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.

Sugar energy at gunpoint

August 21, 2007

-- The scanners started working again, the crazy person who was hollering about Gates Brown (and who mightíve been Gates Brown) had moved on to bother other people, and we were about to enter Hallowed Ground: Yankee Stadium, the freakiní House That Ruth Built.

I gave the vest-wearing Civil War veteran my ticket, he ran an infrared beam over it, then handed it back. And I was allowed official entrance.

Iím a complete geek when it comes to baseball history. Iím one of those guys who still gets pissed when he hears the words ďdesignated hitter,Ē and donít even get me started on inter-league play... Baseball was perfect in the 40s and 50s, I think, and hadnít been completely screwed-up by the time I was a kid in the 70s. 

Everything after that? Highly questionable. Hell, I still view the
Rockies and Marlins as phonies; I havenít yet accepted them as real Major League baseball teams. Maybe someday, but not yet. Itís too soon.

So visiting an old stadium with such a rich history, a place so many iconic players called home, is right up my alley. I was super-excited to get to our seats, and drink it all in.

Just a few days ago I watched a show on HBO called When It Was a Game, and Billy Crystal was talking about the emotional rush you get the first time you walk up the ramp at Yankee Stadium, and see the field. I know that feeling, I got it at Fenway
Park in Boston years ago, and was looking forward to experiencing it again.

But it didnít happen. I donít know why, but the inside of the place just didnít hammer me in the stomach like Iíd expected. It had been gutted and renovated in the 70s, and it has a strong 70s feel to it. Not a 1923 feel, from its original incarnation, but from the era of ludicrous hair, disco shorts, and striped tube socks. So maybe that was it? I donít know.

I felt a little guilty about my disappointment, and didnít admit anything to Steve. But it just wasnít happening for me.

We made our way to our seats, and they were apparently designed for fifth graders and/or Japanese businessmen. I had to wedge my ass between two iron armrests, and it seemed like my knees were above my tits. It felt like we were flying coach on Delta, or doing a cannonball off the high dive.

But despite the nostalgia deficit and the hilarious novelty chairs, we had a great time. The weather was perfect Ė overcast and cool Ė and the game was good. 

I donít know much about the modern Yankees, Iím not an American League kinda guy, but I can understand how a person might become enamored with them. Theyíve got several larger-than-life players, and are a lot of fun to watch. Without realizing what was happening, I found myself rooting for them. And who couldíve predicted such a thing?

Around the second inning I decided to buy a beer, but have a big problem with both Coors Light and Miller Lite (I have a lot of hang-ups), which seemed to be all they were selling. I ainít drinking that bullshit ice water brew, so I began toying with the idea of just saving my money. Screw it. But then a dude came along with Miller Genuine Draft, so I flagged him down. 

Eight bucks, plus tip! Sweet sainted mother of John ďThe CountĒ Montefusco. Nine dollars for sixteen ounces of MGD? Now I was feeling something in my gut, but it didnít have anything to do with baseball historyÖ And it happened all over again when I bought my second one two innings later.

New York sports fans have a reputation for, you know, displays of sporadic assholism, but everybody was exceedingly nice and polite on Sunday. Nobody was obviously drunk or throwing socks full of nuts and bolts at the third base coach, or anything like that. Sure, they booed Gary Sheffield without mercy, but the guy deserves it. I wouldíve been disappointed if they hadnít.

Is it as well-mannered at Shea? Somehow I doubt it. 

Yesterday I posted a couple of TV screen-captures of me and Steve in the stands during the ninth inning, in which Iím looking rather severe and subdued, like a wax likeness of Al Gore propped up in a chair. 

But sitting in front of us was a father/son team who never stopped cheering; they got excited about every sight, and every sound. I think they even pumped their fists in the air during a dental insurance commercial on the Jumbotron. Yes, they were the polar opposites of how we appeared in that video clip.  Which, by the way, was misleading... (Taken out of context!  Taken out of context!!) 

Ahem.

Anyway, here are some photos I snapped of the duo, which Iíve titled the Venditto Series. This is the way they acted during the entire game. I have no doubt they were completely spent when they got home and, in fact, mightíve required hospitalization. Holy shitbuckles.

Late in the game I started worrying about missing our bus. The driver had announced he was leaving at exactly thirty minutes after the last pitch, and it was up to us to be aboard. Gulp. It wasnít a long walk, but look at all the people in this place! What if we get stranded in the Bronx
?! 

I didnít much care for the visions that were dancing in my head.

After the last out, Sinatraís ď
New York, New York
Ē started blaring, and the aisles were completely packed-out with people doing that slow exit-shuffle. We had a half-hour to get out of the stadium, walk a couple of blocks, stop at a store where Steve wanted to buy a Babe Ruth jersey, and get to our bus. My sphincter was starting to wink.

But it worked out OK. I bought a t-shirt with ďYankee Stadium est. 1923Ē on the front, and Steve got what he was looking for. And we made it back to the bus with time to spare.

On the way home we were treated to Friday Night Lights, but the sound kept fading in and out, and nobody was paying attention to it. Again, most of the people on the bus were drinking, and we werenít. 

There was an abundance of loud talking, and cackle-laughing. Some old man who made me look petite, went to the bathroom and brushed his left love handle against my shoulder, at least four times. The dude was a virtual factory of urine. Or whatever.

When we got back to my car, at the K-Mart parking lot, we jumped in and made a beeline for Five Guys. Man, I was starving, and Steve said he was too. And the shit was good, as usual. We had cheeseburgers, a ridiculous amount of fries, and a full-on bucket of salted peanuts in the shell. Oh yeah.   

So, it was a very fine day indeed. It might not look like it in the pictures I posted, but we had a great time. Next time weíll know to pack a cooler, and whatnot, and defy the no-alcohol rule as expected. A person lives and learnsÖ

And tomorrow Iíll get back to the regular stuff, and hopefully those Smoking Fish pics as well, which are continuing to stack up.

Iíll leave you now with a Question of the Day, which may or may not go anywhere. Last night we were driving in the car, and suddenly it didnít smell so good in there anymore. 

I said something about it, and the oldest Secret answered, ďFirst smeller is the feller!Ē I told him it certainly didnít come from my bottom, and he said, ďHe who denied it, supplied it.Ē  

Itís a ritual nowÖ

My question: what are the rest of those whimsical fart-based sayings? Letís try to amass a complete set here today, OK? The only other one Iím coming up with is ďHe who smelt it, dealt it,Ē but I know there are others.

Help me out, wonít you? We need to collect them all. Use the comments link below.

And Iíll see you guys tomorrow.




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01/17/12 12:14 PM

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