So here’s a truly weird moment in my career.
Earlier today one of Roger Clemens’ relatives, someone named Kirbie Johnson, wrote a scathing essay about me on her blog, Kirbie Goes to Holloywood. My reaction—ho-hum. Just like I write scathing blog posts about others, the artist known as Kirbie Johnson is certainly allowed to write a scathing blog post about me. Is she right in her accusations? No. But who cares—she’s standing up for family. I can understand that.
Then, however, I go to Roger Clemens’ Twitter page, which is always fascinating, in the way a truck accident involving 12 pigs and a Miss Alabama runner-up contestant in also fascinating. He blogs this:
You go Kirb! He’s a low life wanna-b. By his looks he could star on the Adams Family. www.kirbiegoestohollywood.com Btw…
Where to begin? The Addams Family (it has two Ds). As a kid I loved that show. I’m certainly familiar with the characters. So who do I look like? Uncle Fenster? Pugsley? Lurch? Ah, Lurch! I’m guessing that’s who Clemens was referring to, though I’m not 100 percent sure.
Every so often, in this business, one receives physical insults as such. But they’re usually from overexcited, under-developed (emotionally, not physically) rabid sports fans sticking up for “my guy.” Rarely do they directly derive from the jocks themselves—especially jocks in Clemens’ position.
And by Clemens’ position, I don’t mean a multiple-Cy Young champ and 300-game winner. I mean a guy who’s so royally fucked and disgraced. Were I Roger Clemens in 2010, and the world knew that I took HGH and steroids, threw my wife and best friend under the bus, lied before Congress and allegedly fooled around with an underage alcoholic country music singer, I’d be hiding under a rock right now. Or in the process of relocating to Peru. Or changing my name to Butch St. Butch.
So if Clemens wants to score points with his cousin by comparing me to Lurch (or is it Gomez Addams), go crazy.
Because, come day’s end, I’m honest with myself.
Are you?
PS: Final thought—Clemens’ insult actually reminds me of third grade, when my brother used to make fun of my beauty mark by calling me “Mark.” That’s probably the last time anyone I’ve known—enemy or friend—went with the physical insult. It’s just so lame. Hit me, for God’s sake. Or throw an intellectual curve. Something, anything. But … Addams Family? That’s the best you’ve got? Like you’re some Brad Pitt …
