Holy crap in a Bundt pan... Due to the recent well-publicized shortage of
amateur websites produced by assholes who consider themselves to be clever, I
have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and Iím an Ugly American living
on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, PA. And Iím here to serve, baby.

The View From Down Here
A journal of sorts, updated every once in a while.

Take notice of Brandon's decree

August 20, 2007

-- Steve and I were at K-Mart yesterday morning before the appointed time, and our bus to Yankee Stadium arrived exactly as scheduled.

The thing was packed when we climbed aboard, and it didnít take long to realize we were dressed inappropriately for the occasion. Apparently itís customary to wear a full baseball uniform, body-type be damned, while attending Yankees games. Who knew? 

Wonder if they make a Jeter in a super-husky? Iíd like to be better prepared next time.

As soon as we were moving, the driver flipped a switch and the various TV screens around the bus flickered into action. And we got to watch the Billy Bob Thornton version of Bad News Bears. 

I rented that thing through Netflix a few months ago, and it seemed much funnier yesterday for some reason. I was laughing my ass off. On Saturday I probably wouldíve told you it sucked, but by Sunday afternoon Iíd pretty much changed my mind.

Around 10 am I started hearing the sound of beer cans popping open. Indeed, the dude across the aisle from me cracked open a Coors Lite, and continued pounding those babies all day long. Iím not exaggerating when I say he probably had upwards of twelve on the bus alone. And Iím sure he didnít stop at the game, either.  

While making reservations for this tour, the woman went out of her way to tell me no alcohol is allowed on the bus. She wanted me to be fully- aware of this rule. Yet everybody was drinking alcohol in copious amounts Ė except for me and Steve and some of the kids, I guess. Wotta rip-off.

We got bogged-down in traffic somewhere in New Jersey , and the driver bounced our bus across the grassy median to the highway running parallel to us. All the beer-drinkers were hooting and hollering about this maneuver, and having themselves a great time. Me? I didnít much care for it.

Once we were moving again, we saw that the cops had our pre-four wheeliní road blocked, allowing roughly a million motorcycles to pass through. Iím not sure what was going on, probably a charity event of some kind, but there were bikes as far as the eye could see. And many of the riders looked more like accountants than Hellís Angels.

Then several people on the right side of the bus gasped, and somebody yelled, ďOne of Ďemís down! One of the motorcycles just crashed!!Ē 

As we passed by I saw a bike on its side, tore all to hell, and a man lying motionless in a heap. I tried to snap a picture, but this is the best I could do. I didnít get the victim in the shot, only his motorcycle and a cop running to his aid. Scary. The dude was either dead, or out-cold. He wasnít moving at all.

The bus parked inside a fenced-in area near the stadium, and the neighborhood was, shall we say, seedy? There were lots of run-down apartment buildings around us, and it felt like we were in an episode of Kojak, or another of those ďgrittyĒ crime shows from the 1970s.

Other buses poured in, and our little tourist oasis was starting to fill up with people. The driver set up an impressive spread of food that included hot dogs, hamburgers, Swedish meatballs(!), perogies (of course), barbecued pork, and some other stuff I canít now remember. 

And hereís the kicker Ė the shit was good!

I ingested a large amount of ďfreeĒ food, hoping to avoid handing over our mortgage payment to the New York Yankees Baseball Club, for stadium snacks. The hotdogs were especially tasty, and I had three. You know, as a tribute to Babe Ruth himself...

After we ate as much as we could hold without vomiting (and after talking to Bill in WV on my cell phone), we started walking to the stadium. Along the way we passing several characters... 

There was a woman who looked like she was missing a leg, lying on the sidewalk with one of those high-stepping dogs beside her, possibly a whippet. She was accepting ďdonations.Ē We also saw an Asian man playing an accordion, and a number of questionable people aggressively selling bottles of water for a dollar each.

A seething crush of people was trying to enter Yankee Stadium, and it didnít appear much progress was being made, anywhere.

The scanners were down. That was the word on the street anyway, and they werenít allowing anyone through the turnstiles. So, needless to say, there was a major backlog, and the shit was becoming more and more major as the minutes passed.

While we waited, a crazy man began hollering about Gates Brown. He was demanding to know if anyone remembered him, and folks were saying they did, probably out of a sense of self-preservation. ďGreatest pinch-hitter ever!!Ē the man bellowed, over and over again. WTF?

I have no way of proving it, but I believe that guy might have been Gates Brown himself. And Iím only half-joking.

Eventually the ďscannersĒ started working again, the crowd began moving forward, and I realized we were about to enter... Hallowed Baseball Ground.

And thatís where Iíll pick up the story tomorrow.

In the meantime, here are some pictures I snapped during the day. And from there things start getting a bit bizarreÖ

Here, for example, are a couple of screen captures of me and Steve appearing on the TV broadcast of the game(!?), and a short video snippet, as well. (Iím the one on the left, in the orange cap.) 

Iím not going to name any names, but we have a Surf Report mole inside the Yankees organization! I mean, how do you think we got on TV? Heh. 

Oh, you donít believe me, you say? Well, check this out. These were taken during batting practice last week, and are completely legit. The whole thing makes my brain hurt a littleÖ

Iíll have more tomorrow, including a series of photos Iím calling the Venditto Series.

See ya then.




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