3) The Krispy Kreme triple cheeseburger. People, when the rest of the world talks about “American exceptionalism,” they’re not saying it as a compliment. They’re talking about things like this:
That’s three patties of charbroiled factory-farm cruelty between innertubes of sugar and refined flour, not because it tastes good but because we can, all dreamed up by a woman who fantasizes about plantation-themed weddings. It’s gross, by any measure, from the cardiac to the psychospiritual. This is enough worse than the Cardinals that John Mozeliak could spend $250 million to sign Jeff Suppan and still not match the pointless excess consumption represented by this single food item.
2) Rihanna’s dress. The guy who designed Rihanna’s gown for the Council of Fashion Designers of America’s awards ceremony the other night said this about it: “The dress is just fishnet and crystals and a couple of fingers crossed.” Color me intrigued! Thing is, the dress is already completely transparent (NSFW, depending on where you W), so as long as she’s clutching that stole in front of her ladyparts, the crossed fingers really just represent the difference between an R-rated movie on VHS on your old TV and the same movie in HD on your flatscreen. Furthermore, and I say this as an Our-Bodies-Ourselves feminist who vociferously defends every woman’s right to wear whatever she wants, it’s fugly, and it seems to me that if you’re going to plaster 230,000 Swarovski crystals on your hide with no requirement that they cover anything up, then they should at least spell out “Eff you, Chris Brown” in script font or something. This is enough worse than the Cardinals that the entire pitching staff could replace their fraudulent titanium power necklaces with Swarovski chokers and the dress would still have a slight edge.
1) Todd Starnes’ new book, God Less America. Mr. Starnes is on Fox News, so I was aware of him in the way I’m aware of salmonella (I know they exist and I’m extremely vigilant about keeping them out of my home), but then my good friend Edwin sent me this image of the first page of his new book, and I think you’ll agree that it makes the opening of The Da Vinci Code look like “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” by comparison (click to embiggen):
Obviously the end of that thought is “chicken soup,” but you guessed that already; it’s only a shame that the picture cuts off before it gets to the sentence “It was a time when Doobie was a brother and hip-hop was something a bunny rabbit did.” I am not making this up. This is so much worse than the Cardinals that Jason Motte could add seven more inches to his beard, Jhonny Peralta could hit into four consecutive triple plays, Mike Matheny could name Daniel Descalso as the new hitting coach, and Ballpark Village could be revealed as a mafia-funded project made entirely of the sawdust of the team’s lucky 2013 bats, and it would STILL be worse than the Cardinals.
And they’re pretty awful.
We started in Australia with the Dodgers and the Snakes,
Who came back home with jet lag and a lengthy list of aches,
Though Texas and Atlanta hold the early-season crown
For sheer number of players who’ve already been “shut down.”
A few guys changed their uniforms: Prince Fielder is a Ranger,
Cano’s now in Seattle, and the Yanks signed Carlos Danger;
McCann has made no citizen’s arrests in Gotham yet,
And down in Queens, the Grandy-Man….can’t do much as a Met.
The Cardinals are waiting for a jholt from Jhonny P.,
Who they hope can post a decent O.P.S. sans P.E.D.
The Marlins’ newest catcher’s name, alas, won’t fit the meter,
Which is just another reason he’s no Derek F***ing Jeter.
(And really, this whole season is a big retirement party
For the Yankees’ captain—well, unless you’re asking Joe Girardi.)
John Farrell and the replay system got into a fracas
About this call on Anna, and this “double” by Markakis.
The transfer rule is baffling and already in discussions,
But (knock on wood) so far we’ve seen no catchers with concussions.
In Anaheim, El Hombre seems like he’s no longer cursed….
Too bad he can’t talk Hammy out of sliding into first.
The Royals lack the power to put homers on the board;
George Brett could help, but he’s quite busy hanging out with Lorde.
Bryce Harper’s lazy hide is holding back the mighty Nats,
While the internet rejoices every time Bartolo bats.
The Brewers keep on winning with a staff of Nuke LaLouches
And a lineup full of icky, awful, execrable douches.
Three photos hit the internet and drew the public’s notice:
Chief Wahoo met his nemesis, Big Papi met the POTUS,
And farther south, America’s Team began the season right
By torching an American flag to honor Opening Night.
Bill Plaschke’s a concern troll when it comes to Puig’s defection,
And Boomer’s mad that Daniel Murphy’s wife had no C-section.
Hank Aaron hates Caucasian folk, or so the racists claim….
And now you’re all caught up, at least until your team’s next game.
(Hey, Cardinals? Your play this week’s been slovenly and amateur.
You’re why I’m getting drunk on crappy iambic septameter.)
So you’ve been fired from your sports-talk radio hosting job for being a repugnant bigot? Don’t worry—San Diego’s Mighty 1090 has a job for you! Live and play in one of America’s most beautiful cities while earning a generous paycheck to work loudly through your penis issues and vent your deep-rooted anger at women who don’t want to sleep with you…all for an admiring audience of tens of thousands!
[Note: Lots of people are reading this post, which is great, but only a few are clicking the links to DO SOMETHING about this jerk. If you’re angry about this too, could you please take a moment to let the station know, since that’s the only way anything will change? Skip to the end if you’re already well aware of Mighty 1090’s problems with women and you just want some ideas on how to tell them so!]
XPRS, or “The Mighty 1090,” is one of San Diego’s biggest sports radio stations as well as the flagship station for the Padres, and lately, it’s become one of southern California’s friendliest refuges for unrepentant and uncreative woman-haters. The station made news a few weeks ago when it removed a longtime morning host and replaced him with Dan Sileo, who had been suspended from his previous job after attacking Fox Sports reporter Erin Andrews in a Twitter battle almost inconceivably pathetic in its unvarnished stop-cutting-off-my-balls panic. (Sileo was ultimately fired from his last position for offering a bounty on a college football player, and from the job before that for calling three African-American football players “monkeys.”) Relax, ladies and non-whites—according to the XPRS website, we’re all going to love Sileo’s “tell-it-like-it-is outspoken approach”!
But that personnel move wasn’t really a surprise, since XPRS has been harboring fugitive-from-decency Scott Kaplan on its airwaves for years now. Kaplan’s one of the most reliable misogynists in sports media: In 2001, after a woman had his illegally-parked car towed, he threatened to humiliate her on air—and proceeded to do just that, calling her a “skank” and devoting a fair chunk of air time to describing her lack of hotness. See, in Kaplan’s world, enforcing the parking code while not being sufficiently bangable is a crime worthy of public ridicule. The woman sued him and his employers; the case was settled.
In 2012, Kaplan was fired for making repellent misogynistic and transphobic comments about the appearance of a reporter and former WNBA player. (You can click the link if you want to see what he said; I’m not inclined to give his nastiness any more real estate on the internet than it’s already gotten.) But Scotty and his co-host filed—and won—a grievance against the station, alleging that the firing process had been handled improperly because he wasn’t given a chance to apologize before being axed. (Never mind that he actually was given that opportunity, apparently, and used it to say “I don’t apologize for the fact that we’re a ‘guy show,’ a locker room kind of show….There’s no apology for that.”)
Kaplan and his sidekick got their jobs back later that year. “There was a lot of embarrassment that came with the termination,” he said.
Oh, sure, definitely. A lot of embarrassment for him.
His most flagrant incidences of sexism have nabbed most of the headlines, but rest assured that Kaplan’s show is a hotbed of crude, casual sexism every day of the week. And yesterday, as I drove down the freeway and demonstrated exceedingly poor judgment by not changing the station when he came on, he hit a new low.
If you follow sports, you’ve probably heard about the damning report released yesterday about the culture of relentless bullying in the Miami Dolphins’ locker room, and the particular abuses inflicted by guard Richie Incognito on (among others) offensive tackle Jonathan Martin, which drove Martin to leave his job and consider suicide. While most members of the sports media, even many of the certified dudebro shock-jocks, have reacted with disgust and scorn to the story—you know, the way decent human beings would react—Kaplan has marked himself as an Incognito apologist in entirely predictable ways: He’s sad that Incognito, in whom he clearly recognizes a kindred spirit, has been singled out for criticism; he repeatedly characterized his abuses as “being mean to a guy….with words“; and, in the tradition of the best concern trolls, he wondered repeatedly whether Martin would be considered—not by him, of course, but by other people—as “too soft” to play in the NFL again.
But I expected all that. I didn’t expect that Kaplan would fixate on the incredibly filthy, base, savage remarks that Incognito had made about Jonathan Martin’s sister, and turn them into a series of boorish jokes of his own. Again, I’m not interested in repeating his remarks here. Read the highlights from the report if you want to, and know that Kaplan’s “humor” had to do with a particular brand of grapefruit soda.
There was no point to Kaplan’s remarks, except to degrade a woman who has already been humiliated in the media through absolutely none of her own doing, and to win the approval of other cruel bullies like himself.
I called the station while I was still driving to leave a lengthy message on the program director’s voicemail (after the receptionist reacted with a resigned sigh and a total lack of surprise to my friendly “Hi—is there anyone there who could help me understand why Scott Kaplan still has a job?”). In my message, I said “I’m a woman who knows a whole lot about sports and who relies on your station to listen to Padres games and stay up-to-date on San Diego sports news. It’s getting awfully hard, though, to justify listening to a station that doesn’t just ignore its female listeners, but seems actively hostile toward and contemptuous of us.” (I requested a phone call in return, and will update the blog if and when I get one.)
I understand, even if I don’t like it, that the target audience for sports-talk stations is guys. I object strenuously, though, when it begins to feel as though the target audience is misogynists.
If you’d like to help get Scott Kaplan off the air—again—here are a few easy ways to let the station know your feelings:
- Call or e-mail the station directly; here’s their Contact page.
- Post a comment to the Mighty 1090 Facebook page.
- Send a message to the Mighty 1090 Twitter account.
- Share this post on Facebook and Twitter and ask other non-sexist sports fans to join the effort.
I have some reservations about potentially helping Kaplan spend more time at home with his three daughters—but it’s high time he got off the SoCal airwaves. Thanks for adding your voice.
The Cardinals, over the past several decades, have benefitted richly from the services of out-of-town sluggers who arrive in St. Louis during the waning days of their careers to catch fire one more time. César Cedeño. Will Clark. Larry Walker. Carlos Beltrán (sniff). But has there ever been an import who transformed the fortunes of a Cardinal ballclub more dramatically than Lance Berkman in 2011? He hit like mad, he helped loosen up a team that by all accounts had been sourpussy and cliquish, and he is the best damned Google image search ever.
Here you go: Five Berkman photos that encapsulate why we love this guy so much.
#1: The young Elvis. He knows what’s up. That little lock of hair on the forehead? It works on both the “suave” and “ironic” levels. Even as a young thing, Berkman was always in on the joke.
#2: Berkman and Tito the dog. My former career was in the world of animal sheltering, so I’m a sucker for any pro athlete who supports animal rescue, as Berkman is doing here by posing with an adoptable dog from the humane society. Extra points because it’s a plain brown dog of the sort that often gets overlooked in shelters. Extra extra points because the dog shares its name with one of my all-time favorite Cardinals.
#3: Berkman and the Obamas. It’s probably best that Lance and I never talk about religion or politics, and I’d bet my signed Tito Landrum photo that he didn’t vote for our current President, but goddess bless him for being his jovial and respectful self anyway when the 2011 Cardinals visited the White House. Congress could learn a lot from this particular Puma.
#4: Berkmanohana. Yeah, that’s Lance Berkman in a sumo suit during his 17-game tenure with the New Orleans Zephyrs. You know how everyone on Match.com says they’re “comfortable in their own skin”? Lance Berkman puts them all to shame. He’s the good-natured honey badger of the baseball world.
#5: Sexy asparagus-munching cowboy Berkman. In a bookstore few years ago, I happened upon a cookbook called Diamond Dishes that featured big-leaguers’ favorite recipes. It was full of softly-lit photos of earnest ballplayers in their HGTV-worthy kitchens—A-Rod leaning defiantly against a pile of greens, Adrian Gonzalez glancing up thoughtfully from a skillet, Albert Pujols brandishing a blowtorch (no, seriously)—but this glorious, ridiculous photo is why my mother got a copy of the book for Christmas that year. This is what would happen if the American Heart Association had a Marlboro Man. This is “Asparagus, I wish I knew how to quit you.” This is perfection.
In honor of Mike Shannon’s contract extension, which will keep him behind the Cardinals’ microphone alongside John Rooney for at least a few more years, I thought I’d dip into the collection of Shannonisms that Julie and I have been scribbling down during games for the last several seasons. I can’t guarantee that these are all 100% verbatim, since many of them have been recorded via the time-honored leap-from-couch-and-dash-to-nearest-writing-device-before-forgetting-what-he-said method, but I promise you they’re pretty close, and I guarantee they’re good for a grin.
Mike: Did you enjoy the fireworks here last night?
Mike: Did the 3-0 loss have something to do with that?
Mike: Did that temper your fire?
Mike: It’s bad when they temper your fire. It’s like the Easter bunny with no eggs. Just so disgruntling.
Mike on Ryan Howard: Well, Mr. Howard can put a dash to your trash, that’s for sure.
Seatbelt Safety Guy doing a guest spot in the broadcast booth: Seven out of ten traffic fatalities are people who are not wearing a seatbelt.
Mike: WOW!!! So what you’re saying is, if they would buckle up, it might not be ANY of out of the ten?
Mike on the slow-working home-plate umpire: This umpire looks like he has double-time disease. The other way.
Mike: Watch out because we’ve got the broadcast cops out today [gives the ‘This broadcast may not be reproduced or disseminated’ statement]. That’s a word you never hear in the dugout. ‘Disseminate.’
John: Thank you for that, Mike. I’m glad the fans were here to hear that bit of information.
Mike: That’s because of the broadcast cops. They’re like the fish cops.
Mike on then-Mets pitcher Oliver Perez: I always thought Oliver was a classy name. Especially in….poetry. And scripture. How about you?
Mike on umpire Tim McClelland: Just so you know, this guy won’t ever call a pitch. He takes four, five seconds every single time, so tell you what, we’re just going to call ’em and then we’ll let you know if he disagrees with us or if he gets ’em right. [a bit later] We get more calls right than he does. I guess he called that last pitch a ball, but you can’t tell with this guy. He only cares about himself.
Mike on Juan Pierre: Pierre is a pepper pot. If you turn him upside down, he’s a popper pet, and that’s what we want him to be tonight. There’s strike one and oh! that was definitely a popper pet.
Mike on a crazy game: This is the wild-pitch phase of the moon. It’s bad when that moon goes into wild-pitch phase.
Mike on the URL for the Cards’ website: There are a LOT of slashes in that Cardinals website, you know. Lots of different pages you can go to. There’s a slash for harmonicas, and a slash for….rain delays…..
John: I don’t think there’s a slash for rain delays.
Mike: There’s not? Oh. Well, you know what there should be a slash for that there isn’t? Pumpkins!
….And we’ve got lots more where these came from.
I don’t feel like talking about the World Series, or about the “classy” ad the Red Sox stuck in the Post-Dispatch, or about the macho garbage going on in Miami and the macho garbage being barfed up in the media in response to it.
Let’s talk about Rick Ankiel instead. Specifically, about his Twitter habits, which rank him alongside Peter Gammons on the list of sports figures who use social media to impersonate symbolist poets. Let’s revisit the ten most profound Ankiel tweets of the year to date. (P.S. Sorry for the visual ugliness of this post; WordPress isn’t letting me fix the vertical space. Serves me right for making fun of a guy I actually really admire.)
#10: The unfinished sentence
Where’s he going with this? “I, Claudius”? “I, Robot”? “I have the most amazing arm you’ll ever see on a ballfield but I do an unfortunate amount of tweeting with my butt”?
You can Google it and stare at it for minutes on end, as I did, if you want to hold out hope that it means something, but….no. Butt-tweet.
I’m thinking Peyton Manning. That guy is awesome.
Rick, no. Bad Rick.
#4: Here, have a palate-cleansing butt-tweet
That’s better. And I have to say I love Rick’s commitment to his tweets. Once they’re out there, he stands by them, which is the hallmark of a guy who either understands the meaning of “loyalty” or hasn’t found the “delete” feature.
#3-2: Wait, I forgot who his favorite football player was
Right. Manning. And in case you thought that the top tweet existed to correct the punctuation in the bottom tweet, notice that they were posted a week apart, so they represent two totally separate thought processes and Twitter-urges.
Oh, Rick. We never loved you for your literariness, but we’ll never stop loving you, either.
1) It was important to me to be able to continue living, and wearing Cardinals gear, in southern California without having to brook the taunts of the minority and the (far more unbearable) good sportsmanship of the majority.
2) I was pathetically, adoringly attached to this team, and I didn’t want to lose their company a day sooner than I had to.
Both, I suppose, have something to do with how I’m feeling today: Discouraged after two flat losses in the final home games of the year, sure, and at least a little bit enervated by the obligation of continued hopefulness imposed upon us by the 2011 team—but mostly, just melancholy. Whoever wins this series, however it goes down, we’re at most two games away from four months of dreary baseball-less-ness, and from never seeing again these same guys on the same diamond at the same time. For a sentimental baseball fool like me, the waning days of the World Series are bittersweet in the extreme, like the turning leaves and early sunsets under which they unfold.
Shakespeare would have understood this, I’m certain (he was an aficionado of the sport, you know, and a Cardinal fan to boot). Thus I hope he won’t be too put out that I’ve twisted his Sonnet 73—one of his most darkly beautiful poems, about love intensified amid decay—into a premature and very dorky farewell to a season I have, indeed, loved very much:
That time of year thou mayst in MO behold
When no ballplayers throw, or hit, or run
Within Busch III, all empty now and cold,
Bare ruined fields, where late the Redbirds won.
In MO thou see’st the twilight of a year
That flourished once, but fadeth in the stretch,
As Papi’s bat and Lester’s emerald schmear*
Consigned the Cards to flail, the fans to kvetch.
In MO thou see’st the dimming of a team
Whose loftiness seems but a thing of yore,
Whose happy flights will be a distant dream
Unless the rookie arms astound once more.
Then pause, though thou still cheer’st them toward the ring,
To love that well which thou must leave till spring.
* No, I don’t think that Lester was cheating, or that Game 1 could have proceeded any more ignominiously even if he had been. I just needed a rhyme.