Four by four

 

Once upon a time, I think it was four years ago, things were great. But then four years before that they were awful. Then again, four years before that they were great. Well, that’s not really true. For some folks, four years ago was awful, four years before that was great, and four years before that was pretty awful. Actually, that’s not exactly true either. Since four years ago it was good and bad. Just like four years before that, four years before that, four years before that, and so on and so forth. 

 

But no time is wholly one thing or the other. During those years it was good, bad, great, awful and lots of other adjectives only my thesaurus knows.

 

So four years from now might be awful or great like today or both or neither. 

 

But we’ll still be here. Same with four years after that and four years after that. And on and on and on. 

Casting your vote

 

Casting your vote takes time and care. But the very first thing you need is a ballot. You can fill it out, or not. A blank ballot requires the same exact skill as one dotted with pencil streaks. Getting your hook around a paper ballot isn’t too difficult. If you think it helps, feel free to slap a few squirming worms on the end, just for good luck. 

Now that you have your ballot attached to a hook, you need to find a nice fishing pole. Wood will do fine. Carbon fiber isn’t bad, but it is expensive. Because this is a democratic exercise. Find a dock or anywhere beside a body of water where you can actually get your feet wet. This is important. You will only get a few opportunities to cast your vote before the material begins to disintegrate. There aren’t mulligans here. 

Once you cast your ballot, watch as it floats. Admire fish, fowl and bored snorkelers swimming around it for a real taste of freedom. 

Some may say this is tantamount to wasting your vote. Perhaps that’s the case. But I get a vote in this country. Which means I get to take it fishing. You don’t have to that. You can keep it on dry land, away from the moss and mollusks. I don’t have that luxury. 

I live on an island. 

Meaningless endorsements

Have you heard the news? There’s an election coming up. Tomorrow? I didn’t realize. As a no-to-low information voter myself, I wanted to raise my cup of knowledge a tad by asking those in the know who they’re backing this season. I went out in my neighborhood and asked several people what they’re doing on Tuesday. That way, I can make a slightly more informed choice. 

I asked a bartender, a butcher, and a bodega owner. I went up to a woman crossing against the light, jaywalking in full view of a barreling bus. A man sleeping on a stoop not his own. A teenager parking in an extremely tight spot. A delivery guy with plastic bags over his hands. A runner running in place for long enough to be corned with this important query. I need to know where each of them was coming from. Not their home address, since I had that information already. After receiving all this data, I didn’t know what to do with it. Okay, so now I know who the construction worker filling a pesky pothole on my block is voting for. I finally understand the political leanings of the man drinking a forty ounce for breakfast. The butcher helped steer me towards a good chicken breast, would he do the same with a candidate? Thanksgiving is coming up. 

I need athletes, musicians, actors, directors, artists, writers and grocery store clerks to tell me who to vote for. Or I could just make the choice myself. 

Dodging the truth

 

By the 19^th century, the battle between Scotland and England had reached its absurd conclusion. War was one thing, but the final indignity saw members of the ruling class adopting the sartorial stylings of the Scottish. British noblemen began dressing like the clans they’d spent centuries subjugating. Can you blame them? Kilts look cool and there was something very special for a dainty Londoner parading down Downing Street in his plaid best. 

 

Why am I recounting this grave sin of fashion? Because the Los Angeles Dodgers won the World Series last night. And it's what I think of every time I see someone rooting for LA in a Brooklyn Dodgers hat. Good, God Bless. The insistence by many fans and even parts of their organization to connect their Hollywood present with a distant Brooklyn past.. 

 

This is wrong. The Brooklyn Dodgers were a beloved piece of Kings County. Their callous departure after the 1957 season was an act of depravity, compounded by the fact that the uptown New York Giants left for the stupid hills of cloudy San Francisco. Walter O'Malley resides in the borough's collective memory alongside the worst men of the 20th century. It was five long years before the Mets arrived, somewhat filling the void. But some scars never heal. LA is Sandy, Drysdale, Garvey, and Fernando. Hershiser, Kershaw, and Freeman. But it’s not Gil, The Duke, Campy, Jackie, Red, Hilda, or the Sym-phony.

 

When a team moves cities, they should be legally prohibited from keeping their previous name. This would rightfully do away with the Los Angeles Lakers and Utah Jazz, forcing them to choose something with slightly more regional flair. There is precedent, of course. When the Colorado Rockies, an expansion hockey team moved across the country to the swampy meadows of New Jersey, they left the mountain range behind them and became the folkloric, Devils. 

 

Some would say I’m merely a bitter Yankee fan. Which is partially true. However, I don’t derive personal pride or shame from the outcome of the teams I root for. I did my part, listening to the game on radio in an Aaron Rodgers-style darkness. Beyond being a baseball fan, I’m a New Yorker. 

 

The Brooklyn Dodgers have nothing to do with the Los Angeles Dodgers. The very name connotes dodging trolleys, not mental patients darting through traffic on the 405. So congratulations to the city of LA, its players and fans. Just try not to invoke the ghosts of 1955. Because that memory forever belongs to Brooklyn.

Over the Hinchcliffe

 

You might be a hack if…

 

You bomb at a political rally where everyone already agrees with you

 

You try to be edgy like a teenager with a chain wallet 

 

You’re a conformist at heart 

 

You prefer applause over laughter 

 

You try to make an actual point during a comedy set 

 

You forget the “comic” part of “insult comic”

 

You’re not important enough to be cancelled

 

You can’t even ride the coattails of your famous friends to achieve genuine, mainstream success

 

You require the presence of rank amateurs to look halfway decent 

 

You’re not funny

Dear, headlights

 

You’re much too bright. Don’t take that as a compliment, though I understand if it initially came across that way. It’s hard to fathom by someone of your supreme intellect that anything could be hard to fathom. But it’s too true. 

 

Being bright is fine. However, illuminating everyone you pass with pedantic lectures on Kant is just annoying. Someone should be able to pass you without literally feeling your glow. It’s uncomfortable. 

 

Tone it down, okay? We’re all interested in cowering to your incandescence. In fact, there are times when being bright isn’t even called for. Can’t you turn it off on occasion? It’s no way to go through life. 

Past its time

 

Baseball isn’t perfect. I know that. The lords of nerdom have transformed the game into a stupid math problem. It used to be geometry, which I could appreciate, as someone partial to the slow incorporation of the word “rhombus” into everyday conversation. I wonder if we’re close to a time when pitching staffs will feature twenty-seven hurlers, one for every out of the game. You know: entertainment. 

 

But the one thing, no pocket protected counter of beans hasn’t ruined yet is the field itself. The game is still quite easy on the eyes. The large expanse of greenery in the outfield, the dirt, even the bulbous bases are aesthetically pleasing. Who doesn’t like a diamond, fanning out towards each respective foul pole? 

 

This is an important component of the sport untouched by those who wish to sap every ounce of joy from it through actuarial tables and quantitative projections. Baseball is a good-looking game, even if what happens on the field is not always that. 

 

Which brings me to the real crux of this piece: football. There are many dings against the game today. The ubiquity of gambling. The danger of concussions. The pervasiveness of binge drinking by fans. The stupidity of announcers. The prevenance of fantasy idiocy. And on and on. What few people seem to acknowledge is how truly hideous the sport has become. Defenders will say it’s a reflection of war, a proxy contest that isn’t mean to be pretty. Where’s the incredible war photography then? I don’t see Robert Capa pacing under the goalposts. 

 

I’m not talking about how the game is played. That is ugly by design. Numbers on the field? Really? They’re obnoxiously large. It’s a boring rectangle with writing all over it. Dumb logos in the center. Stupid sayings in the end zone. Say what you will about soccer, but it is the beautiful game by comparison. Verdant greenery punctuated by tasteful netting on either side. If you removed the white lines and hash marks, what would happen? The referees would be required to do their job from the sidelines. At least we’d be looking at a cleaner game. Too bad it's ugly from here on out. Either this or put linebackers in tutus.