The case against me: I have a mustache that I have been known to wax. I enjoy listening to records and believe that the sound has a quality absent from modern electronic recordings. I enjoy sampling microbrews and frequenting gastropubs. I enjoy demolition derbies in a non-ironic fashion.
The case in my favor: F*** hipsters. I'm not one. I've never even tasted a PBR, much less at a neighborhood dive while listening to the hot new band of which you've never heard. Then again, have I mentioned how excited I am to have tickets to Cloud Nothings and the Japandroids later this month? But you've heard of them, right? Those acclaimed, totally non-hipster bands that are selling out dingy cement slabs while flannel-wearing douches sip small-batch whiskeys aged in barrels used to transport rum on the Pinta which has given them just the slightest hint of black currant? Goddammit. I think I might be a hipster. But I'm fighting it.
This is the internal struggle that presented itself when I placed that title upon my blog post. This blog, as with all things in life, is done for Nicole, my wife. If it makes her happy, then I need no other reason. So if I choose a blog title referencing Portlandia, the beacon of hipster folderol, I assign it no meaning other than loving her. Now that we've worked our way through that, I have additional thoughts.
Baseball season in underway and things have not started well. This is not a problem. A sample size of less than 25-30 games is useless. The Braves won't win 140 games, and the Astros won't lose...well, the Astros could lose 120. Anyways, my Punk Rock Girl and I attended our first game of the season last night (Angels fell to the A's 8-1, blah). The real excitement completely escape my attention until this morning. Those who know me understand where my allegiances lie. First and foremost: God's Glory. Seriously, though, it goes something like this: Green Lantern (v2.0, aka Hal Jordan), the Phillies, my dogs, the rest of my friends and family, genocide, Coldplay. As a Phillies major with a minor in the Angels, my hatreds are thus: Dodgers, Braves, Jayson Werth, Red Sox, Yankees. So when I read the headline that a Dodger-Padres brawl resulted in a star pitcher's broken collarbone, you can imagine my excitement. My excitement (please let it be Clayton Kershaw, please let it be Clayton Kershaw) turned to dismay when I clicked the link.
If there is one player in MLB that I feel an emotional connection to, it is Zack Greinke. His troubles have been well documented, social anxiety disorder and depression. Started in Kansas City, went to Milwaukee. Came to the Angels then signed a huge contract last offseason with the Dodgers. I champion him for standing up and creating awareness for his issues on a national scale. What better way to deal with anxiety than standing on a raised platform in front of 40,000 people every five days? For him to end last night as the focal point of a fight with lasting physical implications is disappointing. He may be a Dodger, but he is also a kindred spirit.
My aversion to sports such as the NFL centers on the macho aura that doesn't permit weakness, real or perceived. The remnants of this culture still circle baseball, but the modern era continues to make inroads. One particular Stonehenge is the notion that pitchers must protect their hitters when they are threatened. Did Zack Greinke buy into this code and intentionally hit Carlos Quentin last night? Perhaps. Did he egg Quentin on during their brief exchange before Quentin charged the mound? Perhaps. But when Greinke emerged from beneath the pile with a broken collarbone, intentions were meaningless. A crucial bone in the skeletal pitching apparatus, it appears it will cost Greinke more than two months with questionable results thereafter. I hope his recovery is speedy and thorough.
Sorry for the baseball obsession today. It surely won't be the last time though. If you haven't completely tuned out at this point, I read a couple of excellent articles on Grantland this week that I highly recommend:
For the Dodger haters: Extraordinary Payroll, Ordinary Talent
Whatever happened to Kobe's rap career? This was a thing:
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