Jeter’s nitty gritty

I’m a sports fan, okay? I spend a lot of couch potato time watching athletic stuff on the tube. I own various team caps, jerseys and an insulated cup or two with team logos emblazoned thereon. It’s what we sports fans do, ya know?

But currently something has me rattled. For those who don’t know this, and most of my friends don’t give a rat’s ass, the New York Yankee super star, Derek Jeter, is approaching a milestone number in his long career and that is he will reach 3,000 career hits very soon. As of this date he is only six hits short. Naturally the marketing mavens are gearing up to sell as much paraphernalia as possible to commemorate this event. Pins, magnets, pennants, mugs, bobbleheads, decals, cellphone skins, key chains, jewelry and, of course, all sorts of clothing and athletic equipment. This is no surprise to me and, although I don’t plan on buying (and I hope no one thinks of giving me) any of this junk, there is one item with which I am total flummoxed.

Major League Baseball (with Jeter’s approval) has signed a contract with an outfit called Steiner Sports to market some strategic dirt. Yes, dirt. Hopefully, Jeter will get his 3,000th hit at Yankee Stadium but that doesn’t seem to matter, because wherever he hits it Steiner Sports has permission to go to that particular field and dig up five gallons of dirt from the batter’s box and the territory where shortstops roam. This dirt will be poured into capsules and cups or whatever container is marketable, to be sold (by the tablespoon) to Jeter’s hyper-fans and/or emotional retards for, I’m sure, a maximum whatever-traffic-will-bear dollar amount.

To me this is marketing gone mad in a country (and world) that values celebrity so much they are willing to buy dirt. Not dirt from Jeter’s cleats or a shirt that he got soiled by sliding into second base. This is just dirt. Dirt. Don’t get me wrong, I like Derek Jeter and his athletic prowess is certainly to be admired and he has accomplished a lot in his 13 years (so far) as a professional baseball player. But do I worship the dirt on which he walks? I emphatically do not.

I just wish there was some sort of anti-marketing, anti-greed company that could be hired to urge people not to buy this dirt. That the time has come to draw a line in the…er, well, sand and refuse to fall for the…er, well, crap being shoveled our way.
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Update July 3, 2011: Right after I posted this Jeter stumbled in the dirt and pulled a hamstring or something which has stalled his progression to 3,000. Seems like kismet to me. Irony rules, sometimes, even in sports.
Update July 9, 2011: Jeter got a single in the first inning and a then, his 3,000th hit, a home run! Holy shit! I've admitted that I'm not a huge Yankee fan, but this brought a lump to my throat. I'm watching the rest of the game but don't think I'll stick around to watch them dig up that five gallons of dirt so they can make trinkets to maximize the profits.

A Dream Narrative in Five Chapters

Chapter One

In October of 2010 a Pacific Gas & Electric pick-up truck was stolen near Lake St. in the Richmond District of San Francisco. When quizzed by police the workers (two men, both named Mike) blamed a man who asked them to move their truck because it was blocking his car. Mike #1 (who is African American) said it was “some old white dude in a yellow shirt.” Mike #2 said it was a “plaid shirt with a lot of yellow in it.” Neither of them actually saw this man steal their truck even though it happened right in front of their eyes. Three weeks later the Parks Department called PG&E to ask them to move a truck from the parking space that serves visitors to the Spire tree sculpture by Andy Goldsworthy in The Presidio. The man who made the call thought the truck had been there for “at least three weeks.” Mike #1, protected by his union, only received a reprimand for leaving his keys in the truck and still works for PG&E. Mike #2 got tired of being razzed by his co-workers and quit his job. Later he told a friend, in confidence, that when the supposed thief asked them to move their truck Mike #2 had said, “It’ll be another 20 minutes” and when the man started to object Mike #1 had yelled, “Get lost, old man.” The presumption that the man in the plaid yellow shirt stole the truck went from a possibility to a probability.

Chapter Two

When PG&E reported the theft the police assumed they could get the identity of the thief by researching the background of the car that had been hemmed in by the truck , but nothing was done for another three weeks during which time the car accumulated 15 parking tickets. When the car was finally impounded the “traffic monitor” for that area was chastised for not reporting the car as a possible abandonment or theft. Upon further investigation it was discovered that she had reported this car, in writing, eight times and her supervisor and the follow-up person were reprimanded for neglecting to enter the information into a data base. All three of these people have since left their jobs at the DMV.

Chapter Three

After the car was impounded it was discovered that it had been reported stolen three weeks prior to the truck theft incident. The woman who reported the theft lived three blocks away and she later admitted she might have just forgotten where she parked it. Since the car had New Jersey license plates and was insured in that state there were further delays in resolving the issue of ownership.

Chapter Four

While the car was in the impound lot the trunk was opened and a cardboard box was found containing a Barbra Streisand puppet dressed in her costume from the movie of Hello Dolly. When interviewed by police the car owner said the puppet had appeared on the table in the lobby of her building and, although everyone had admired it, no one questioned why it was there until a portable tape cassette player also appeared on the table and the song “The Way We Were” was played in a continuous loop, day and night (although at low volume). Several complaints were lodged with the building superintendent who did nothing about it except to turn off the tape cassette. The car owner finally took the puppet and put it in the trunk of her car.

Chapter Five

Someone at the impound department recognized that the puppet was a fairly extraordinary work of art (the face and hands were a fine grade of delicate bisque) and put a photo of it on the bulletin board in the office. A few days later a passerby recognized the work as being one of a noted group of “diva” puppets executed by a well-known local artist and, although not for sale, they had been displayed in a high-end jewelry store on 24th Street in the Castro District. The owner of the store said the collection was returned to the partner of the artist (who had passed away from AIDS-related causes several years ago) but neither the store owner nor the partner noticed the Streisand puppet was missing until the rest of them were put up for auction, individually, on E-Bay. The partner and the store owner are unsure when or where the puppet was misplaced or purloined and did not notify the authorities. Some weeks later, after due diligence by the SF Police Dept. and through photographic evidence, the partner was able to successfully facilitate its return to him.

Coda

The owner of the “stolen” vehicle was indicted on several misdemeanor charges including insurance fraud and possession of stolen property. The man in the yellow shirt has disappeared into local folklore. The puppet was auctioned off on E-Bay and the winning bid was $1,275.

Facebook stuff if I was on Facebook

I bought a pair of leather gym shorts. They’re really hot. I mean hot as in sweaty.
I bought four new chair pads. Although I’m not crazy about them I think they’re cool enough and a nice cushion for the fanny.
I bought a rhododendron bush for the backyard. So far, it’s not doing very well because of the current heat wave. I’m probably over-watering it.

The last time I was in Palm Springs I stayed at a hotel next door to a little dump of a restaurant called John’s. I admired the t-shirts worn by the staff and my pal Bernardo bought one for me, XL. Perfect size; nicely named restaurant, good friend.

In front of my building ajacent to the stairs and the low wall bordering the sidewalk there's an expanse of cement that serves no earthly purpose other than easy maintenance. I regularly pull the weeds from the cracks. Through some sort of intuition I left this little piece of greenery and have been rewarded with a single petunia. Ain't nature wonderful?

Andy in Chrome

There is a wonderful bronze statue of Mahatma Gandhi in Union Square that stands, rather incongruously I think, in a small, gated leafy glen. Larger than life and in full purposeful stride, the statue exudes strength and purpose; hardly the frail ascetic portrayals usually expected from photographic and artistic images. It’s been there since 1986 and I always visit him whenever I’m in the neighborhood.

If Gandhi came to life and continued his stroll north he would encounter a much more incongruous sight; that is, Rob Pruitt’s “The Andy Monument” in full glare. In the right light this sculpture is probably blinding. But in the “wrong” light (who’s to say what the correct lighting is for an outdoor work of art?) it’s more pewter than chrome. Anyway, it sits on a pedestrian traffic-island at West 17th St. and, as a monument to Andy Warhol it is fittingly impossible to ignore and blinds you to the actual quality of the sculpture itself (dubious at best). The figure is holding a shopping bag that says Medium Brown Bag on the side (a Bloomingdales marketing ploy back in the day) and what looks like a Polaroid camera hung on a strap around its neck (not sure about this). The official press release blatts: “The figure is based on a combination of digital scanning of a live model and hand sculpting, its surface finished in chrome [and is] mounted on a concrete pedestal. It depicts Warhol as a ghostly, silver presence: a potent cultural force as both artist and self-created myth. As Rob Pruitt observes, ‘Like so many other artists and performers and people who don’t fit in because they’re gay or otherwise different, Andy moved here to become who he was, to fulfill his dreams and make it big. He still represents that courage and that possibility. That’s why I came to New York, and that’s what my Andy Monument is about.’”

Warhol was a master of hype so why shouldn’t Pruitt give it the old college try? It got him a spot on a corner at Union Square. Good for him. Oh yeah, as usual with me these days, I gave the sculpture a bonk with my knuckles and it’s definitely hollow. Make of that what you will.

C'mon LeBron!

I am not a racist. Honest. As they say (I am not immune to a good cliché), “some of my best friends” have been of an ilk not my own. However, I am a victim of my upbringing which included official propaganda of the “anti” sort that colors my emotional thinking to this day. For five years of my early childhood I was imprinted with unbridled hate for “Krauts” and “Japs.” Please excuse the epithets but, hey, they were the epithets of choice of my parents, teachers and the pure and good U.S.A. government at that time. They were our sworn enemies during World War II and despite current adult logic I still retain a residual cold heart for the citizens of these two countries. Not that I can’t have German and Japanese friends it’s just that, well, I guess I’m wrong; I really can’t have German or Japanese friends. My brain can forgive but my emotional core was scarred at a very young age and, being human, I can’t do anything about it. This rant is brought to you by the fact that:

I should be able to admire Dirk Nowitski, because he is possibly the best basketball player in the National (insert “World”) Basketball Association. But he is, all by himself, taking over the NBA Playoffs with his brilliant play and, damn his German hide, now beating up on LeBron James and the Miami Heat in the finals. So what do I turn to in my emotional reaction to his genius? That’s right, “that damned German” and “maybe we should put up a wall somewhere.”

So, c’mon, LeBron, c’mon c’mon; it’s for the red, white and blue this time and my embedded Third Reich righteousness is imperiled. If you win I’ll buy a replica of your jersey, I really will!



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Update June 12, 2011: In unaccented English Dirk Nowitzki graciously accepted his MVP award tonight after the Dallas Mavs won the NBA finals. You really have to hand it to the guy; he was tremendous. So maybe I'll buy a LeBron jersey next year. I think he has it in him to turn up the heat.

License to Drive

I put my new license plates on the old Elantra today. I hate ‘em. I want to know the name of the person who made the final decision on the design and colors. I like to think the citizens of New York have some sort of artistic “taste” but, alas, that was obviously not a criterion for the final choice. The new design fits the need for clarity but that’s about it.

The old design also fits that necessity but there was obviously some thought in making the license attractive, as well as functional. We need someone to blame for this atrocity or, at least, I do.