Friday, May 25, 2007

GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS

As I walked down Third Avenue towards The Back Page and the SNY viewing party, I passed a nail salon. I looked at my nails, sighed, and reached a conclusion.
Zoe was waiting for me out front, pink cap and all.
“I have a brilliant idea,” I announced.
“Yes?”
“A nail salon with big screen tv’s… showing the baseball game. Or the football game. Or the basketball game.”
Zoe gave me her adorable frown.
“It’s a bar?”
“We could also serve drinks.”
“Guys can come too?”
“They could, but it’s more of a chick place.”
“You want to open a salon?”
“No, I want *someone else* to open it so I can go there. I need a manicure, but I hate girlie crap and want to watch the damn game. Can’t I multi-task?”
Luckily, Coop showed up a few minutes later, someone bought me a beer, and the game started shortly after that.

There were a fair number of women at the SNY party last night, and they weren’t pink hat girls or seat-warmers (my favorite term for the girlfriend who is brought along to sit in the prime concert seat but doesn’t know anything, at all, about the band, the boyfriend claiming that he’s “converting” her). They were girls who wanted to watch the game at the bar with other Mets fans.

But there were other girls there. I believe the polite term is “hootchie mama”. I am sure they are perfectly nice girls. I am also sure that many of them possess a high IQ. I could go off on a feminist rant about women needing to parade around in bikinis in a sports bar to make decent money, or show almost as much cleavage as you’d see in a strip club to tend bar.

(I would say something like, “I can hear you all now, saying, ‘What’s wrong with that?’” But I like to hope that the average MG reader is not your average icky guy.)

We wondered why the Hawaiian Tropic girls weren’t giving us copies of their dvd or their post card set. Zoe, in particular, was irked at this discriminatory treatment.
“Try telling them that you’re a lesbian,” I suggested, helpfully.
That suggestion didn’t go over so well.
She was also up in arms that the hootchie mamas all had Mets tshirts. Now, they managed to take a perfectly fine t-shirt and cut it up so that any, um, wasted fabric was eliminated.
“I want one.”
“They’re for hootchies.”
“But Mets fans should get them too! I’m going to get one.” And with that, she stomped off, leaving me to try to watch Glavine pitch. I gave up, and followed the girls.
“You have to answer a trivia question,” said the keeper of the t-shirts.
“But did those girls answer a question?” asked Z, indignant.
“They’re our models.”
I rolled my eyes, but refrained from comment.
“Okay, here’s a question: Who are the catchers for the Mets?”
At first Zoe looked confused, as though it was a trick question, and then she realized that it was a gimme. But, she answered, and received her shirt.
“How about a *real* question,” I demanded.
“Sure. Who is the manager for the Mets, and where did he start his major-league career?”
Fair enough. And I didn’t know that Willie started in Pittsburgh, but-- fair enough, I didn’t know, I didn’t get a shirt, fair and square.

But back to the game. This was a first for me, out at the sports bar, watching the game with baseball-crazy girlfriends. And for almost the entire time (except for the occasional Betty Friedan moment), we were talking about the game.  Bemoaning our inability to get any runs in. Bemoaning our inability to hit very much, at all. Bemoaning our inability to deny John Smoltz his 200th win. Cursing at various umpires. Me yelling “DON’T THROW EQUIPMENT” at David Wright, not wanting a very good chance for a hit to get ejected.

And then there was the moment that we degenerated into three girls showing each other pictures of our cats. (You know? Shut up. What do YOU talk about when the Mets are losing?)

Listen, I know the target audience for SNY are going to appreciate the Hawaiian Tropic girls and the hootchie mamas, but I think, still, that the cliche might just be overused and overtired. I’m not lobbying for anyone to change the lyrics to “Meet The Mets” to be more inclusive (and a bigger crock of hooey I have never heard), but I somehow think that you could have had prizes and giveaways and sponsors that were appealing to everyone. As Zoe said, ”Hey, SNY, I watch too.” To be honest, TBF and I had discussed going to the bar together, before the girls organized the evening, and when I mentioned the Hawaiian Tropic girls, he said, “Oh. Yeah. No, we’re not going.”
Zoe joked about a male stripper, but I don’t need that.
What about Mr. Met?
What about someone from SNY, like, say, Chris Cotter?
I mean, you could be creative, and make it an attraction without just resorting to, well, boobies.
(Sorry, I had to say it.)