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Stealing bases and talking balls at Thieves Tavern 

Wednesday, Apr 12 2006
Here is where feminism screwed up: It went from the right to go braless and demand equal pay to becoming a mode of study in higher education. This means that every year academics must come up with new angles on the topic that haven't been taken before, which means that the scholarly gaze moves from social history to the deconstruction of abstract concepts, simply because professors have run out of material. For example, let's take the "patriarchy of baseball." If we look at it through the eyes of the feminist intelligentsia, here's what we might see:

Casey's at bat, holding his big penis and giving it a few practice swipes to show off its tumescence and size. The pitcher is on the mound (standing on top of the hump, which is of course a veiled reference to the Mount of Venus found on the female genitalia, symbolizing the dominance of the male gender). The pitcher throws the ball (testicle/semen) to the penis and it lands in the catcher's mitt, which is a vagina. The vagina can't handle all that virility and must therefore expel the semen rapidly back to the pitcher. Etc., etc., and so forth.

I actually got into all this stuff in college — not because I bought any of it, but because it was fun to try and re-create entire truths about stupid things. Heck, that's why I went into journalism.

There are some things I buy about feminism, though, and one is how women use language differently than men. If a man isn't good at something he will talk about it differently than a woman would. Instead of admitting that he's no good at it, he says, "I don't like to sail" or "I don't like to cook." We don't question his ability to cook, we just say, ah, he doesn't like it. But women tend to claim stuff like, "I can't sail for shit," or "I can't cook at all," instead of "I don't like it."

Well, fellow Daughters of the Sacred Yoni, I am going to break the mold by proclaiming the following: "I don't like sports." I don't like playing them, reading about them, or watching them. Coincidentally I am also very bad at them, but that's just the patriarchy in me.

Some male friends thought it might be a good fish-out-of-water story to have me show up at the Thieves Tavern on 20th St. in the Mission while an A's game was in full effect. I agreed to come, knowing that if I got bored I could catch up on some needlework or fetch the lads ale when their steins got low.

First of all, let me say that the Thieves Tavern is littered with phallic symbols, from the pool tables to the ravenous menfolk burrowing into long, fat burritos from El Farolito next door. A group of guys were sitting behind us playing something like Dungeons and Dragons, with cards, dice, and loads of penis imagery in the form of swords and staffs. Their play was punctuated with exclamations like "Ha! Beware my warlock juju!"

"A warlock will fuck you up like a car wreck," my friend Rob commented in mock seriousness. "Never turn your back on a warlock."

So, just to get this straight, it is lame to sit around in a cape and compete over magic pebbles and dragon's blood, but cool to run around a field in tight pants and throw things at each other.

"The A's are the indie rock of baseball," explained Garrett, who was pointing out the difference between corporate rock scum like the Giants and DIY shit like Oakland's team. "They are the underdogs," he continued. "Shitty stadium, low fan turnout, cool players."

This wisdom of course comes from guys who clap and cheer at an inert television screen in a bar.

There are a few things that saved my visit to the Thieves, besides needlework. First, the jukebox had an inordinate amount of cheese metal, like White Lion and Europe. However, note to management: Has anyone really played that Cherry Poppin' Daddies' CD in awhile? You might want to retire that selection.

The other element was the handsome bartender with the good personality, to put it in simple terms. He refused my tips and told me to put them in the jukebox, and he teased me a few times, which also sets my slot machine on jackpot. Or maybe it's just that he takes mugs (vaginas) and pokes them with taps (penises) until they are full-ta-burstin'. I dunno.

I made it to like the fourth inning before sweet, sweet thoughts of escape overcame me. The "bases" were "loaded" (cervixes infused with the potent male seed) but the road was calling. I hugged my pals goodbye — after all, men need opportunities to be nurtured, as it is not in their nature — and headed for the exit.

"Who leaves when the bases are loaded?!" the bartender yelled out to me.

I do. I am woman, hear the door. But you're still cute, dude.

About The Author

Katy St. Clair

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