A Tale Of Two Parties

Two invitations found there way into our mailbox today. One from Mrs. Joan Delaney, owner of my beloved New York baseball franchise. The other from Elliott Pollock, commissioner of my beloved game of baseball. Both invitations were for "holiday" parties. Both requested my presence this coming Saturday. And both were for 8PM.

Coincidence?

Being that ownership and labor has had a history of often cantankerous relations, better lately, but still skating on ice that never really gets thick enough for the Zamboni to clean, I found it interesting that both owner, who employs commissioners, and commissioner, employed by owners, invited me, a member of labor, to their upcoming soirees. Being that both are New York-based, one would also wonder how many people were invited to both, and why neither invited the other to their individual soiree. Don't these people communicate with each other? And why are they inviting me 4 days before their New York-based soirees?

Complicated.

When I was in the sixth grade, I couldn't wait to be invited to "holiday" parties. I remember going to a bunch one year. Loved them all. Each would end with Donna Summer's "Dim All The Lights" playing and each of us trying to pair up with a member of the opposite sex. 1980 seems a long time ago.

But now, I wish I'd been invited to neither of these. Too much politics. Obviously, there's some strained blood going on between Mrs. Delaney and Elliott (I can use his first name because I'm older than he is). I'm sure they know of the competing soirees the other is hosting. Maybe it's a big game of chicken for them and they're waiting to see who will postpone first. Otherwise, there will be lots of people running around from East Side to West Side in New York City this Saturday trying to appease the warring factions.

Counsel is appropriate in times like these. Vanessa thought we (I keep saying "I" but she'd of course come along with me since she's my spousal equivalent) should go to Elliott's first, hang out for an hour or so, then go to Mrs. Delaney's and stay until the sun rose. She is the one, after all, who ultimately signs my checks.

I called Jack Perry, agent who descended from the heavens and is the spawn of Miraculous, the Greek God of renegotiation. Jack said to do the opposite. In his opinion, and he was invited to neither, Elliott has consolidated more power than the last three commissioners combined. If he wanted me at his party, I should spend the bulk of my Saturday night there, bowing down to the man and telling him how nice the second coat of lead paint looks on his dining room walls.

Howard Phillips, union head who rarely leaves his office before three PM for lunch, said the best course of action was to call both, thank them for their invitations, and fly to Venezuela for the weekend to buy an oil farm.

So many conflicting opinions. I decided to get one more from my two-headed monster I call twin daughters, Julia and Grace.

It's not easy to get them in a room together. It's like asking Simon & Garfunkel to make one more record just for the fun of it. My girls like each other enough, but they say their powers of twin-dom allow them to know what the other is thinking far too easily. As a result, they don't get enough privacy. When they graduate high school, they each want to go away to college in a foreign country, like Indiana, where they can complete their educations following their own agendas. I fully support them in whatever they want to do, as long as I don't need to obtain a passport to visit them.

I told Julia to come down to my Entertainment Veranda to give me a concert of the latest songs she's written. She plays her acoustic guitar constantly and prefers to sing rather than speak, stating speaking is a Cro Mag Non form of communication and singing virtually Renaissance. I was never a good history student and the music room back in high school was replaced with a men's weight room, so I tell her to stick to her principals, whatever the hell they mean.

Grace was harder to get down. Since this third papering, she's been pretty distant. Yes, it's only been a day, but she locked herself in her room last night, went to school today and locked herself in her room when she got home. The only way we could communicate with her was to text message her on her cell. I found it humorous how one daughter will only sing and the other will only type. Which, I wondered, was more advanced in terms of human development? I lost my train of thought pretty quickly on that one, so typed to Grace (it only took an hour to type a stupid text message) that if she didn't come downstairs immediately I'd have her phone sent to the Smithsonian for the 21st Century Modern Woman exhibit. She was down in a flash.

I laid out for both of them my quandary: Two parties, same time, different places, both equally important to the industry I like to call baseball.

They agreed that both parties should be attended. They also agreed that Mrs. Delaney should get the bulk of our time because she not only signs my checks, she also, allegedly, really likes me. She once stated of this blog, "It's so cute. If you ever write anything badly of me you'll regret you were ever born." She's a great woman. Did I ever mention that?

So as Julia strummed along with a Pepsi commercial that came on the TV (we are endorsers, after all) and Grace ran back up to her locked up room, I called Jack's assistant and told him to RSVP for Vanessa and me. We'd be going to both parties. We'll see if we have any fun.