All-Stars 2009

The winners are in, and here’s the list of ball players who’ll be playing in the All-Star Game this year. Note that Mark Texeira beat out Kevin You-Kill-Us. My profound gratitude goes out to anyone who voted for Texeira at my suggestion.

AMERICAN LEAGUE
1st Base-Mark Teixeira (Yankees)

2nd Base-Dustin Pedroia (Red Sox)

3rd Base- Evan Longoria (Rays)

Shortstop- Derek Jeter (Yankees)-10th All Star appearance!

Outfield-Jason Bay (Red Sox)

Outfield-Ichiro Suzuki (Mariners)

Outfield-Josh Hamilton (Rangers)
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
NATIONAL LEAGUE

1st Base-Albert Pujols (Cardinals)

2nd Base-Chase Utley (Phillies)

3rd Base-David Wright (Mets)

Shortstop-Hanley Ramirez (Marlins)

Outfield-Ryan Braun (Brewers)

Outfield-Carlos Beltran(Mets)

Outfield-Raul Ibanez(Phillies)

Not Another Nitwit!

My favorite thing that’s been said about Sarah Palin’s sudden mutiny from office came from Maureen Dowd:

“Sarah wanted everyone to know that she’s not having fun and people are being mean to her and she doesn’t feel like finishing her first term as governor.“

That’s exactly how she came across–like a pouty teenager.

Dear god, please do not let this girl become President of the U.S. Don’t count on the impossibility of her winning: In a country where George W. Bush could be President, twice, why not Palin? She’s just as much of a nitwit–and prettier and more personable at that. It could happen.

Mariano Rivera Gets 500th Save

Last night Yankees closer Mariano Rivera got the 500th save of his career. He also, incidentally, got his first RBI of all time, on his third at-bat. That’s the third at-bat of his entire 16-year career. Rivera comes in to save the game in the 9th inning so he never has to bat–but he came in on the 8th for the past two games. He’s so remote from batting that he had to borrow someone else’s bat, and could barely suppress a smile his whole time up there. From first base Derek Jeter watched him, almost doubled over in hysterics.

Rivera’s the quintessential specialist–not only does he specialize in saves, but he does it with just one kind of pitch. Oh but ah, that pitch! Batters think it’s one place, but when they go to hit it they discover it’s moved a nano-inch away in a nano-second, and they end up swinging at air. They can’t get near Rivera’s pitch.

Here’s what Rivera’s faithful catcher, Jorge Posada, had to say about the milestone:

“I think I’m as excited as he is,” the catcher said. “This means a lot to me, to have caught this game. That man … we’ve been through a lot together. He makes my job easier, he makes all our jobs easier. He’s the best ever.

To read what other teammates had to say, plus an interview with Rivera, go to Pete Abraham’s blog.

Cagney & the Dykes

I feel like the Dean of Students at freshman orientation. Every couple of years when I venture into SF Lesbian Nation, I’m older but the girls aren’t. The older ones have moved across the bridge and are busily raising babies, so I seldom run into anyone I know here. Today I did; Valerie’s a doctor now, and Kenya’s buying a house with her wife. Can the babies be far behind?

It’s the usual mob scene here at Dolores Park, and of course it had to be the hottest day of the year. I feel wildly inappropriate; after all, I might think I’m the Dean of Students, but nobody else recognizes me as such. To them I’m just another “elder,” like the three seniors next to me dressed in identical bermuda shorts and plaid cotton blouses, their backpacks hanging, all sporting the same no-nonsense haircuts in various shades of gray. The clone factor gives me the creeps.

I first started hanging out with baby dykes in my mid-40s; as editor of On Our Backs that’s who I worked with and who we catered to. I was too old even then, yet here I am 20 years later, standing among the latest crop of baby dykes, all of them enthralled to be queer and here in the heady oxygen of SF Pride. I’ll wager none of them have lived in SF more than a year or two.

I actually do have a valid excuse to be here. Sharon Gless, aka Christine Cagney of the old Cagney & Lacey cop show, will soon address the crowd. Although Gless has been married for 18 years to a man, she’s never forgotten that her character was a beloved icon of Lesbian Nation; at marches and rallies you’d see signs imploring Chris Cagney, Come Out! Cagney, like Gless, was blatantly het–but she was a tough lady whose interests ran to poker, baseball, and scotch neat. Besides, both of them were 1980s role models: Marybeth Lacey had her Utopian family life and egalitarian marriage to Harve, while Cagney had looks, brains, old money, and boyfriends–but everyone knew she wanted girlfriends. Louise Rafkin, the leading lesbian commentator of the day, religiously reported Cagney’s doings in her syndicated column.

With the sun beating down on me, I scramble for shade under the bathroom eaves, from where I have such a clear shot I could leap across all the half-naked bodies onto the stage and into Cagney’s arms. But I restrain myself when she shows up, wearing not a cop uni (as an investigator she never wore one on the show either), but a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Understated in style and delivery, she thanks the gals for all their support over the years, and then reveals her true agenda, introducing “my granddaughter who is gay and single. Isn’t she gorgeous?” (and no doubt mortified).

And that was that. I waited out in the street another hour or so until the march began, Sharon/Chris leading the way, chatting with one of San Francisco’s finest. Apparently you can take Cagney off the beat, but you can’t keep her away from lady cops.

I wouldn’t be surprised if a few people showed up at today’s Pride March with those old signs: Chris Cagney Come Out!

The Peddlers: Poetry

Writing about Michael Jackson and We Are the World yesterday, I wanted to post the second poem below, but since it makes more sense with the first one, I waited to post them together.

The Peddlers I

All that midtown weekend
when I walked
from hotel room
to tobacconist
to hotel room
to cafeteria
young black men
tried to sell me sunglasses.

From 34th to 60th
four or five to a street
they stood
behind milk crates
spectacles on display.

The peddlers were never
white or tan or brown
but always deepest ebony:
men in the full bloom of youth
young black men
who shone with energy
and reeked of despair.

I kept buying sunglasses:
pink with flared frames
yellow butterflies
with rhinestones
thin round wire rims
but on the next block
four more milk crates
mushroomed

I was haunted by visions
of sunglasses sliding
over hollow black skulls.
All night
I watched Mary Tyler Moore
for reassurance
but in the morning
they’d returned:
black men
in the full bloom of youth
standing in the street
selling sunglasses.

In the Russian Tea Room
a golden-skinned man
poured water over ice
while my mother speared a herring
and insisted I’d been conned:
the glasses were a scam
and the peddlers, millionaires.

The Peddlers II

All over Paris
in every cafe
my compatriots were singing
We Are The World.
A young Tunisian waiter
picked my brain for information.
Proudly I identified Bruce
Springsteen, Ray Charles.

Outside the Louvre
and at the Eiffel Tower
young black men
hawked white plastic doves.
Ancient statues
served as their displays.

Vous etes nee ou? I clumsily asked.
He replied, Senegal.

My mother tugged my sleeve
and we walked to Jeu de Paumes
where more Senegalese youth
sold their wares at the door.

I bought beads, chains, feathers,
flowers for my hair
but still the master’s statues
stood bedecked with modern trinkets.

I’d come 3000 miles
in search of higher culture
to find sidewalk desperation
in France Ethiopia Senegal
America Tunisia Nicaragua

Nous sommes le monde.

He Thrilled The World

It makes no sense to blog about anything today other than Michael Jackson—or even to talk or try to think about anything else, except perhaps an obligatory prayer for Farah Fawcett. If I blogged about anything else today, nobody would bother reading it.

I didn’t think I had anything to add to the dialog bouncing around every form of communication known to modern life—but then I remembered what MJ meant to me, back when he meant something to a lot of us, circa 1982, during the Thriller era and—something that seems to be getting lost in the shuffle—the We Are the World phenom, which was partly Michael’s doing.

Around that time I wrote and submitted to a dozen or so publishers a proposal for a book called The View From Both Sides: Bisexuality and its Discontents. It was to be about more than sexual orientation only: at the heart of the book was the premise that we were living at a moment when people longed to transcend boundaries, sexual and otherwise. The symbol I used throughout was Michael Jackson. (Note: Said book was never published; it was way before its time, which is a fact, not a boast.)

I saw Michael Jackson as someone who transcended boundaries of sex, gender, age, race, and musical genre. I don’t know if by then he’d also hopped merrily over every national border, as I wasn’t tuned into that aspect at the time. Today, listening to radio tributes, reading the paper, and scanning the cyber unieverse, it’s obvious that a lot of people felt that way about MJ.

We Are the World: As someone said on KQED’s Forum this morning, the song and video were easy to parody and mock—but it mattered. It was a popcult phenom that said something about and to the world that mattered a lot. My heart still skips a beat when I recall images from WATW, like little Cyndi Lauper, surrounded by world-renowned blues singers, belting out her part like a big fat mama: if you didn’t know better, you’d think it was an Ella or Aretha. Bruce, Bobby, Lionel, Ray, Stevie, Diana (who looked like she was high as a kite on the experience alone)—it was a remarkable thing, really. Michael Jackson co-wrote that song and helped bring the whole thing together.

After that, though, he fell from grace, for me and for a lot of people. The purposeful alterations to his looks were heartbreaking: Michael apparently didn’t know how beautiful he was, and we who did know had to endure his repeated changes, until he became downright grotesque.

And then, of course, there were the allegations of child molestation. It bugs me to no end that I will never know the truth of what went on at Neverland between Michael and those children. I can buy either scenario: that he was a nasty pervert luring children to his bed with a veneer of child-like charm; or that he was himself a child who only wanted to snuggle with his playmates. Like most people, on this day I’d prefer not to think of it at all.

I prefer instead to think about Michael Jackson’s music and the pleasure he brought to me and to people all over the world. I want to remember watching We Are the World with Billy Coatney, a friend’s retarded son, who screamed in unbridled joy as he recognized each performer. I want to remember walking into a Tunisian café in Paris with my mother and my sister, the three of us so obviously American that the waiter immediately put WATW onto the stereo. Never before had I felt such pride in my country. Michael Jackson made that moment possible.

RIP Michael. One thing we can sure of: you will long be remembered. Just ask Elvis.

Ed McMahon: Being No. 2

The death of Ed McMahon got me thinking about people who play sidekick, or give behind-the-scenes support, or are in one way or another a prop for The Big Cheese. McMahon was probably the most well-known Number Two in show biz, having hooked up with a slice of cheese the size of the moon. In typical Number Two fashion he wrote in his autobiography, “I hitched my wagon to a great star.”

I have a lot of respect for McMahon, and for most people in the Number 2 position. In baseball it’s the catchers I most admire: the guys who squat on their buns while the rest of the team rests or messes around in the dugout; in a sense the catcher nearly runs the game by calling the pitches. The pitcher of course is Number One—so important he’s excused from batting, at least in the American League, lest he lose his concentration or strain his arm. The pitcher is the guy who’s most revered in the sport, the one who gets all the kudos, attention, and money. Catchers seldom even get mentioned in game reports—but you can bet your boopies the pitcher couldn’t have done what he did without a good catcher.

Ed McMahon himself compared his job to that of catcher. “It’s like a pitcher who has a favorite catcher,” he said. “The pitcher gets a little help from the catcher, but the pitcher has to throw the ball. Well, Johnny Carson had to throw the ball, but I could give him a little help.” IMO, McMahon was being far too modest: like every good catcher, he gave Carson more than “a little help.” But such modesty is entirely in keeping with a Number 2.

I first learned what it’s like to work behind the scenes when I joined a feminist theater group umpteen years ago. When I first came on board, I was relegated to the position of understudy, as well as all-around helper during performances. I loved to do the lighting. Before you picture me up in some projection room playing with a big board of complicated doodads, let me hasten to add that “doing the lighting” in this case meant turning various light switches on and off at various moments during the performance. Nevertheless, I got enormous satisfaction doing this most menial of labors: without me, the stage and audience would remain constantly dark or constantly light. I was a crucial part of the production. To the audience I was, of course, invisible.

Later in life I came to realize that in many ways I prefer invisible roles to being the star. I’ve had occasion to be both, the latter in a limited fashion, but enough to teach me a life lesson or two. There’s something wonderful about knowing within yourself that your function in any endeavor is vital, that you do it well and with commitment, and that, unlike The Big Cheese, you’re not exposing your guts. Of course, you’re not garnering applause and adulation–but in fact, when I have gotten applause and adulation, I’ve been somewhat uncomfortable with it. Like anyone else I want recognition—but I prefer that it come in a less ostentatious manner.

I was in my mid-forties when I tapped into this area of self-knowledge, and based on it I changed my sign—my astrological sign, that is. I was born on March 21st, the cusp of Pisces / Aries, and had always identified with the big bad Ram who butts his way into the leading role. Aries women are known as ferocious pioneers, forging new pathways in life, and I happened to meet several of them around this time. I was nothing like them—and if I was, man, did I want to change! So I began reading the Pisces daily horoscope instead of Aries. Pisces is a water sign—meditative and introspective. That’s me, all right: ask me to flick the light switches and I’ll happily work alone backstage, observing the performance and myself while I do the best damn lighting job this play has ever seen!

But back to Ed McMahon and his happy role as Number 2. He used to say he had the best job in entertainment, because he worked with the best entertainer in the world. That’s debatable, IMO, but it’s not the point. The point is that, for 30 years, Ed McMahon worked as a prop for Johnny Carson, and got enormous satisfaction from it. When he died the other day, I found out that he was born March 6, 1923. Ed McMahon was a Pisces.

All-Star Voting

This is an emergency call for all you fans of Yankees and/or Jorge Posada, primero pitcher, clubhouse leader, wonderful father, and all-around great guy: get yourself over to the All-Star Game page and cast up to 25 votes so Posada might beat out Jason Varitek of the (holding nose) Red Sox and Joe Mauer of the Minnesota Twins. Okay, it’s a long shot, but hey, it could happen.

I’ve written a few posts about Jorge; you can probably get to all of them from the one in 2007, when I was lobbying for him to be in that year’s All-Star game. Then there’s the one about his son, linked below:

Jorge and son, JP Jr., who has craniosynostis.

While you’re on the All-Star page, cast a vote to keep Mark Texeira in the lead for first base–he’s currently less than 4000 votes ahead of Kevin Youkilis of the Red (this time gagging) Sox. Youkilis is of a size and physical appearance that makes him look like he belongs in football or ice hockey rather than in baseball, and he holds his bat like a rifle. I pronounce his name “YOU-KILL-US”, and I have to admit, a lot of the time he does. Texeira’s a great player, though, and a much nicer person, so…

Make a Yankee fan happy. Do the right thing.