And now for something completely different: Blue and Orange Rant Reduxe
I'm completely enamoured of The Mets. My childhood self, overflowing with abruptly-silenced fantasies of becoming the first major league girl baseball star, is being vindicated through complete and total dedication to the Mets. Admittedly, after Strawberry left for the Dodgers and my tearful letter begging him to return to NY was answered only by L.A. propaganda, my Mets fandom suffered a blow. Overwhelmed by the implications that this ever-confounding trading system had on my notion of true team loyalty - - I even spent a summer half-heartedly following the dreaded Yankees, because watching those automatons win was a cheap thrill with few consequences for a NY-rooting Mets fan whose heart had been broken one too many times post-'86. But now, I am fully re-committed to the great risk: not only rooting for The Mets to win, but experiencing complete and total devastation at every loss. Perhaps this is the real cause of my current bipolar rollercoaster.
Nu, in any event, last night at Shea, sitting out the entire ordeal - IN THE RAIN NO LESS - I allowed myself to be rage-baited by not one, but *two* assholes.
And thusly my die-hard childhood self and my fight-picking high school self were united in an untimely display of loyalty-rage hybrid.
The first, audaciously donning a 'Kahane Chai' shirt* fully deserved to be screamed at in public. I don't regret the decision to do so. Yes, this opinion is somewhat shaped by the retrospective knowledge that he didn't pull out a gun, which I couldn't have possibly predicted at the time, nor did I think through such highly probable scenarios before I began screaming at him, but nonetheless - you don't get away with Kahane Chai at Shea Stadium; no sir, I'm sorry, go home.
The second, American Psycho the Phillies Fan, was quite possibly more nightmarish than the racist Jew was. But as much as he deserved to be smacked, I had told him to SHUT THE FUCK UP a few too many times before remembering the golden rule of femme-presenting, female-reading tough girls: don't fight with macho men when they will beat up the queer boys with you instead of you. Oh right. Time to stop. Don't hit this man, tempting tho it may be, what with the ENTIRETY of Shea stadium ready to back you up. And so he got away with "watch your mouth - a lady shouldn't talk that way." Shonde of shondes. If I ever run into him when I'm alone (god forbid I'm ever in Philly) - I will hit him in the American-Psycho-pleated-pants-and-crisp-button-down-shirt face and he will know Queer Mets wrath.
*See jdl.org for semi-complete details on the maniacal racist this shirt praises in its quasi-messianic fashion.
Nu, in any event, last night at Shea, sitting out the entire ordeal - IN THE RAIN NO LESS - I allowed myself to be rage-baited by not one, but *two* assholes.
And thusly my die-hard childhood self and my fight-picking high school self were united in an untimely display of loyalty-rage hybrid.
The first, audaciously donning a 'Kahane Chai' shirt* fully deserved to be screamed at in public. I don't regret the decision to do so. Yes, this opinion is somewhat shaped by the retrospective knowledge that he didn't pull out a gun, which I couldn't have possibly predicted at the time, nor did I think through such highly probable scenarios before I began screaming at him, but nonetheless - you don't get away with Kahane Chai at Shea Stadium; no sir, I'm sorry, go home.
The second, American Psycho the Phillies Fan, was quite possibly more nightmarish than the racist Jew was. But as much as he deserved to be smacked, I had told him to SHUT THE FUCK UP a few too many times before remembering the golden rule of femme-presenting, female-reading tough girls: don't fight with macho men when they will beat up the queer boys with you instead of you. Oh right. Time to stop. Don't hit this man, tempting tho it may be, what with the ENTIRETY of Shea stadium ready to back you up. And so he got away with "watch your mouth - a lady shouldn't talk that way." Shonde of shondes. If I ever run into him when I'm alone (god forbid I'm ever in Philly) - I will hit him in the American-Psycho-pleated-pants-and-crisp-button-down-shirt face and he will know Queer Mets wrath.
*See jdl.org for semi-complete details on the maniacal racist this shirt praises in its quasi-messianic fashion.