I'm No Economist, but...

Some things are recession proof; like, say, groceries. "Slumdog Millionaire" ticket sales. Michael Phelp's pot dealer.

Add to the list the New York Yankees, who shelled out hundreds of millions in the off-season to only ensure an unholy, merciless walloping upon the rest of the majors. Even men's fashion grail GQ took note: "As the world collapses, the New York Yankees unveil a billion-dollar stadium and $423.5 million in fresh talent. What are they smoking?"

Donald Trumpian salaries in recession-era athletics have become an increasingly noticeable topic in the sports lexicon; this morning, for example, Mike and Mike discussed whether or not athletes should more cautiously tap their piggy banks during tough times. I didn't listen to the debate, but I'll assume that fan sensitivity fuels such a debacle. To me, power-brokers - er, powerhouses - such as the Yankees are impervious to such debates because while the rest of the world's fiscal ankles break under the ever-weakening monetary crutch (i.e. the global economy), the greater demographic of Yankees fans - sans bleacher bums - are the Starbucks-sipping, Blackberry bearing, Wallstreet whizkids who flock Yankee Stadium's lower bowl. And while the Bronx certainly isn't the epitome of white collar, there's certainly enough upper Manhattan capital to parallel Steinbrenner and co's neo-Gatsby spending.

As far as dysfunctional dichotomies go, look no further than the Tigers. If there's any city that most likely misses the early 2000's dot com boom, it's Detroit; it's baseball team, however, looks more W.A.S.P. than U.A.W. In theory, it would seem audiences more enthusiastically follow a team with whose persona they can identify: the city gushes over the Pistons and Wed Rings, whom exemplify a certain grit common to any blue-collar metropolis such as the greater Detroit area. True, the Tigers turned down the heat during the hot stove weeks, but Magglio, Dontrelle, and Cabrera still reek of Washingtons. Not to mention that the power-pitching, big-bat philosophy hardly can match the scrappy style of the two aforementioned Detroit clubs.

Obviously, the Tigers won't be breaking any attendance records this year, and while this is in part due to lack of ticket affordability, it seems to also branch into consumer concern: that is, do the non-recession proof fans care to connect with a team that most likely houses bottomless wallets (not to be confused with Joel Zumaya's bottomless appetite- rumor has it that ol' Joel' showed up to camp twenty pounds overweight)? Perhaps foreclosed houses=foreclosed fans.

The Detroit Tigers are Decadent and Depraved

While many cyber-laureates of the blogosphere – like, most specifically, my half-crazed colleague Kenneth R. Haddad – boobishly bubble over the Detroit Tigers’ “optimistic” 2009 prospects, I cannot help but half-heartedly crawl into an isolated corner – whichever one A-Rod’s inhabiting – at the thought of the calamities about to be conceived in Comerica Park this summer.

Admittedly, the pitching staff has improved; by comparison, though, the addition of Edwin Jackson will look sterling when Dontrelle Willis has an ERA higher than Michael Phelps, Jeremy Bonderman spends half the season in an iron-lung (or cast for whatever he did to himself), and Todd Jone’s columns for the Detroit Free Press get more press time than his sub-par statistics. Save for Verlander, the Tigers’ pitching arsenal is like Cynthia Rodriguez’s collection of Madonna paraphernalia: lacking.

Even more pitiful, perhaps, is the catching corps: Gerald Lair? Matt Treanor?? Dusty Ryan??? Not even a steady progression of question marks can capture the vapidity of the aforementioned trio. Everyone knows that Pudge’s ego was more inflated than his steroid-based stats, but at least he provided solid defense and leadership behind the plate. Laird developed a somewhat reputable name while with the Rangers (not the ice-skating variety of New York); unfortunately, the same cannot be said for Matt Treanor –who’s better known for his marriage to Misty May Treanor – and Dusty Ryan, who, up until this point, has yet to be acquainted with baseball.

And hopefully Jim Leyland was fired during the writing of previous paragraphs.
Perhaps most optimistic is the outfield, anchored by the face of franchise (not you, Rodney)- Curtis Granderson. Magglio still has three or four years of solid production, but it would be foolish to think he’s not shopping for a better situation outside the 313. The biggest question mark is Carlos Guillen, who, despite having been an All Star in his own rite, has yet to be tested outside of the infield. Put in Sheff, or, as he’s commonly known in culinary circles, Gary.

Bottom line: start buying tickets to the Shock. Because the Tigers certainly won’t be making a playoff run.

(above: bad tiger; below: good tiger)

III

Part Deux

Modern Art