Do you hear those insolent fans, Yadier?
Yes, sire. I believe that’s the local custom of “giving you the business.”
I care not a whit for what these barbarians call it in their vulgar dialect. They’re mocking me, Yadier. Me! Would you not say that the Cardinals play the game of baseball the way t’was intended to be played?
No one would dare say otherwise, sire.
And would you also not say that baseball is the Good Lord’s game?
Certainly, sire.
Of course you would. Therefore, it follows that the Almighty has appointed me to rule these Cardinals. To stand for such insolence against me would be to mock His Divine Will. And that I cannot brook! Instruct the pitcher to hurl the sphere toward one of their beloved favorites.
Certainly, sire. I will command him to dent Ryan Braun’s upper back. Will that be all?
Continue reading Tony LaRussa Shall Not Be Mocked
All posts by Matthew Callan
Documenting the Unworthy
Yesterday, while walking up Sixth Avenue near 8th Street, I chanced upon a specimen I thought had been left behind in the 1990s: Summer Homeless. It was a girl who appeared to be in her early 20s, with crunchy hair, slumped on a sidewalk elevator door while playing the accordion. A helpful sign scribbled on a piece of corrugated cardboard told passers-by what she was most in need of. (Sharpies were high on the list, for some reason.) On her wrist, a leash attached to the neck of a very large dog.
Once upon a time, these youngsters could be found everywhere from May to September, almost exclusively in the Village (East and West) and the Lower East Side. Ranging in age from mid-teens to mid-20s, they’d beg for change near Tompkins Square Park or Union Square, usually handing you an elaborate BS backstory that assured you the money would go no further than some dealer’s pocket. You could tell they were Summer Homeless and not For-Real Homeless by the large amount of sidewalk real estate they’d take up when begging, and the plaintive whine they’d adopt while giving their sales pitch. (For-Real Homeless folk are generally compact and subdued; at least the non-performing kind are.) If that didn’t tip you off, the fact that they were white and no older than 27 might.
If you ever went to a hardcore matinee at ABC No Rio, you probably bumped into a few of them on your way in as they indiscreetly chugged the cheapest, grossest tallboys imaginable (Crazy Horse or Laser, usually). Or if you took summer courses at/near NYU, you may have had to negotiate around their pleading carcasses on your way to class. You’d often see the same kids day after day, although occasionally one would admit defeat and tell you they needed dough to catch the next train back home to Long Island/Westchester/Connecticut. Once the autumn arrived, they’d all be gone, drifting back to the big plastic hassles of moms and schools.
I’m not sure if these folks ever truly disappeared. I may have just found myself in their favored haunts less and less over the last 10 years. I do know that until yesterday, it had been quite a long time since I’d seen someone begging on the street and immediately said to myself You live in Trumbull, don’t you?
Even so, I thought little of seeing this Summer Homeless once I’d seen her and recognized her for what she was, no more so than seeing an unusual car on the street (“Hey, a Citroen!”), before I reached my destination. But when I left said destination a short while later, I saw the same Summer Homeless girl being earnestly interviewed by a film crew of two, a cameraperson and a man with a mike.
To be fair, I didn’t hear their line of questioning. For all I know, they could have been asking her why she just didn’t go back Bryn Mawr like her parents wanted. Even so, I found this scene infuriating. After all, this city has thousands of legitimately homeless people in it–more so every day, I fear, given the economy. But rather than get the stories of any people experiencing actual hardship, these filmmakers decided to document the struggles of someone who can opt out of privation any time she wants to.
Do I know everything about this Summer Homeless person’s background, her story, what brought her to this corner? Of course not. But since she’s white and young and in America, she has it better than 99.9% of the planet right off the bat. Is it possible she has issues of some kind? Certainly. But in all likelihood, these issues pale in comparison to the actual problems of people who’ve been out on the street for years, who are genuinely mentally ill, and for whom hope is in short supply.
Having said all this, if someone decides she’s gonna spend a summer begging for change with her accordion and dog, fine. This doesn’t negatively impact my life in any way. But I do find it rage-inducing that some film crew is raptly capturing her every word while there was a real homeless man desperately looking for shade from a brutal summer sun at the Gray’s Papaya across the street. I mean, literally across the street. They could have seen this poor soul in their peripheral vision, if they had any.
If getting mad about this makes me a crabby old man, well…I became a crabby old man a long time ago, so screw it. Get off my lawn, Summer Homeless.
Our Declaration of Independence from Horrible Questions
I’ve noticed a trend among a small sample size of me and my wife (roughly twice the number of people needed to warrant a New York Times trend piece). The trend is, people asking us if we’re going to have another kid and us looking at each other awkwardly wondering what to say.
I’ve noticed that the frequency with which people ask us this question has increased as our daughter gets older. My best guess is people used to see we had a baby and were like, “Oh no, you don’t want another baby right now because you have a baby,” but once our baby became a toddler and then a little kid people were like, “Hey, you don’t have a baby anymore. What’s the deal with not having a baby?”
Our respective families, for the most part, do not ask us this question. Our single/childless friends sure as hell don’t ask us this question. It only comes from other couples with kids, and not couples we know well, either. In fact, it seems the more casually I know these other couples, the more likely they are to ask if we’re planning to add to our brood. The chance of being asked the question decreases exponentially with the amount of time it’s been since I’ve met you.
As a human being with a modicum of self respect, one’s first inclination when getting asked this question is to respond, “None of your business, person I barely know.” And yet, we always demur and struggle awkwardly for a response, as if we’re the people who should feel awkward in this situation. “I knew we shouldn’t have gone to this Share Your Reproductive Plans Party–also known as Daring To Leave The House–with only one lousy kid. What a social faux pas!”
Legendary kid-punching football coach Woody Hayes once said of the forward pass, it has three potential outcomes, and two are bad. Similarly, the question “Are you going to have any more kids?” has a million potential answers. Only one of them is not fraught with awkwardness; i.e., “Yes, in fact my wife is pregnant right now.” Every single other answer is a minefield.
Maybe the couple wants another child but can’t for medical reasons. Maybe they can’t for financial reasons. (I know another kid would certainly break my bank, unless Congress finally legalizes organ selling, and I’m sure they will any day now.) Maybe they’re trying to have another child but have been unsuccessful and are feeling really demoralized about it. Maybe they have reason to think they might be pregnant and are stressed out–either in anticipation or fear. Maybe husband and wife have been tensely debating this issue for months and are at the brink of breakup over the strain this is putting on their marriage. Maybe their first kid has some disease or disorder that has them wondering if another kid from the same gene pool is a good idea. Maybe one of the parents has just received bad medical news that has made them rethink their plans.
I’m barely scratching the surface here. I’m sure you can imagine variations on any of these themes that range from uncomfortable to horrifying. The kind of details that you wouldn’t want to know about anyone, really. So why do people ask?
Here’s my theory: When you have a kid, you are assumed by certain other people to have no life. Namely, other parents–not all parents, but in general, only parents see you this way. The more kids these other parents have, the less of a life they assume you possess. If you have no life, ipso facto, there are no details about that non-life that can be kept secret. You are seen as a mere life-giver to your succubus spawn, because that is how they see themselves.
This type knows no class (in all senses of the word). It is found in overachieving Park Slope-ian helicopter moms or harried suburban types. When you talk to these kinds of parents, everything’s on the table. Did you breastfeed? How about immunizations? How difficult was your pregnancy, did you get an epidural, and would you like to hear my feelings on why you were horrible if you did? And those are questions women ask me, a dude whose role in the pregnancy was limited to DNA contribution and moral support. My wife has to sit through way, way worse.
I am officially declaring my independence from feeling bad about responding with anger and disgust to such questions. But my question to you is, What would be the best response, if said response is intended to shame the questioner? Please post your nominees in the comments.