The scene, Los Felix, California…hotbed of
pomp and vanity. The man, Jeremy “The Prototype”
Catalino…30 years and 190 pounds worth of incomprehensible
masculinity. Raised in Maine, molded at Boston University,
rose to power in the alpha world city of Los Angeles.
Although I write for the screen, life for me is essentially a
David Ayer film in the flesh. Intrigue, bad attitudes, tuna
salad sandwhichs and countless Latin honeys fighting for the
rights to my pant junk. To sedate the rabid, knuckle-walking
monster within me, I watch baseball. I watch two teams,
passionately cheering for the Red Stockings of Yawkey Way and
whatever squad faces the evil Yankess on that particular day.
Kevin Youkilis’ facial hair, the hush-hush
yet adorable relationship between Manny Ramirez and Julian
Tavarez, wishing Diphtheria onto anyone involved whatsoever
with the New York Yankees (including fans), my crock pot, my
bathrobe, the enduring allure of Billy Joel’s early years,
everything ABBA, Billy Wilder’s fat cheeks, Woody Allen’s
specs, my girlfriend’s eating habits, my bowel movements and
The CW Network.