sign that says “EVERYBODY” on it.rnColored chairs are screwed to the sign, arnfew feet off the sidewalk. Vagrants sit inrnthe chairs and drink. It is nine o’clock inrnthe morning.rnCrossing south, Papaya World existsrnno longer on the corner of 42nd andrnSeventh. Here we find the work of thernnotorious Karen Finley, a “performancernartist” known for her shrill, repetitivernspeechmaking and the startling physicalrnactivities that accompany her monologues,rnhi one of Miss Finley’s infamousrnlittle skits, she used to cover herself withrnchocolate syrup and place yams—there isrnno polite way to express it—in her posteriorrnorifices. Artists have always been arnlittle nuts, but given Miss Finley’s attractionrnto starchy tuberous roots, I’drnrather have Van Gogh cut my hair thanrnlet Finley in my kitchen. Here on TimesrnSquare, Miss Finley has given us somethingrncalled “Positive Attitude,” whichrnfeatures large colorful drawings of arnnaked man, woman, and child, armsrnakimbo and bodies covered with reddishrnand purple skin blemishes. There is poetry,rnof a sort, that says in part, “I tell myselfrnI am visited with raspberries,” “I amrna polka-dotted little pony,” “Lollipopsrnof cherry and grape adorn me,” and “Irnam a speckled wild cat with a coat of rarernbeauty.” Then a little orange placardrnfills us in: this piece is about Kaposi’srnsarcoma, a rare and fatal form of cancerrnthat is common among people withrnAIDS. It causes one to break out in redrnand purple lesions.rnIt is true that the UDC and its 42ndrnStreet Redevelopment Project are notrnwholly responsible for the entropy ofrnTimes Square. Successive city administrationsrnhave sucked tax dollars to maintainrntheir own bloated bureaucracies, attackedrnproperty rights through rentrncontrols and excessive economic regulation,rnand shirked their law enforcementrnduties by allowing vagrancy and pettyrncrime to become the norm. An activist,rnimperious judiciary has enshrined whatrnwas once socially unacceptable behaviorrninto “rights,” and has cut away historicalrnproperty rights in the name ofrnthe public weal. Credit also a faithlessrnand perverse elite who have found itrnchic to reject and injure the very socialrnstructure that has fostered their freedomsrnand their affluence. And finally,rnthe most important contributor has beenrnthe lethargic and indolent public, richrnbeyond comparison with any other peoplesrnof any other era, whose preciousrnbirthright of civil and economic libertiesrnis being sold off piece by piece in returnrnfor the thin lentil soup of collectivistrnpromises, class envy, and unprincipledrnsentimentality. When future historiansrnand archaeologists pick through the ruinsrnof what was once the greatest city in thernworld and contemplate its spectacularrndecline, those 13 acres in the heart ofrnManhattan will be a very good place tornstart looking for answers.rnT. Padraig Higgins is a litigationrnattorney in New York City who hasrnrepresented landowners in suits relatingrnto the 42nd Street RedevelopmentrnProject.rnLetter FromrnBataviarnby Bill KauffmanrnSports and Local SovereigntyrnSince 1940, the Batavia Clippers havernplayed baseball in the lowest of the lowrnminors, the Class A (formerly D) NewrnYork-Pennsylvania (nee PONY) League.rnThe ballpark, Dwyer Stadium, namedrnfor the shoestore owner who served asrnclub president for decades, is just onernblock from my parents’ house, so I’vernspent many hundreds of lazy summerrnnights in the bleachers, watching thernteam run through a series of affiliationsrn(Pirates, Tigers, Indians, Mets, Phillies)rnwhile compiling one of the worst cumulativernrecords in the history of the minors.rnThe NYP is the oldest continuouslyrnoperating Class A league, and the Clippersrnare an original franchise. No matter.rnThe major leagues, in their relentlessrnquest to erase every last vestige of individualityrnand impose a suffocating standardizationrnon the game at all levels, arernabout to snuff the Clippers—unless wernpromise to commit an expensive act ofrnvandalism that is the moral equivalent ofrntoppling an ancestor’s tombstone.rnThe Professional Baseball Agreement,rnwhich the minors “agreed” to in the wayrnthat I agree to give my wallet to a Criprnholding a knife to my throat, stamped arnsingle cookie-cutter mold over more thanrn15() American cities and their ballclubs.rnEvery last detail of running a team, howeverrnniggling—clubhouse showers, parkingrnlots, lighting, the size of the lockerrnroom—is covered by the PBA, every lastrnidiosyncrasy smothered.rnBatavia, a community-owned team,rndid its best to comply. The clubhousernwas expanded. Brighter lights were installed.rnThe dirt and grass got a manicure.rnIt wasn’t enough. The PhiladelphiarnPhillies, the Clippers’ parent team,rndemanded that our field be reconfiguredrnto more closely resemble Philadelphia’srn1970 Veterans Stadium, with itsrnboring symmetry. The problem, yournsee, is that Dwyer’s quirky contoursrnmade it a hitter’s park. The power alleyrnin right-center field measured barely 350rnfeet, and for 50 years left-handed battersrndelighted to watch long pop flies turnrninto home runs.rnNo more. Our charming little bandboxrnhas been pulled and stretched till itrnlooks like your typical Philadelphia slob,rnfattened on mounds of inedible cheesesteaks.rnIn 1993, the first summer of ourrndistention, the Clippers finished deadrnlast in the league in home runs.rnYet even this contortion was notrnenough. Dwyer Stadium’s woodenrngrandstand was built by local workmenrnunder the aegis of the Works ProgressrnAdministration, certainly the most constructivernagency of the New Deal. It is asrnsound as most quinquagenarians, but itrnmust come down. So must the firstandrnthird-base bleachers. Dwyer Stadium,rnhandicraft of our grandfathers, thernclosest thing we’ve had to an ecumenicalrngathering place for half a century, mustrnbe demolished, else pro baseball willrndesert Batavia, forever. In Dwyer’s placernwe must erect—with dollars extortedrnfrom taxpayers who’ve never heard ofrnBatavia and are no worse for their ignorancern—a spanking new concrete andrnplastic atrocity.rnTheological baseball writing is cloyingrnand phony and almost always the productrnof guys who throw like girls. Similarly,rnthe much-praised movie about lifernin the minors, Bull Durham (1988),rnthough its auteur Ron Shelton is a formerrnbush-leaguer, rings false. I’ve knownrna few of the rouged sluts whose tenderrnministrations soothe the boys, and I canrntell you that while many are prettier thanrnSusan Sarandon, the chance that evenrnone of them reads Blake during idlernhours is remoter than Pluto. NeverthelANUARYrn1994/35rnrnrn