
If Colm wants to spend his time going to all these Michelin starred
restaurants and walking across those greasy, uneven cobblestones often in the
dark and after his meal and a couple of bottles of wine with three or four of
his oh so intellectual friends, people who I suppose can follow the plot of a
TV show without even paying much attention, but who wouldn’t think of donating
a testicle or even picking up a check that’s fine with me.
It’s his choice, I’m just glad I was able to rebalance him enough so he
can walk on those greasy cobblestones without breaking his neck.
