Categories
NERDING DAY

Nerding Day: The King’s Daughter

The King’s Daughter is a new movie starring Pierce Brosnan. That sentence is almost not true, for reasons I will explain. But here’s what’s true: Pierce Brosnan plays France’s King Louis XIV, on a quest to gain immortality by killing a mermaid during an eclipse. You know: the standard plot of a film called ā€œThe King’s Daughterā€.

Why did I watch this? Especially after I showed the trailer to Brockway and Seanbaby, and they both told me it put them to sleep? I watched this because I’m a perma-fan of Pierce Brosnan. He played James Bond while I was impressionable. That role imprinted him on me. I was a duckling, and he was my mother duck, outrunning a space laser. After taking a look back at Brosnan’s pre-Bond action movie about terrorist spontaneous human combustions, I wondered what he is up to lately. IMDb said this movie came out in January of 2022. That date is the doorway to an astoundingly cursed production history.

But let’s start with the regular-bad stuff. This is a movie about King Louis XIV trying to murder a mermaid because that will give him immortality powers. In real life, King Louis XIV was famous, influential, father of at least a dozen kids, and the longest-reigning monarch in world history. That’s a fascinating person! In real life! This movie takes that fascinating Frenchy, casts Irish James Bond to play him, and makes fake mermaid-murder his whole deal. That’s ridiculous! It’s like if the people making Lincoln (2012) threw out their history books, and depicted Abraham Lincoln as… oh I dunno, what would be cryptozoological and make no sense? Oh I know! A vampire hunter. Yeah, a vampire hunter. (Okay between you and me, I do know about Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter (also 2012!), because I saw it opening week in a theater. But please don’t tell anyone I did that.) 

Anyway The King’s Daughter should be titled something wilder. Sort of like how Twilight should be Sparkly Sexy Vampire Teens! with a third movie called SSVT!3: The Hyper-Baby. Once you go as fantastical/silly as these movies do, it doesn’t matter how famous your cast is or how competently somebody held the camera. It’s a B-movie about monster-love. And in The King’s Daughter, his daughter is the least interesting character.

Here’s the exciting stuff: King Brosnan commands a sea captain to catch a mermaid. The captain does that, and stores her in a Disneyland boat ride-lookin’ cave, situated under the Palace of Versailles. The movie’s cast proceeds to rave about the incredibleness of said mermaid…

…in between making plans to de-bone that sucker, because if they kill her during a solar eclipse, her golden healing powers will burst out of her and something something something. 

King Louis XIV and his science flunky believe this will turn Louis immortal. And you know what? I’m open to it! As a story, anyway. The dark, hardcore version of that might be good. The dark, hardcore version is an award-winning novel. This movie adapted The Moon And The Sun, a novel by Vonda N. McIntyre that won the 1997 Nebula Award, beating a field that included George R.R. Martin’s A Game Of Thrones. According to skimming its Wikipedia, McIntyre’s book features the mermaid vowing vengeance on humanity, the Pope being an asshole, and a clever scheming dwarf becoming a key adviser to the king. I know that last thing sounds like Tyrion Lannister from Game Of Thrones. Frankly the whole thing sounds like Game Of Thrones, in a good way. It sounds better than this glossy movie about a perky princess who’s obsessed with her cello.

Background: they almost turned this book into a movie back in 1999, starring Natalie Portman (!) and made by Jim Henson (!!!!). Henson’s name reminds me this type of premise can work, if you go full Labyrinth with your vision and creativity. This movie lacks Labyrinth-itude… except for one scene they kind of stole from Labyrinth. There’s a big set piece where our unhinged nobleman does seductive ballroom dancing with the much much younger lead actress.

That’s way creepier here, though, because the male nobleman is the girl’s *father*. That’s creepy! That’s obviously creepy to everyone, right? Wrong. The makers of this film packed this thing with scenes where Pierce Brosnan has ~chemistry~ with The King’s Daughter Who Is His Daughter. Which is…a choice! For example, they could meet all kinds of ways. Their first meeting is her falling into a fountain, coming out soaking wet, and him giving her Bond Eyes about it.

After that, he makes her his royal composer, which means she sits outside his bedchamber window in a gown every morning.

He also hand-draws a portrait of her, while telling her he sent his agents to investigate what she likes.

Then they do the aforementioned sexy waltzing. Then he summons her to his sitting room, and dictates her entrance with step-by-quivering-step rules. It’s kind of royal and kind of ā€˜Fifty Shades’.

Then when he arranges her marriage to a rich guy, he lets her burst into his bedroom… 

…so he can tell her the news while one inch away from her earlobe.

I thiiiink I know what they’re going for here? They’re going for ā€œshe reminds him a lot of her mom, who he used to boink.ā€ Our Greatest Living Thespian (Pierce Brosnan) does a slight variation on this, playing it as ā€œhe’s gonna boink his own daughter, boink boink boink, all nuit long.ā€ It ends up becoming kind of the main thing in this movie – even though this is a movie where King Louis XIV of France hunts a mermaid. Also I see how Pierce got there! He got there because he read the script, and saw lines like this:

She says that to a priest! Anyway, there are a ton of other scenes where The King’s Daughter pursues the movie’s on-purpose romance. She falls in love with a sea pirate guy. It’s boring. There is one funny element, which is that the sea pirate guy lives in a lighthouse, with a roommate.

Also they walk to this lighthouse from Versailles. If I’m mapping that right, his lighthouse is more than 100 miles from the sea. Now that you know the one funny geography thing, you can skip these scenes. No sparks. She has less chemistry with the sea pirate than with her father. And who can blame her? Her father is played by Pierce Brosnan. Surprise: I can blame her. The sea pirate actor is played by her future real-life husband.

Meanwhile, holy moly, there’s a friggin’ mermaid under the Palace of Versailles. You would think more of the movie would be about that. This mermaid movie does not know what to do with its mermaid. So they keep her in the movie by making The King’s Daughter take sudden, unmotivated dives into her pool.

One dive is because The King’s Daughter has a Horse Injury, and the mermaid heals it. Other dives are for funsies, I think. Honestly, I can’t remember all the specifics of this movie. It’s got a spazzy flow to it, in a way I can’t screencap. It hops from scene to scene without letting anything matter. Example: midway through, The King’s Daughter is being kept in her room by a guard. She laments that she’s as much of a prisoner as the mermaid. She laments this half a moment before climbing out a window and escaping easily.

This feeling maxes out in the movie’s climax. King Pierce is on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Below him: the mermaid, who swam to the ocean from Versailles (116 miles), because the King’s Daughter spun a big wooden wheel that messed with the palace plumbing and funneled her out. Don’t worry about it. Point is, she says King Pierce only cares about himself, because his guys are lined up to kill the mermaid with their guns once the eclipse starts. He begs her to notice that he’s changed. He is no longer the selfish immortality-seeking king he once was.

Then, twenty-eight seconds later, he tells his guys to kill the mermaid.

Is this a devilish switcheroo? Did he do this after obtaining something or other, by being crafty? No. The movie just kind of does both personalities in one scene. On the issue of mermaid murder, he ā€œDuck Season! / Wabbit Season!ā€s himself. Oops! Oh well. Then he doesn’t shoot the mermaid and everyone lives happily ever after. Also, the final scene of the movie is The King’s Daughter in an ocean rowboat. She jumps into the ocean, reaches a depth of maybe eight feet, and discovers The Entire City Of Atlantis. This event gets described by a pop song’s lyrics, and by a narrator who is (no joke) Dame Julie Andrews.

I would talk about the scenes of the movie more, but there’s a much more cursed lore awaiting us in reality. The mere release date of this movie is a nightmare. Because this came out in 2022… and this got filmed in 2014. Your math is correct: this film was released eight years after they shot it. Eight years of aging, on a secluded shelf, like a pretty alright wine or an almost-Laphroaig. As a Brosnan Freak, I noticed this time warp immediately. I know Pierce’s face like the back of my own hand – and to me, Pierce looked way too freakin’ great for [uses Google to triple-check Pierce Brosnan’s 2022 age, because it sounds like a joke, but is not a joke, it’s the actual age number I’m working with here] sixty-nine.

This time warp is even weirder for other cast members. Such as William Hurt. Here he is, in this movie, playing King Brosnan’s favorite priest.

Within the eight year limbo of not releasing this movie, Hurt made four Marvel movies, four TV shows, and other stuff. A couple months after it released, he died. Guess what ended up on the top of his IMDb page, forever?

On the other end of the death/life spectrum, let’s take another gander at this film’s (legal) romantic leads:

These randos get most of the non-Brosnan screen time. You may know Kaya Scodelario from Skins or The Maze Runner. Let’s pretend I don’t know Benjamin Walker, the male lead, from his title role in Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter. Let’s pretend I spend my time super well, actually. Anyway, according to IMDb’s trivia section, these two sweeties had their first real-life kiss in their pretend scenes for this movie. According to People.com, they’re now a married couple with two children. That means they made *a family* faster than this movie made its debut.

Why did this movie take so long to come out? We all know the usual reason: badness! That is one reason here. But this movie is more than bad. It’s also two significant financial crimes. Any bad movie with famous-ish cast members still plops onto VOD within a couple years. This movie decayed far longer, because in two separate ways, it defrauded the country of China. Surprise! This story involves China, a lot.

Sorry, China. You are a large country that Hollywood wants to reach. Some movies do that by thoughtfully incorporating China’s fascinating culture, lengthy history, or talented artists. This movie cast one Chinese actor as a trick to score Chinese financing for half their budget. This is who they cast, and who they played.

That last screencap contains all of Fan Bingbing’s dialogue in this movie. I’m not joking. I wish I were joking! She plays a mermaid who communicates with THE KING’S DAUGHTER through telepathic made-up mermaid words and telepathic music-noises. Which is bonkers, because holy cow, they booked Fan Bingbing! The most famous actress in China! A performer who Vanity Fair calls China’s equivalent of Nicole Kidman plus Julia Roberts plus Jennifer Lawrence plus Sandra Bullock. She’s so famous, I’ve only ever seen one Chinese TV drama, and it co-stars Fan Bingbing. But she’s so CGI’d up, I didn’t even recognize her. And she spends this movie trapped in a cave under the Palace of Versailles, in a non-speaking role, because the producers wanted to swindle enough Chinese cash to rent out The Actual Palace Of Versailles.

They wasted Fan Bingbing to scam foreign funding. To me, that is fraud! And to the Chinese public, Fan Bingbing is a different fraud. Because apparently this movie shot in 2014 was set for release in 2015. It got delayed for normal reasons (lamenting its badness, finishing special effects). It got extra delayed because they recut the whole thing and hired Julie Andrews to tack on narration. Then this got mega-delayed by the biggest scandal in Chinese entertainment history. Because the producers were going to cash in on this movie, and pay for Julie Andrews’s diamond-encrusted Blue Yeti or whatever, by doing a massive release in China in 2018. But in 2018, a talk show host accused Fan Bingbing of tax evasion. That snowballed into house arrest, government surveillance, an order to pay $131 million in back taxes, and new national laws capping the pay of all Chinese movie actors. And China is different from the United States. Its people do not celebrate tax evasion as life’s greatest IQ test. The furor about this meant no one in China wanted to see a Fan Bingbing movie. The next best sales pitch of ā€œmermaid period drama starring Pierce Brosnan?ā€ did not work in any country. I’m pretty sure this only came out at all because COVID shut down the production of better movies for a while. Without that pipeline gap, I doubt we’d ever have seen this boring, confusing movie where a French lady does a cello jam session with a scam mermaid.

So there you have it. This movie stinks and its stinkiness achieved layers. And if there’s one thing I’m surer of than ever, it’s that my main man Pierce will entertain me, one way or another. Because this movie/story sure did. Entertainment! That’s the Brosnan Guarantee(ā„¢)! Use promo code ā€œDDOGGZZONNEZā€ for a 10% stronger Brosnantee when you pre-order tickets to Mamma Mia 3. I know I will!*

*I might not.

Categories
LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: The Great Grapefruit CONK 🌭

Baseball is a fun sport. That’s its only goal. So I love discovering situations where it blew past that goal and became confusing nightmares. More like ā€œtake me out OF the ball gameā€, amirite? Ha ha ha. Ha ha! That phrase references ā€œTake Me Out To The Ball Gameā€, a song every baseball fan knows by heart. I know that song better than the other song they play at baseball games, even though ā€œthe other songā€ is the U.S. national anthem. By the way, ā€œTake Me Out To The Ball Gameā€ was written 114 years ago. That’s weird. That is maybe too old. Much like baseball itself, ā€œTake Me Out To The Ball Gameā€ is a national modern institution *and* a lingering Victorian ghost.

Speaking of hauntings: baseball’s mascots can be haunted. Its children’s literature can be propaganda for a space alien. And its marketing stunts can be…the topic of this column. In 1915, at spring training, the Brooklyn Dodgers attempted one fun marketing stunt. That’s all. One li’l goof, for the ā€˜gram (as in ā€œtelegramā€).

If that stunt went well, or fine, or badly, I wouldn’t write it up. But that stunt achieved bone-chilling singularity. It took so many wrong turns, and got so far out of hand, it made the Brooklyn Dodgers’ manager think he’d been murdered.

That’s him. Due to a promotional stunt for the Brooklyn Dodgers, that manager thought he got murdered. Even though he came out of the stunt unharmed! No wounds. No broken bones. That fifty-something cherub-man lived another twenty years. He survives this story, even though this is a story from 1915. 1915 is peak Reckless Old-Timey Times. Stories from 1915 are supposed to end in needless death, as a basic courtesy to the reader. As a standard treat. A memento mori mint-on-pillow. However: this guy did *think* he got murdered. Which matters! I have to imagine that experience… sticks with you.

Do you like sports, Dear Reader? Well even if you have zero interest in sports, I think you should hear some baseball stories. They’re fun, because they’re pretty universally weird. Why’s that? Baseball fans love stats. Probably too much. As a result, baseball players are the most over-observed men in world history. American baseball is a longterm nationwide chronicle of almost a thousand players (or more than a few thousand, if you include the minor leagues) spending 200+ days per year doing sports (i.e. goofing around). And because baseball people love baseball stats, a legion of geeks recorded *every event* of that history. Every game, every lineup, every other journalism they can journal. The resulting corpus of stats, statements, and screwin’-around is unique. It’s our most asinine annual record of how strange it is to play baseball – and more fundamentally, how strange it is to be alive.

Baseball stories are a parade of impossibilities, verified by eyewitnesses and videotape. One time a pitcher obliterated a dove. An outfielder’s throw bullseyed a seagull. A batter hit what should’ve been an easy out, but the ball bonked off a pigeon for a double. I know that’s a lot of bird stuff. Bird stuff is my favorite tip of this iceberg. Baseball guys do clumsy, scabby, druggy, swappy stuff that’s so mind-boggling it sounds fake. They’ve done it since the late 1800s. And I love knowing all of it. I don’t know what happens when an infinite number of monkeys use typewriters. I do know what happens when more than twenty thousand guys contest a children’s game a quarter million times. They generate a Shakespeare’s worth of masculine time-wasting. It’s very stupid, in the ways anything wall-to-wall male is stupid. Honestly that’s part of why this column’s story is worth telling. It’s both a top baseball story *and* the rare baseball story involving a woman.

This story happened in 1915, in Florida, and it centers on a grapefruit. I once made an episode of my good podcast about grapefruit. I wanted to learn grapefruit’s whole deal. As it turns out, their whole deal is they’re freaks. And relatively new freaks. Grapefruit exist today thanks to an orgy of citrus cross-pollination in the 1700s. In the 1820s, a French guy brought some’a them freaks from the Caribbean to Florida. Grapefruit thrived in Florida, as all freaks do. Florida became our top grapefruit-growing state. It also feels right, to me, that Florida is king of the only fruit with a purpose-built murder-spoon.

To top all this off, Florida is home to ā€œThe Grapefruit Leagueā€. The Grapefruit League is an annual baseball practice round. A bunch of pro teams send their guys there to play ā€œspring trainingā€ games. That’s right: these teams put their childish grown men in Florida, in March (SPRING BREAK WOOOO), to play even-lower-pressure childrens’ games than usual. 

Bonus story: baseball’s other spring league is called ā€œThe Cactus Leagueā€, because it’s held in Desert Florida. One time a Cactus League player got injured by a literal cactus. I love that story on its own. I also love it as ~foreshadowing~ for the Grapefruit League tale I’ll now tell.

On March 13th, 1915, Wilbert Robinson was the pretty-new manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers. Mr. Robinson was well-liked. So well-liked, they re-named the team in his honor. On this day ā€œThe Brooklyn Robinsā€ were in Florida, practicing baseball, and side-hustling for promotional juice. They wanted to do a fun marketing stunt! So they arranged a stunt where aviatrix Ruth Law – a woman! – would fly her plane into the air, and toss a baseball to Wilbert Robinson from the sky. He’d catch it. And then…marketing! Because like every other atom of baseball, somebody would write it down. (Also the authorities needed more information, for apprehending that freewheeling gal.)

Wilbert was the obvious target for this marketing stunt. And I know, this ā€œmarketing stuntā€ sounds more like an assassination attempt made entirely out of toys. Either way, Wilbert was the team manager. He was the team’s face and namesake. He was also a former star baseball player, who played the position literally named ā€œcatcher.ā€ If anybody could catch(er) a ball, it was this Wilbert fella.

This planned baseball marketing stunt required a baseball. However, before the plane took off, ā€œhere is a baseballā€ became ā€œhey we found a grapefruit let’s huck that at him instead.ā€ How this happened is up for debate. Some say Law forgot to bring a ball to the airfield. Some say her colleague thought a grapefruit would be funnier. In the end, nobody knows. This takeoff was not a baseball game. It lacked a note-taking Nerd Gallery. What we do have a record of is the nerd-thronged Dodgers/Robins ballfield. That’s where Wilbert Robinson stood, glove skyward, ready to catch a sphere thrown from a miracle (an aeroplane!) by a miracle (an unaccompanied woman!?).

Here is ESPN’s account of what happened next:

I doublechecked this. Another source (The Society For American Baseball Research) says the same. This guy got hit with a grapefruit instead of a baseball. It pulped his ass up. And for multiple entire seconds, he thought that copious reddish sploosh was his innards. He thought most of his blood was Old Faithful-ing onto an infield. He thought he’d gushed a gallon or two, in an era when blood transfusions were new technology, and Florida’s chief infrastructure was “look at this swamp I found.” Imagine the doctors of 1915 Florida. Imagine that. When I try, I picture Wilford Brimley in Hard Target, but with a hospital blazing to the ground behind him. Anyway good Florida-imagining everybody. Now imagine 1915 Brooklyn. Are you imagining an electric trolley, scattering townsfolk in its murderous path? Good. That was the real situation there. It was the origin of the name ā€œBrooklyn Dodgers.ā€ So when the Dodge-Robins planned this fun spring-swamp goof that gave their beloved patriarch a near-death experience, it probably stress-stacked atop his New York terminal brushes. Also hey, remind me, what was the last line of that ESPN story again?

Yeah! That’s what happened. All his– 

…yes, thanks Wilbert. All–

Wilbert! No one cares! Or at least no one cared back then, probably. The modern concept of ā€œPTSDā€ wasn’t codified ā€˜til the 1960s. Our 1915 mental health care system was saloons. And this 1915 event shared newspaper space with World War Friggin’ One. Those guys died. Wilbert Robinson did not die. Or at least, he did not DIE-die. But he did ā€œdieā€, for a few moments, in his own mind. That experience sticks with you! You don’t breeze past it! I’m amazed Robinson returned to New York City to manage ballgames. He should’ve returned, put clown stuff on, and dumped stuff in the water supply. Which was a perfect crime, then. Water was colorful, then. Plus once Wilbert got on that clown makeup, how would anyone know he’d Joker-fied? In 1915, *every* clown looked malevolent.

Anyway: Wilbert lived. He thrived. He managed his way into the Hall Of Fame. His Robins/Dodgers played that whole 1915 season. Also they played it at this stadium, near my current Brooklyn apartment. I found out I live close to that site by accident. I was trying to drop off our recycling, and I missed a turn, and I ended up seeing *the most* Jackie Robinson murals. What are the chances? Also in the 1950s, that Dodgers franchise moved out of Brooklyn, to a much more haunted stadium in Los Angeles. One of the few times I’ve been there, I saw a no-hitter in person. What are the chances? Why am I pursued by Dodgers-based improbabilities? How am I the main character of a whimsical, multiregional, not-even-my-favorite-team Final Destination?

But hey, maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe that’s all random. It’s less likely than a baseball bird-death. It’s more probable than Ruth Law’s sky-ball turning out to be a grapefruit. But it’s weird. And it’s mine. And it’s the type of oddity that keeps bringing me back to this sport slash historical phenomenon slash psychological experiment. So I will continue to take myself out to the ball game…no matter how probably-haunted the music gets.

Alex Schmidt makes Secretly Incredibly Fascinating, which is a good podcast. LISTEN TO IT IMMEDIATELY.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Jeff Orasky, who was once playfully murdered by the Portland Trailblazers to promote logging safety.

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NERDING DAY

Nerding Day: The Dilbert Future

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LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: Alex Rodriguez’s Children’s Book

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LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: The Cursed Lore of Southpaw 🌭

Hi! I’d like to introduce you to ā€œSouthpaw.ā€ He is the mascot of the Chicago White Sox.

He is also a gateway to 125+ years of cursed lore.

A little housekeeping up top: I like Southpaw just fine. He is green and besnouted and joyful. The lady inside the suit seems nice. Also I mean it both ways when I say I like Southpaw just fine. He’s unmemorable. He’s derivative. He’s not a pioneering weird mascot (San Diego Chicken, 1974) or avant garde mascot (Phillie Phanatic, 1978) or ironic ā€œanti-mascotā€ (San Francisco Giants “Crazy Crab”, 1984). Southpaw premiered in 2004, long after the era of mainstream mascot innovation. He also premiered before the era of proletarian mascot revolution (Philadelphia Flyers ā€œGrittyā€, 2018) and dystopian mascot annihilation (see below).

Southpaw lacks those ambitions/ammunitions. He is here to make a few kids happy. That’s all most mascots want…I hope. I did google ā€œyiffingā€ once, because somebody said that word around me once and I’m compelled to understand all things. Why did I look into it? Because I love discovering why things are, to pull a random phrase, “secretly incredibly fascinating.” Anyway I’ve now grokked ā€œyiffā€. And I don’t know every mascot’s heart. But Southpaw seems like he’s on the ā€œMuppets (Tame Division)ā€ end of the Sexual Fabric-Being spectrum.

And for most people, that’s all there is to Southpaw. They think that set of thoughts about him (that ENTIRE EXACT set of thoughts about him) and move on. But if you’re me, you self-impose a quest of pointless discovery. You learn Southpaw is a doorway into these four astounding tales of accursed baseball mascots.

I’m a lifelong Chicago White Sox fan. When I lived in the region, I went to games in person. And when Southpaw came onto the scene, he gently gaslit every adult I knew. Here’s why: the Chicago White Sox began existing in 1901. People got used to a certain White Sox routine over that century. 2004 was also a much different media time from today. Newspapers and television had bigger, Bush-ier fish to fry. ā€œThe Facebookā€ was Ivy Co-eds Exclusive. Phone camera resolution was on the ā€œGrainy Bigfoot Photoā€ step of the tech tree.

So most adults I knew weren’t forewarned about the White Sox marketing department’s new schemes. They got no warning. A sudden green weirdo up and Kool Aid Man’d their ball games. And they grappled with questions: Who was this mascot? Why was this mascot? And most terrifying: had this mascot always been there? Like in that famous psychology experiment where subjects watched a video where a gorilla walks through the frame and most subjects missed the gorilla? Grown White Sox fans wondered that. They wondered if green mascots were always there, throughout their lives, surrounding them like endless fuzzy ā€˜The Matrix’ code.

By the way, I handled this fine. In 2004, I was a child. I felt barraged with new characters/experiences/Iraq Wars every day. But for adults discovering him, Southpaw sparked at least a few questions about memory and reality. Which rules. Because – in case anyone forgot – Southpaw is a mascot. A trifle. A sports clown.

Speaking of sports clowns, do you wonder why Southpaw could become the White Sox mascot? Why was the gig open? Why wasn’t there a fuzzy incumbent? Admittedly, there’s one good reason you might not have wondered this. You might know many baseball teams lack mascots, for old-fashioned crust-assedness reasons. Pre-20th century America lacked a fursona industrial complex, and that’s when many baseball teams began.

But the 20th century White Sox’s asses were the most crust-free. They strapped their scoreboard full of fireworks. They created the most radical Sports Illustrated cover of all time. They even tried wearing shorts (a HUGE baseball no-no, and an impossible garment if one’s ass is becrusted). The White Sox tried to be more fun than every other team in the league. Naturally, they attracted a team mascot. In fact, they attracted… [ominous voice] …too many team mascots. [ominous ballpark pipe organ]

From their beginnings to the 1970s, the White Sox had no official mascot. And nature abhors a mascot vacuum. So a kind fan named “Andy The Clown” started showing up to games, dressed as a clown, to bring children joy for free. SouthSideSox.com documents what happened next: ballpark ticket takers let Andy The Clown enter without paying. Andy’s legend grew.

At one game, Andy sat in the Mayor Of Chicago’s lap, as a joke – a joke I also assume made him Temporary Super Mayor. And then in 1980 (Peak Andy), White Sox team ownership launched a multi-front war against him. They ordered ballpark staff to start charging Andy for game tickets. And they introduced two official mascots, specifically to supersede Andy. Their chosen fuzz-thugs were “Ribbie” and “Roobarb”, a pair of Phillie Phanatic Phnock-offs.

Between the cruelty to Andy, and the Pinkerton-icity of Ribbie and Roobarb, the fanbase revolted. Fans protested. And this was an era when you could only contact someone by calling their corded phone, writing them a letter, or running into them at your local music-burning rally. Despite those Stone Age communication limitations, White Sox fans ran a protest on behalf of a gentle clown. The team buckled. The team temporarily let Andy back in. Then they reneged in 1991. Andy opted to purchase tickets, and continue clowning at his own expense, until 1995…when he died. Fans also never liked Ribbie and Roobarb, regardless of their motivations. They hounded & harassed those two until the team junked them in 1988. And remember: this entire conflict happened in the field of sports mascoting. There was a fans versus team, David versus Goliath power struggle to determine who waved at children from out-of-bounds. And the winner…was death.

This story is quick. Also not a White Sox story. But it’s another ā€œWā€ for the reaper. 

The New York Yankees lack a mascot. That’s partly due to crust-ass-itude. (See also: the Yankees’ love of force-shaving grown men.) Here is the main reason the New York Yankees lack a mascot: they tried one, named ā€œDandyā€. And it became the biggest tragedy in mascot history.

Dandy was an initial hit, mostly because he resembled Yankees star Thurman Munson (see human above). Then, within months of Dandy’s introduction, Munson died in a plane crash. The team tried to keep Dandy going, but Dandy reminded everyone of that tragic dead guy too much. It turns out a fun sports mascot can feel like the Austrian horror film Goodnight Mommy. And that’s not the only way it can all fall apart…

…because in a more fundamental sense, a team’s mascot is its name. Names are a risk. Names change meanings! You can be minding your own business, in 1890, naming your team “the Cincinnati Reds”. And then boom: international communism happens. By 1953 you’re changing names to “the Redlegs”, even though it makes your players sound like they need Group Ointment Therapy.

Most teams do a direct 1:1 name-to-mascot. The Eagles put a guy in an eagle costume. The Bulldogs put a guy in a bulldog costume. Also the Yale University sports teams are fancy (duh) and breed real bulldogs (cute) as their puppy mascots (yikes child labor much?), complete with king-style Roman numeral’d names (a constitutional dogarchy).

So how did the White Sox get their name? In 1901, so many good animals were not taken yet! Also, a sock cannot be a mascot. Oh sure, it can be a wrestling sidekick slash caregiver. It can be a television host… in Canada. But the “White Sox” name isn’t sparked by wanting to put a guy in a sock outfit. Instead, it’s at least partly sparked by a turn-of-the-century death scare. 

Colorful socks became popular uniform gear in the late 1860s. Cleats became popular baseball gear too. Baseball cleats have metal spikes. A sliding runner can stab a defender’s legs. And in the 1900s/1910s, a false medical concern started going around the league. People worried sock dye could get into a cleat wound, and cause an infection, and kill the player. No players died of this false belief. But people panicked anyway. As a result, “sanitary” white socks became popular league-wide. The White Sox uniforms emphasized theirs. And because of that celebration of a solution to a fake problem, the team lacks an easy-to-mascotify name. 

Which brings us to today. Southpaw is the shrug at the end of more than a century of wondering what cartoon character best represents placebo safety laundry. And honestly? That makes him more fun to me. I’m actually finally interested in Southpaw now. Because while others dismiss him on websites like Reddit.com:

…you and I are here, on the best website, knowing Southpaw is [the title of Alex’s podcast].