the fetishists, they walk among us

I left work last night like any other night, walking northbound on State St. amongst the bustle of commuters, tourists and random wanderers. As I walked, I felt someone sidle up to me and begin to address me in the way that panhandlers sometimes do when they’re about to ask for spare change, a dollar, your kidney, etc.

If you live in Chicago, this is an unremarkable, everyday occurrence and — unless the argument is particularly compelling — you just put your “sorry, no” face on and continue walking. Which is just what I did, except the exchange didn’t exactly go as I expected.

RANDOM SLOUCHY DUDE: “Excuse me. . .”

ME: *shifts eyes to the left to assess the situation*

RANDOM SLOUCHY DUDE: “You’ve got some really nice feet.”

ME: “…”

RANDOM SLOUCHY DUDE: *continues walking up State unfazed, eating peanuts out of the bag he’s carrying*

ME: *glances down at Teva-clad feet as RSD moseys ahead* “. . .Thanks?”

People, I’m going to be completely honest here. In my 34 years of life, no one has ever — ever — looked at my feet and said anything more exalting than, “I don’t think your feet are so bad.” While it’s true they mind their own business and aren’t blatantly offensive (at least not with the toenails painted), they’d also never be considered stop-you-on-the-street-and-discuss material. At least not by anyone with functioning eyeballs.

That leaves only the conclusion that my innocent feet were fodder for some fetishist’s ogling yesterday. I’m hoping that’s where it ended, and that I don’t need to constantly check my surroundings for a slouchy dude toting lotion and a basket.

The kicker, of course, is that this creepy, seemingly genuine appraisal of my piggies caught me so off guard, it took a few moments to realize I’d missed a golden opportunity. What I should have said in that moment was: “Careful, bitch — those are DANCER’S feet!”

that’s because fozzie’s not wearing his hat

I’m re-posting this from a few years back, when I kept a blog at MySpace that exactly five people read. It’s three years later, so the birthday being celebrated is n0w 28 and the fiancée is now my sister-in-law, Claire. I’ve also updated the photo (taken this weekend) but the rest of it is almost word-for-word what I’d write today.

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Originally published June 4, 2007

My baby brother is 25 today.

If you hadn’t figured it out, he’s the furred one in the photo above — that’s him making the creepy face, um, pretty much always. Although we’re the two most lookalike of the Barnaby sibs (especially our identical eyes), his commitment to this bonkers facial hair (as well as his aversion to taming the Barnaby eyebrows) at least ensures we don’t completely look like fraternal twins.

Dan and I were staying with my grandparents when he was born, and my grandma came upstairs that morning (at 6, I was SO super cool to be able to sleep upstairs all by myself) to tell me about my new brother. When she said they’d named him ‘Adam,’ I thought that was probably just about the dumbest name I’d ever heard. How ridiculous would that sound on the Christmas cards? “Liz, Tony, Angela, Danny & Adam” ?

Clearly they had lost their minds. How would he ever fit in?

The day they brought him home I wrote in my diary: “Adam came home from the hospital today. He is little.” (My powers of observation were dizzying, truly.) From then on, he’s been my baby brother. . . Even though we fought to the death the entire time we were growing up: I once pushed him off a chair in the middle of our family’s favorite Chinese restaurant because he was being, well, himself at age 6. (I’m pretty sure that’s why they still remember us 20 years later.) And even though we still fight to the death now: Last summer, we didn’t speak for half a day after fighting over a game of Scrabble. (He was mad because I was using all the triple word squares on the board.) All of this is no doubt because we’re so damned similar — stubborn and sarcastic and defensive and ridiculously competitive and attention whores at heart.

When we’d fight, my mother would warn me to watch my back, telling me that someday he’d be bigger and stronger than me. I laughed, of course – it seemed inconceivable he’d ever grow up that much. And yet. . .

Somewhere along the line, he outgrew airplane rides (though never my demand for water piggyback rides in the lake, which always end with my dumb ass getting dunked and coughing up water).

Somewhere along the line, he became 6 feet tall. . . and started shaving. . . and became a writer. . . and went to college. . . and fell in love. . . and (god help us) got engaged.

Somewhere along the line, he grew up. Not enough to stop deliberately showing his asscrack when he leaves a room (that’s crazy talk), but enough to truly impress the hell out of me with his maturity about important shit.

Somewhere along the line, he moved to Maryland with his now-fiancée, whom I love dearly. . . and whom I try not to give too much grief for getting a job way out there.

Somewhere along the line, he became one of the smartest, funniest (if still gassiest) people I’ve ever met.

Somewhere along the line, I got so lucky as to have not just one awesome brother, but two.

Somewhere along the line, “Angela, Dan(ny) & Adam” became the only way it ever could have made sense.

Happy birthday, Oam. I miss the hell out of you — and I’m the one on the right.

dear MLB: go toward the light

Thank god for lunch (half) hours. If I didn’t get this out, I was going to explode.

In the wake of Galarraga’s stolen perfect game, there are a lot of rampant emotions, many unkind words, and a few facts:

1. Indians shortstop Jason Donald was out at first base.
2. Jim Joyce mistakenly called him safe.
3. After the fact, all rational parties (including players on both teams, Joyce, the blogosphere, Major League Baseball, both my dead grandmothers, and Donald himself) all agreed that the call was wrong.
4. MLB Commissioner Bud Selig had the opportunity to reverse the on-field call and award Galarraga the perfect game he and the Tigers had earned.
5. Selig whiffed.

Maybe it’s the hockey fan in me, maybe it’s that I spent too much time last night on Twitter. Whatever the case, I couldn’t help compare the situation unfolding in baseball with the way previous controversies have been handled in the NHL. It’s an interesting point/counterpoint study, actually. . .

On the one hand, you have the NHL, which consistently gets it wrong despite having the most advanced instant replay technology in existence — not to mention a war room of “experts” reviewing each play seconds after it happens. You have a league that upholds botched calls and clings to the fallacy that its officials are untouchable, rather than acknowledging the truth: that they’re humans trying to make 1,000 right calls each period, in a game that moves at a breakneck speed. You have officials who seem to feel empowered by the league’s protection, and who refuse to admit when they’ve blown a call — even when it makes the difference in a game, a playoff series, or a Stanley Cup.

On the other hand, you have Jim Joyce, a veteran umpire of 22 years and the unlucky guy who made the Bad Call Heard ‘Round the World. A guy who almost immediately admitted he got it wrong and expressed overwhelming sadness, remorse and shame. A guy who knows his name will forever be linked with the call and its subsequent maelstrom of controversy, even if the MLB were to overturn his on-field call and award Galarraga a perfect game. A guy who has shown nothing but class to the media, to the fans, and to the man whose moment he irrevocably (if unintentionally) stole.

Even if league commissioner Bud Selig had overturned Joyce’s call, the moment has passed. Galarraga and the Tigers will never have the cathartic moment of pure emotion and adrenaline to celebrate with each other, and with their 40,000 fans. Galarraga will always know he pitched a perfect game; the 2010 Detroit Tigers will always know they backed him up with offense and airtight fielding. But the moment of savoring just the 21st perfect game in baseball’s century-long history is gone.

Joyce knows that. He’s fully aware that in those three seconds he became the most mocked and cursed at man in baseball since Bartman donned a turtleneck and headphones. Yet he hasn’t hid behind a title or the league or his tenure; instead, he began beating himself up over it almost immediately, saying: “It was the biggest call of my career and I kicked the shit out of it. I just cost that kid a perfect game.” If you don’t feel for him at this point, then man are you dark. Refusing to hide from the repercussions of Wednesday’s call, Joyce returned to Comerica Park today as home plate umpire and teared up again when Galarraga brought him the starting lineup for a Jim Leyland-orchestrated Kodak moment. Whatever Jim Joyce has done in his umpiring life before June 2, 2010, this incident has proven he is a class act.

Human error happens. It’s part of sports, and of life, and it will never — should never — completely be eradicated. Without human error, we become a nation of automatons. It’s the ability to recognize, own up to, and respond to human error that truly shows character.

Commissioner Selig and Major League Baseball got it wrong today. Galarraga and the Tigers will have to settle for the notorious distinction of being the only team to have a perfect game spoiled by an umpire error, rather than a feat by either team. And a good man will ever-after be defined by one mistake, which is a damn shame.

Selig’s statement, while not deigning to mention his authority to reverse the rotten result, indicates changes may be on the horizon for the league: “Given last night’s call and other recent events, I will examine our umpiring system, the expanded use of instant replay and all other related features. Before I announce any decisions, I will consult with all appropriate parties, including our two unions and the Special Committee for On-Field Matters, which consists of field managers, general managers, club owners and presidents.”

Baseball fans of every stripe should pray the MLB doesn’t follow the lead of the NHL. Replays are useless if you choose to buffer bad calls with silence and excuses. If Selig and the league want to maintain baseball’s integrity, I urge them to look no further than to Galarraga, Joyce and the fans in Detroit — and the lessons are pretty straightforward: Own your mistakes. Don’t let your ego make you believe you’re bigger than the sport. And always — always — remember that leadership and sportsmanship are powerful examples that should be set by everyone involved in the game, whether player, umpire, sportscaster or fan.

“Perfect” game or no, I’m proud to be a Tigers fan today.