Tuesday, April 13, 2010
I don't know the first damn thing about art. I don't think I've ever been to a gallery opening and have a difficult time discerning eras, styles, and motivations. I know what I like and I arrogantly assume I have a strong grasp of my personal aesthetic sense; but I don't give a shit what the Mona Lisa might be smirking about. Art is everywhere, in every thing we see each day and art is nowhere. It's all a rich tapestry blah blah blah.
Two kinds of art were on display at the Rogers Centre last night. The clinical, masterful display put on by Ricky Romero won't soon be forgotten by any of the dozen or so people who watched it (or illegally retransmitted it). In and out, up and down, swinging strikes and assorted awesomeness. Art. Just like all good art, it made us feel and think and talk and laugh. An artful performance by a young master still honing his craft.
To some art might only be Impressionistic masters or Frank Gehry or Jackson Pollack or Robert fucking Bateman painting loons and ponds and shit, but art isn't that easy to nail down. On the fringes or the definition and society, people express themselves through extreme acts of self-degradation or esoteric weirdness for weirdnesses sake.
Most of this stuff is harmless, some is vulgar and some approaches dangerous. Smearing yourself with feces while grainy 8mm footage of cousin Jeffrey's fifth birthday party doesn't really harm anybody, but it doesn't help me understand why daddy doesn't love you either. Which brings us to A.J. Pierzynski.
A.J. Pierzynski didn't hit the home run to break up Ricky Romero's would be no-hitter and there's no way to know what might have happened had he not play-acted his way to first base via the phantom hit by pitch. Pierzynski didn't hit the home run, Alex Rios did. Because Alex Rios is a talented major league ballplayer and A.J. Pierzynski is a worthless fuck.
I watch professional baseball so I can see crazy shit like world-class athletes throwing baseballs at speeds I wouldn't drive on the highway. I watch to see mammoth humans exhibit hummingbird reflexes with skill and nuance. I don't watch baseball to watch obnoxious jackasses con their way into victories or the opposition's head. I want to see something great, not a manipulative cunt do whatever he can to get his team a win. I don't care. The ongoing success of A.J. Pierzynski doesn't really hurt anyone per se but it is a blow to human decency and the Greater Good.
I don't want to see A.J. Pierzynski succeed. Instead, I'd like to see him try and catch a Brandon Morrow four-seamer with his spine. I want every sentence that includes "Pierzynski" and "head's up" to also feature the words "his own ass." Go away A.J. Leave here and never come back.
Retire to the White Sox broadcast booth where you and Hawk Harrelson can create a vortex of douchebaggery so strong it will tear the space-time continuum forever. I don't care if all that we see around us ceases to be, just stop playing baseball on my television set.
Images courtesy of Empty Easel