Dodging the truth

 

(L-R Cookie Lavagetto, Ralph Branca, October 3, 1951)

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

 

(The Conformist, dir. Bernardo Bertolucci, 1970)

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

 

(BMW xenon 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

 

(George Carlin, Saturday Night Live, Oct. 11, 1975, Herb Ball/NBCU Photo Bank/Getty)

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. 

Everything but

 

(George Marks)

It was a peaceful time. I washed dogs and leafy greens, bathed children and dogs, filled jugs and bowls. Saw colanders and pots. I was an integral part of the family. They couldn’t function without me. Thanksgiving Day was not Thanksgiving Day without a fully kitchen sink. There were other sinks. Ones in bathrooms, debased by the associated activities therein. I was different. I was on center stage, every meal that mattered. Oh, how we laughed. 

Then things started to change. The father got indicted by a federal grand jury for witness tampering. I wasn’t familiar with the concept, but it sounded bad. I was used to dealing with shady plumbers, but they were people who worked with their hands. They had a trade. Slowly, items in the home began disappearing. First the kids would take things, then strangers. Assets were seized and everything started to go. I watched as dining furniture, chairs I had practically grown up with leave without even a goodbye. Light fixtures and molding. Grout and chair rails. It was starker and starker. I didn’t understand the reason behind the culling, but I noticed it.

Then one day, I was the only thing left. There were some pipe fittings, but the water was turned off. And a sink without water is a man without a soul. They took everything, everything but me. I took it personally. Who wouldn’t? I mean, I’m not a person, but close enough, simply circling the drain. 

I ended up in architectural salvage, finding my way into a bohemian art gallery. A dry kitchen sink representing the emptiness of society. I went from a utility to a metaphor.

Lemon Aid

 

(Getty Images)

When life gives you lemons…

 

Make a game of citric baseball to negating obvious vitamin deficiencies 

 

Make an organic, perishable art installation

 

Make a body double 

 

Make a trade for highly coveted limes

Make someone make you lemonade and then find enough iced tea to make an Arnold Palmer

Ta-Nehisi explains it all

 

(Melissa Joan Hart in Clarissa Explains It All, 1991-1994, Nickelodeon)

Open in a suburban home. A family gathers in the living room. Clarissa struggles through her homework while her parents and brother sit on the couch watching TV.

 

Clarissa:          I hate math. Especially calculus. 

 

Ta-Nehisi Coates walks through the front door. The audience applauds. 

 

Ta-Nehisi:        Oh, is that calculus? I learned about the 

subject on the walk over. 

 

He grabs Clarissa’s homework and scribbles on it.

 

Ta-Nehisi:        It’s actually quite simple. 

 

Applause and laughter as Clarissa tries to read his handwriting, but can’t. She shrugs. 

 

Ta-Nehisi:        Need anything else?

 

Dad:                The TV’s not working. 

 

Ta-Nehisi:        Here, try this. 

 

He hands each of them signed copies of his newest book.

 

Clarissa:          Okay, smart guy. What’s the meaning of life?

 

Ta-Nehisi:        It’s actually quite simple. It’s all about confidence. That’s why con men are confidence men. If you don’t believe in yourself, why should anyone else?. If you think you’re smart, you are smart. It’s that simple.

 

Clarissa:          Oh, I see. That makes sense. 

 

Ta-Nehisi:        It’s actually quite simple. 

He grins.

 

Clarissa:          What if I want to be a successful celebrity

writer who doesn’t write that much but still manages to

avoid meaningful criticism?  

 

Ta-Nehisi:        It’s actually quite complicated.

He winks at the audience.

 

Fade out.