The Greatest Day of My Facebook Life
I could explain why this matters, but something tells me I really don't have to.
Oh, hell yeah...
All in a Day's Work
I'm back, kids. I'm not going to make excuses for time off anymore. Life is busy, as it is for all of us. When blogging becomes "work" I take a break. I never want this to become a chore, even if it means posting once an equinox.
Where have I been? Well, nowhere special, actually. Given the amount of time I've taken off, most of you probably figured I was dying, dead or simply not interested in spouting nonsense anymore.
Wrong.
A few months back, my baby daughter got sick. It started as a fever, then somehow steamrolled into something altogether more serious. Six hospital days later, she emerged much healthier and one nasty infection lighter. Since then, my time has (understandably) been spent smothering the munchkin a little more than usual.
While this was going on, I also left my former job and took an editing position with a marketing company near my house. It was a sudden, unexpected move, but one that will spell a lot of relief for a guy (and family) who were struggling with long hours and a lack of professional respect.
So here I am, more than two months later...clear of mind, sharp of tongue, ready to blog once more. Moving forward, I hope to post as much as possible, but will no longer use the terms "coming soon" or "see you tomorrow..." Life just isn't giving me that kind of creative freedom.
And I'm tired of lying to you all...
I thank you for your patience, and appreciate the kind (and not-so-kind) words and emails. Now, if you're done cursing my name, please enjoy the following from the recesses of my grey matter.
It's good to be back :)
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College kids suck.
Think back to your college years. I sucked, you sucked, and G-Love and Special Sauce probably sucked more than he does now. These kids tell stories like the classic, “Duuuuuuude we got so wasted last night after we finished those eight Miller Lites that I stole from my dad!”
And, who could forget, “Oh man, I totally banged [awkwardly groped] this fine ass girl [the one with the multicolored braces].”
Yeah, I loved being a college kid, and look back fondly on those memories. But after seeing the gaggle of hormones that moved in next door to our humble abode, I've never been more appreciative of my status as an adult.
Why? Because after having to listen to some of the drunken conversations emanating from the formerly nice house next door, I love that I no longer require beer to be entertaining or honest.
(Well, not entirely)
This is the beauty of alcohol. It makes people honest. Here are some conversations that people would have in everyday life if daytime drinking wasn't so heavily looked down upon.
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Interviewer: Tell me about yourself, Greg.
Greg: Well, I graduated from the school in my state with the highest ranking based off USNews.com. I cheated in every class that used bubble sheets and used my fraternity's test files for essays and midterms. I'd say in total I avoided more than 1,000 hours of studying.
Interviewer: Very impressive. Now, lie to my face about why you want to work here.
Greg: Happily. I feel that your company's mission statement is in line with my values and work experience, and I am excited about the product line.
Interviewer: And now the truth.
Greg: $80K + Bonus.
Interviewer: Word. Now, what can you bring to the company that others could not?
Greg: Well, since I graduated high school I have successfully robbed more than 15 girls of their innocence, talked my way into over 70 parties for which I was not on the guest list, and became a regular at three high-end bars...before I turned 21.
Interviewer: You're going to break our sales record...
Greg: ...and bang your secretary.
Cop: Do you know why I pulled you over?
Student: Because I have Greek letters on my window sticker?
Cop: And because you have license plate banner from a more prestigious university than mine.
Student: Oh yeah, how could I forget?!
Cop: So, I'm going to pretend I think that you're drunk and make you get out of the car and conduct embarrassing tests in hopes of getting you so frustrated that you verbally lash out and give me reason to arrest you.
Student: I have an incredible desire to make a sarcastic comment about how I'm glad my tax payer dollars are going to a good cause, but I will refrain because Ryan's having that sick house party tonight and I don't want to miss it.
Cop: Fine, but at least let me stare at you questionably so that you plead your innocence in a slightly demeaning way.
Student: Fair enough. Now, please get back to arresting 20-year-olds for drinking beer and disregarding the growing murder rate.
Cop: Happily!
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Confused Girl: I do believe I am still drunk from last night.
Confused Guy: I do believe I am still wearing the condom from last night.
Confused Girl: Good thing I have a boyfriend and am therefore on birth control, because the condom obviously broke.
Confused Guy: I guess that's how I was able to do that on your chest.
Confused Girl: That would explain the recycled paper towels.
Confused Guy: I'm glad you're not ugly, like most of the girls I wake up with.
Confused Girl: I'm glad you're obviously not smart enough to go to the same school as me, so there's very little chance anyone will ever find out about this.
Confused Guy: I've never had to lie more about knowing what someone was talking about than last night.
Confused Girl: I was just glad to have a new canvas on which to splatter my radical idealism.
Confused Guy: You should leave now.
Confused Girl: You should fall back asleep and forget what I look like.
Confused Guy: Deal.
Barry: I had sex with a slutty girl last night without a condom when I was drunk and now my groin itches. Do you have any ambiguous advice you would like to offer based on your obviously minimal experience with sexually transmitted diseases?
Matt: Would you like me to be honest and rational or do you want to continue being sexually promiscuous while consistently blocking out the thought of unavoidable painful urination?
Barry: I like sex.
Matt: You're fine; stop being paranoid.
John: Hi, my name is Recently-Pressed Collared Button-Down with Silver Hoop Earrings.
Rachel: It's nice to meet you; I'm Overly Crimped Redhead With Incredible Cleavage. I hope you don't mind if I never turn my back to you.
John: Yes, the cleavage is actually what caught my eye. It's definitely a positive considering your lack of posterior voluptuousness.
Rachel: Your potential attractiveness has sparked my interest, but I'm going to need at least three more shots if you plan on taking me home. Also, I have a boyfriend, so if we could keep our conversation full of surface-level superficiality that'd be great.
John: Thank you for not informing me of the boyfriend you obviously have. I would like to now buy you enough alcohol to get you tipsy and comfortable, but not so drunk that I feel creepy for taking advantage of a drunk girl.
Rachel: I like tequila.
Joe: Hi Amanda, your ass looks exceptionally touchable today.
Amanda: I think you're a douchebag Joe, but your blunt honesty and obvious sexual prowess could definitely earn you some manual release.
Joe: No thanks, I'd rather utilize YouPorn.
Amanda: Suit yourself; give me a call though if you strike out at the bars.
Joe: Will do; now if you don't mind, I'm going to pretend to talk on the phone while I stare at your ass as you walk away.
Amanda: I wouldn't wear this tight of jeans if I didn't want you to.
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...or something like that, anyway...
Ummm...What's Up?
Okay, since you asked nicely...NO, I AM NOT ENDING THIS BLOG.
So much has happened in the last month, you would think I was making it up. Some good, some bad, all of it relevant. But in the next few days, I'll be able to explain why I've been gone so long, and why the things that have happened will make this blog shine once more...
...okay, maybe that last part was a little dramatic. Sue me.
For those of you who have checked in, I appreciate your concern, and your interest. I hope you'll be around for the announcement.
Stay tuned.
Baseball Like it Oughta Be?
There are times when I wonder why I ever left New York. Sure, it’s loud, crowded, overpriced and always a little hotter than the rest of the surrounding world. But it’s also the most interesting, exciting, amazing place in the world.
And it’s home.
So, when I got Mets tickets to wrap up my latest homecoming weekend, I couldn’t help but waxing nostalgic. Beers, baseball and beers — just like the home I left behind nearly three years ago. Maybe the venues have changed, but this was going to be a throwback weekend, right?
Right?
My weekend started typically enough. A trip back to my old regular in midtown on Friday provided me with a lifetime’s worth of fuzzy memories and more man-hugs than I’m comfortable discussing here. But, thanks to the company of old friends and a surprisingly long visit from our own David Chalk (who makes a lot more sense when you’re drinking…trust me), it turned out to be a great night of liver abuse for all.
But the meat of the trip was based around my first real visit to Citi Field. It took me too long to get to a Mets game this season — so long, in fact, that this game actually meant nothing in terms of standings, wild cards, pride or power rankings. It was just going to be a baseball game…and therein lied the supposed beauty of the evening. Baseball, for the sake of baseball…nothing more.
Oh, if that was only the case…
As I mentioned in my previous post, Wifey bought me these tickets thinking that a mid-August matchup against the Phillies was going to be an epic battle for the ages. The tickets were purchased in December 2008, and we were still located a good ways up in the upper dec——sorry——Promenade. Meanwhile, a friend of ours from the afore-mentioned bar bought tickets in the same section that morning, and was actually ten rows closer.
So much for foresight — Nostradamus, your job is safe for now.
Instead, the main draw of the night was the pregame reunion of the still breathing 1969 Mets, and the first time Nolan Ryan had put on a Mets jersey in 38 years. It was quite a sight, given the career the man had wearing other uniforms. Speaking of sights — ominous clouds were forming on the horizon, but despite Hurricane Bill’s empty threats in the distance, it turned out to be a nice little ceremony for the original Amazins.
Not to mention, on the way to our seats, I ran into this guy:
Known to his mom as Eddie Boison, Mets fans know him as the inimitable Cow-Bell Man. I slipped him a Bugs business card and asked him to shoot me an email for an interview. Instead, the man seemed to trust my hangover-ridden face and gave me his home number. The interview will appear on these pages shortly.
Then the night took an even more unexpected twist.
Top of the first. Redding looking surprisingly professional against Rollins and Utley. Phone buzzes with a new text.
“Wht sect r u in?”
It was a brother of a friend of a friend — twice removed by marriage — who just happened to be a lead security guy at the Mets’ new digs. We sent him a text the night before, just on the off-chance that my friend’s friend wasn’t blowing smoke about his brother. Well, slap my ass and call me Rosie — it was legit, and more importantly, it looked like we’re movin’ on up…um…I mean down…
Within seconds, our new best friend Mikey E. arrived in our section and started the most frantic, all-encompassing stadium tour in the history of the medium. Wifey could barely keep up, huffing like a coke fiend as we did two laps around the ballpark, hitting every damn luxury club on the way. Now, let me say this — luxury boxes are nice, but they always seem to be missing one element — the actual game. This was no exception. As we made our way around the Caesar’s Club, I saw more than one guy hugging a bar while staring at the televised game in progress…a game that was actually happening less than 40 yards away.
I don’t get it…but anyway…
As we’re exiting this area it’s already midway through the third inning, and we haven’t seen more than 15 pitches. One notable occurence went down, though. While chasing our caffeinated tour guide through the hallways, someone yelled out, “Bugs and Cranks!” which made me stop in my tracks to see who it was. But Mikey wasn’t stopping for anything short of an open whiskey bar, so I was forced to miss an opportunity to feel famous for ten seconds. I hope this person doesn’t think I was ignoring her, because it’s always nice to meet a Bugs fan.
Anyway, while keeping pace with Mikey, making our way through our third luxury VIP club in as many minutes, I nearly walk headfirst into a tall, graying man in a sharp blazer…
…Omar Minaya…
Instinctively, I reach for my business cards and try to secure the blog interview of my young career, but then recall that my last few Omar-themed posts haven’t exactly been warm and fuzzy. I settle on a nod and a weak, “How ya doin’?” and keep walking. He smiles at me and does the same.
Missed opportunity? Yeah, but at least I got Cow-Bell Man, right?
Finally, after the most dizzying 25 minutes in recent memory, Mikey drops us off in the center field food area, right by Shake Shack. He tells us that he’s going to be at his section in 15 minutes, so we are to relax, get a bite to eat, and then casually make our way over there where he can then find us some seats behind third. At this point, the game is now in the fourth inning, and the only actual baseball we’ve seen has been on one of the 1,800 flat screens littered throughout the park. But it appears that the Mets are up 1-0, so I don’t mess with karma just yet.
Fifteen minutes later, Wifey and I think it’s time to actually sit and *gasp* watch some baseball. Mikey does as promised and finds us a few seats in prime foul ball territory. I think our row is designed for the handicapped, but I don’t argue with the leg room. By now, Tim Redding is having the best appearance of his Mets career, going five strong and only allowing one hit. So, now the Mets are going to find a way to blow this, right?
Of course they are. Manuel decides that Redding’s deal with Satan is about the expire, so he pulls him for the always reliable Pat “Squea-” Misch. Two pitches later, Utley is doing a slow trot while Misch investigates the mound for imperfections. Nice call, Jerry.
We were just getting comfortable when the sixth inning ended, and my phone buzzed again. This time, it was my friend from earlier:
“Meet shake shk now.”
I assume that’s an order, and Wifey and I reluctantly leave our prime real estate for the crowded confines of the food court. It didn’t bother me too much, since the score was now 3-1 Philly, and frankly I was getting tired of hearing some of their fans anyway.
Not all of them, mind you. Most are a lot of fun, and know the right way to do a rivalry. No, I’m talking about the ones that drove their limo-tinted Kias up 95, just to throw beer at kids and start fights. So, when the panty stain wearing the powder blue throwback caught a fat right to his inbred chin, we all laughed…a lot. Yeah, Philly’s in first place, but if you take any pride in beating these Mets, then you clearly don’t have a clue about the game. Now go back home to your cousin and ponder why your dad should have pulled out.
Anyway…
Now, we’re back in centerfield again, watching a very live game on a TV with a 5-second delay. I debate about getting a beer, but decide to hold off in case my previous night’s consumption decides to make an encore. Five minutes…ten minutes…no sign of my friend. Finally, my cargo pocket buzzes with the following news:
“Left game. See u next time in town.”
Wow. I’m so-o-o-o-o-o-o glad I left my primo seats for this revelation. Turns out my buddy and I need to get a refresher course in communications, to which we both agree. A few texted apologies later, we’re okay. Donald, if you’re reading this, many apologies. I owe you a few beverages when we get back to NYC.
But here’s the issue. On this night, the clock is reading 10:00, and is running out on the Mets. Our options at this point are to a) try and work our way back to those seats. b) start climbing to our original seats. or c) do two more laps around Citi, trying to soak in as much baseball Vegas as we can before we head back to the car.
Yup. The night was just about over. Wifey and I decide to split a box of frites (which are a lot like french fries, but more expensive) and then make our way back to the front. So, let’s review:
Free t-shirt — check
Pregame ceremony for old players — check
Interview/photo op with beloved bell-playing uberfan — check
Tour of luxury areas I’ll never be able to afford — check
Failed interview/photo op with Mets’ GM — check
Cardio workout — check
Actual baseball — FAIL
Now, I knew that my first Mets game at Citi was going to be as much about the experience as it was about the game, but I never expected to get so caught up in distractions that I’d miss a total of seven innings. And that’s my concern. Are there simply too many things to do at Citi Field for it to feel like a true ballpark?
Sure, the food, kids area, overpriced shops and main entrance are just ripe for exploration. But regardless of injuries or standings, my only regret about the game was that I never really watched it. And I’m sure I’m not alone.
Saturday night was supposed to be about a ballgame — a uneven matchup between a division leader and a wounded underachiever. Maybe we’d win, maybe we’d lose, but regardless of outcome, it would have just been fun to watch baseball without worrying about wins, losses, wild cards or percentage points. You know — the way it was intended.
Instead, my first Mets experience at the team’s new digs was chock full of Vegas with none of the Atlantic City that always made games fun in the past. Let’s hope that the glitz, glamour and novelty appeal wears off by the next time I go. Because, when asked, “How was the game?” (as I was when I got home), I never again want to answer…
“I have no idea…”
A Vision of the Future
I had a nightmare last night...
Not your standard "stuck in the mud while being chased" nightmare, either. No, this was a vision of a surreal, yet wholly believable future. Not a bad vision, either -- just one that I'm clearly not ready for as of this writing.
The year was 2014, and though I looked the same (for the most part) everything around me was older and different. And I was surrounded by some of the strangest costumes I've ever seen. It was only then that I realized my worst fears were becoming reality...
I was at my daughter's dance recital.
It started out innocuously enough. A sea of taffeta and lace paraded around me while I hunted for my wife and child. I'm weighed down by one of those 25lb. film-eating Nikons hanging around my neck, even though no one outside of EPCOT Center has used those since 1988.
I find comfort in knowing that I'm not alone. No less than ten other camera-toting dads were doing their best to maintain dignity while gathering along the far wall. I wander over in their direction, and give them a knowing nod hello. They respond in kind -- wordlessly, but understanding. We're in this together -- words are extraneous.
Finally, through the pink huddled masses, I spot my wife chasing my daughter Sophia around the crowded lobby with a brush and a compact, never losing control of the recital program, bottled water and bouquet of roses expertly cradled under her left arm. Wifey apparently thinks two coats isn't enough blush to fight off those stage lights. As I get over to them, I pull Sophia away from the overzealous Estee Lauder, much to my wife's chagrin.
"Brad - she is going to look completely pasty up there unless I put more on!"
[Sidebar: I nearly woke up from the dream based on this line alone. For starters, anyone who knows Wifey can attest to the fact that she is simply not this kind of woman, wife or mom. Which is why I married her. This alone, is startling. But more jarring is the fact that no man -- father or otherwise -- wants to hear the word "pasty" in a dream about their daughters dancing on stage. Ever.]
I forgot to mention -- in my dream, Wifey is preggo-fabulous again. I have no idea if this is baby #2, or if I'm donating half my salary to child care. Either way, in the alleged safety of dreamland, I'm having very real palpitations. Here, I have no idea if I'm employed, dying from a Velveeta-sized tumor, or simply settled into middle-aged, middle class contentment.
Anyway, as if this little exchange wasn't enough to block an artery, my 8-year old daughter (who apparently is destined to sound like Dakota Fanning) comes up to me and brazenly asks, without so much as a courtesy pause:
“Doesn’t my ass look good in this costume?”
In real life, I would have introduced her palate to Irish Spring. But in this dream -- much like the one where you're falling off a tall, Wile-E-Coyote styled cliff -- I was rendered completely helpless. I nod a limp affirmation and continue surveying my surroundings, praying that my subconscious has provided an exit door.
Damn -- the only escape would set off the fire alarms. Even in this insane dream, I have no balls, or any interest in messing with the authorities.
Suddenly, I am transported to my seat in the cavernous high school auditorium, without even getting to nod a genial goodbye to my menfolk on the wall. At first glance, the room resembles every other school auditorium you remember, right down to the creepy, vacuous, pock-marked teenagers handling the lights and curtains. My wife mumbles something to me about one of the parents sitting a row ahead of us, but I don't hear her. Either this woman is the mother to one of Sophia's classmates, or she just picked her nose and flicked it toward stage left. I'll never know.
The lights dim. We are warned not to use flash photography, "under penalty of law." This dance school didn't mess around. I pack up my Smithsonian-quality zoom lens, silence my phone and wait for my baby girl to hit the stage.
We are then assaulted by grandiose pipe organ music -- the kind that wouldn't be out of place at midnight mass, or Dracula's bar mitzvah -- but certainly wasn't appropriate here. Sophia, alongside fourteen other pre-tween dancers, was clad in an orange spandex bodysuit that left little to the imagination, at least for the Sesame Street faithful in attendance. Looking back, my daughter's outfit looked more like a low cut, shiny road cone, but I digress.
Later that evening, she would take to the stage again, this time accompanied by a Jonas Brothers tune (which is now an ironic classic amongst the 7-14 set) during which the kids thrust out their pelvises, gyrated their hips, and beckoned with come-hither looks – moves that cost their parents over $500 this year in dance lessons, and $15,000 in extra therapy sessions.
“The only thing missing is a pole,” smiled Wifey without even a modicum of concern. Melysa just laughs as my daughter moves like seasoned jailbait -- a graduate of the Hooters Academy -- while a flood of deadbeat dads watch from the wings. And, I can't be sure, but I think she was mocking me while I was squirming beside her.
"Isn't she pretty?" asks Wifey while handing me a tissue to wipe my brow. I once again am rendered speechless, though I do manage to throw a baffled, "what the hell is your issue?" look in my wife's direction.
By now, my mind sorta "fast forwards" through the show. When the final curtain drops, we are giving a standing ovation to all the performers who now once again look and act their age. Melysa waddles her expecting body to the stage to hand our baby her flowers. This time, Sophia is wearing a more traditional tutu and tights ensemble, leading me to believe that I skipped past the always-riveting ballet performances.
(At least my brain got this right. Even though it's my only daughter on stage, I have zero interest in watching a bunch of second graders pretend to be swans.)
Skip ahead a few more frames, and now we're in the parking lot of the high school. My daughter runs over to us while yelling at her friends -- apparently, I'm taking them all for ice cream and a sleepover. I open the back door and she jumps in, excess blush wiping off on my sleeve as she passes by. As I turn to close the door, the dream got even weirder.
Sophia was suddenly just a year old again, and sitting quietly in her car seat. I look closer, wondering if this is maybe another baby of ours (one that we conveniently stowed in the car for two hours) and my 8-year old Sophia was just behind the seat.
Nope.
My baby was back to normal. I look up at Wifey, and she also has reverted back to the way I know her today. No pregnancy. No uber-mom trappings. Just the woman I share a couch with every night. I open my lips to finally say a word and -------------
Blackness.
That's when I wake up, startled but content...and strangely thirsty. I quickly close my eyes to try and "recapture" the dream I just had, but to no avail. It was gone -- vaporized before I even had a chance to have a meaningful discussion with my baby, circa 2014.
And hours later, my head is still spinning. No more beer on Sundays, kids. Let this be a lesson to you all...
Twelve Things I Learned This Morning... 1. It’s better to sing off key than not to sing at all. Unless you're my neighbors, who think Portuguese techno sounds great acapella. 2. Promptness shows respect. Extreme promptness shows that I don't have much else to do with my mornings. 3. You can’t avoid offending people from time to time. You can avoid making a sport out of it when working on your fifth daiquiri. 4. If you say, “Get a life!” in any dispute, you've already lost the argument. Now go get my coffee. 5. Don’t be bothered when people don’t share your tastes in music, sports, literature, food and fashion. Be glad, because otherwise you’d never get tickets to anything. 6. Cough syrup tastes amazing -- something you should remember to say when the cop pulls you over. 7. Wounds heal faster under bandages than they do in the open air. Plus then you'll never have to hear, "Jesus - cover that nasty sh-t up! What exactly do you DO when you're not at work?" 8. Anyone who asks you what kind of car you drive isn't someone you want in your passenger seat. 9. My boss regularly engages me in conversations where he doesn't ask questions. These are not conversations. They are monologues. And usually bad ones. 10. Laundry day is much easier when all your socks are the same and you don’t have to sort them. Also, it helps if your wife does the laundry. 11. Almost no one in my office smiles, flosses or gives compliments often enough. 12. The store-brand jelly, cereal, paper goods, baking supplies and pharmacy products are good enough. However, generic candy just makes you look cheap to your kids. And there is no excuse...ever...for substituting Bravos for real Doritos. Ever.
Beer, Baseball, Sex and Wasted Cat Litter: My Weekend in Boston
It was a dark and stormy night…maybe not in Boston, but that’s how it felt in my head when it was all over. Beer, baseball, sex and wasted cat litter - just a few of the things that highlighted the latest Semi-Annual Bugs & Cranks outing.
[Ed. note: For the newcomers, Bugs & Cranks is a baseball humor blog I write for when I'm not out trying to save the world, one bus ride at a time. This post also resides there, in a modified format. But I hope, even if you don't like baseball, you'll find something of value below.]
Let’s reflect…
5:19am - The baby decides to sleep in, letting Wifey and I enjoy an extra seven minutes of sleep. Even the world famous “asscrack of dawn” won’t arrive for another twenty minutes. Someone tell those latte-pounding poets that this crap is overrated.
6:11am - Coffee’s up, and I take it like I used to take my women — cheap and bitter. Both Wifey and the baby are drooling, and one of them needs a new diaper. I just breathe through my mouth and avoid both of them.
7:02am - Executive decision: I’m only packing what can fit in my everyday messenger bag. Because why on earth would a sweaty Italian like me need more than two shirts and a change of underwear? And I’d better make sure to throw in a warm hoodie, for those chilly late-July evenings (foreshadowing buffs, take note).
7:07am - Bag is packed, mood is lifted and I’m ready to roll to Beantown. Is it wrong to want to do some pregame drinking at 7am? I’ll hear your thoughts on this right after I finish my beer.
8:48am - I update my Facebook status because I’ve been preconditioned to think that people actually care what I’m doing. One of these days I’m going to make my status say something more genuinely interesting, like “Brad is…sharpening his knives for today’s trip to Six Flags…” or “Brad is…about to dutch oven his landlord.” At least then I’d justify wasting people’s time.
8:49am - My landlord has no sense of humor.
9:09am - Arrive at the bus stop. Just to give you an idea, my journey is going to begin with a 45-minute bus ride, from the booming metropolis of Bristol, Rhode Island — a town where you can say, “Have you seen the Portuguese fisherman with one eye and a colostomy bag?” and need to be more specific.
10:24am - Life is filled with constants. Gravity…the four seasons…death. Well, you can add another to the list. Men over 30, take note: No matter where you are in the world, the only time a group of hot young women will notice you in Barnes & Noble is when you’re holding the latest issue of Gamepro magazine. I tried to show them the copy of Ass Masters under my arm, but it was too late.
10:56am - The MBTA train is delayed, which is roughly the equivalent of saying, “Humans have skin.” While waiting, I had a lively discussion with a Red Sox fan. I said, “I can’t wait for tonight’s game at Fenway. It’s a perfect night for baseball, and the team seems to be coming out of its recent losing streak.” He said, “YOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUKKKK!!!!!” and promptly fell over.)
12:54pm - Arrive in Boston and text the boss to get directions. Unless the Bugs guys are drinking underneath the highway on-ramp, I think he gave me some bad info. But he finds me soon enough, and after explaining the differences between “left” and “right” to our staff Galileo, we begin the hike up to Faneuil Hall. I am sweatier than a dyslexic filling out a tax form.
1:10pm - Arrive at the bar. Immediately greeted by our old friends Meech and Hall. You know Meech from The Fightins’. You know Hall from “Dateline NBC.” A few puffs later, we’re about to head in when we see our boss wandering in the alley behind the bar. Apparently, he followed his own directions.
1:38pm - I’m on my third beer, and haven’t taken the bag off my shoulder yet. Smitty now has a “usual” order with the bartender. Chalk is discussing his next submission to Catholic Digest with a waitress, until he gets distracted by a picture of Barry Bonds. Now, for my fourth beer in as many minutes…
2:25pm - Foreshadowing buffs, enjoy. The only dry thing I have in my bag is a nice thick hooded sweatshirt - black. But since the alternative is “not leaning on anything that stains” I opt to change in the cozy men’s room. I go in drenched and come out wearing fleece, which makes more than a few people question my BAC and lack of chaperone.
4:25pm - Time to move out. Our tickets say first pitch - 7:00, and we still have to eat something. Of course, despite there being 100,000 restaurants in the greater Boston area (give or take) the group collectively agrees to dine at one of the establishments right outside Fenway Park. Shouldn’t be any trouble getting a seat.
5:15pm - Outside Fenway. Meet up with Hatton who is already in one of the longest, deadest lines I’ve ever seen outside of a theme park. After realizing that this restaurant isn’t giving away free wings and lap dances, we opt for a more roomy environment - the ever-classy Mexican joint, Tequila Rain.
5:30pm - If ZAGAT ever creates a five star rating for “Suck,” I know which restaurant is the odds-on favorite. While sitting on a set of broken stools borrowed from a failed bowling alley, our entire group wobbled our way through a meal of various chicken parts. A busboy actually tried to remove my plate just seconds after it arrived, because it looked that bad.
5:50pm - The Phillies game is stopped because someone is shining a laser pointer onto Julio Lugo. Yeah, it’s distracting, but let’s be real — who the hell is going to waste expensive ammunition on Julio Lugo. Play ball, you big mary.
7:05pm - At Fenway, in our seats. We’re located somewhere between Pesky’s Pole and the North Pole, and our view is obstructed. Not by architecture, but rather by a guy large enough to change tidal patterns in Boston Harbor. Naturally, he likes to stand up a lot, and apparently thinks that $7.25 is more than reasonable for a 4-inch piece of sausage. He has four. By osmosis, I had two.
7:38pm - Big Papi takes one deep to center off Guthrie. It’s nice to see him back to form.
7:42pm - Papi rounds third.
8:11pm - The sun has finally dropped behind the third base stands, and I can comfortably lean back in my chair without leaving an outline. Someone behind me tells me he smells something like salted cod. I just ignore him and pray for a breeze.
9:11pm - Back in my seat after an extended visit to Yawkey Way. I think someone sprayed some Febreze. At least, that’s what I thought was happening. In reality, what actually was going down was that an afternoon of drinking, sunshine and exhaustion was finally taking its toll on my five senses. Now, when most people drink too much, they get funnier, louder and happier. Me? I start apologizing for everything short of the unemployment rate and then get curiously polite (I’m available for parties, if you’re interested). After ten minutes of poorly-timed “I’m sorry”s to the Del’s Lemonade guy, I finally settle in and try to enjoy the rest of the game.
9:51pm - This game is about to end. Adam LaRoche seems to like his new digs, and though he was warming up, Papelbon wouldn’t be needed on this night. Fly ball to right, and the game is over. Sox keep pace with the Yanks, while Smitty starts talking about the 2010 Orioles…through the loud sobbing, that is…
10:08pm - Despite sitting together all night, and leaving through the same exit, the Bugs crew is splintered in half. Ten bucks says I can guess who gave directions.
10:34pm - Arrive at Audubon - a classy little joint that serves Miller High Life in tall boy cans. I’m sure it’s a trendy hipster thing, but it suits my needs perfectly. Take that, you scenester humps. Somewhere, Tyler had a tear in his eye.
11:20pm - It’s not that late, but we all look like we rolled around a subway bathroom. I have a stack of empty tallboys in front of me. Everyone else is drinking liquor and $14 imported beer. I should have taken that as a sign, but I soldiered on…at least until we all decided to leave and finally end a very long day. I apologized to the bouncer for not being friendlier and got into a waiting cab.
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The rest, as they say, is history. Well, history that other people can remember better than me. In the end, despite all of the little details that make these events worth recounting (and exaggerating a bit), the weekend was really about a bunch of baseball writers getting together to watch, talk and debate baseball…with a little liquid encouragement thrown in for good measure.
Oh yeah, at the beginning of this piece, I mentioned that sex and cat litter caused a minor scandal on Saturday night. One of these things is definitely true. But I won’t waste your time with those details.
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