4 posts tagged “dirty jerz”
Before the game began, we all stood around joking and saying to each other, "This is a story that we'll be telling to our grandchildren one day." Well, I don't know if I'll be doing all that, since I don't think that I could spin the tale without cursing roundly. I'm speaking of my attempt to be present when the city went mad; our first World Series championship in twenty eight years was suposed to come Monday night. It didn't happen that way, though, much to the dismay of a hungry city of sodden fans. The plan started out simply enough. Go to south Philly, hang in the stadium lots, scream ourselves hoarse when our Fightins carried the day. Easy. Yeah, not so much. Nature and Bud Selig conspired to postpone the inevitable, and make us all miserable in the process.
The night started off pretty much as it ended: badly. It was utter chaos around the stadium. There were cops galore, low flying helicopters, crowds to surpass wildest imagination, and, of course, the Goodyear blimp. I was separated from the rest of the group, having driven in alone, and was totally stressing. I must have called KV about fitty times before I actually figured out where they were parked and how to get there. It sucked, even though I found them with pretty much no problem.
Once I got there, though, things started to suck a lot less. Everyone was gathered around a minivan that housed a TV hooked to a rented generator (now that's dedication!), and everyone looked very cold. It was cold, too; a windy night with a temp of around thirty. We didn't even have to put the beer in coolers to keep it cold, and I think that was the first time I saw coozies being used to keep wine room temp and fingers warm. Anyway, there were about fifteen people huddled in the lee of the van, avidly watching each play and calling out a countdown of the number of outs we still needed to become world champs. It was one of those nights that shouldn't be fun on any account. I mean, I was cold, hungry, and I couldn't see the screen real well, how fun is that? Apparently, a lot; I was having a blast. We screamed at every good play, groaned at every bad one and high fived anyone who passed by. You could almost feel the uphoria building moment by moment.
The conditions were rough, but our group and many others were braving the hardships with exuberance and beer. After I had had quite a few, nature took over, and I felt like I was going to burst. I thought that I knew all there was to know about peeing outside, but this was worse than any boatshacks pop-a-squat. The parking lot was surprisingly well lit, and you never knew when a miscellaneous gaggle of people was going to pass by. Luckily, one of the van's owners had placed a table strategically in front of the vehicle to cut down on the chances of providing some rando with a free peep show. All the spot needed was a blanket holder to cut off all sight lines. It sounds easy, but was completely complicated. As I took my turn, it occured to me that the generator was right next to me, and wouldn't it be unfortunate if I somehow hit it and electrocuted myself from the crotch up? Worse yet, that would probably short the damn thing out and render me the most unpopular girl at the party, not to mention that it would have deprived me of the game along with everyone else. The picture in my mind was very clear. That didn't happen, though I did have to contend with a blanket eager to flirt with my bare ass, and the fact that the spot was slanted towards my left foot, encased in one of my new suede clogs. I think I managed to do all right, after all, I didn't electrocute myself and ruin the party, I didn't pee on a friend's blanket, and I managed to at least keep my jeans urine free. I can't say my shoe fared so well, but you can't expect perfection under those conditions, especially while you're shrieking with laughter.
There were all kinds of shenanegins like that going on. I definitely caught some guy peeing on a car (which I fervently hope was his, but doubt that it was), and left him calling after me, "It's really cold out, that's all!!" Another rabid fan was car surfing in the distance, going way too fast, unfazed and shouting "GO PHILS!!!" Yelling fans could be heard constntly, and some of them even stopped and joined our group. People had their hair dyed red, red clothes on, red, red, red, it was a sea of red people hopped up on booze and hope. Red October. It was mass hysteria of the best kind, and just exactly everything that I wanted to be a part of. It was great.
Then it started to rain. Hard. People quickly yanked out ponchos, slickers, umbrellas, and even garbage bags to keep the rain at bay. While they were still playing, we weren't leaving. Even people who had nothing were hunkered down and ready to stick it out to the bitter end. I should have been better prepared. I wasn't one of the ones with nothing, but a comforter and a golf umbrella were not doing the trick, or even coming close. My Grimace raincoat was hanging safely in my closet at home, its existance forgotten until the time of need, too late. Grrr. I was valiantly trying to shelter as much of my bod as possible, but the slanting rain was driving up under my meager shelter with ruthless efficeincy. A couple of us got in my car to take cover, but that proved to be a bad idea, as N had to keep getting out to pee, so I had to keep jumping out into the rain without blanket. I also couldn't get the damn thing back on the same way, so some of the drier patches got soaked immediately after I stepped out of the car to keep watching the game. Slowly, slowly, slowly I got more and more damp until sopping wet would have been a better way to describe me.
Still, there was the game, growing steadily more ridiculous as the weather worsened. Nobody wanted it to get called, the fans, the umps, or the commisioner; probably nobody but the undoubtedly freezing players. It was the top of the sixth, an official game, Phils up 2-1, and still they played on. Jimmy Rollins fell victim of the terrible conditions and made a rare error, eventually leading to a tie score. THEN they called it. Once it was a tie. Lookit - nobody, no real Phillies fan, would have wanted the series to end like that. A win in that manner, without a complete game, would be a false victory, one besmirched by doubts and smutty innuendo. But, the way it was handled was piss poor. The forecast should have been enough to postpone the game, it should have been stopped earlier, Bud Selig should have followed the rules and (since the inning wasn't finished) had the game revert back to the fith inning score to be continued when the weather permits. I'm terrified that this will be the thing that breaks them, this absolutely bizarre situation, and that we'll come out of this series with nothing but heartbreak, again.
We left as the game was suspended, with heavy hearts and severely chilled bodies. I can pretend to be philosophical about the whole thing and say that I had a marvelous time, no matter what happens. And, really, I did have an insane amount of fun, even with the rain and cold. It is all for nothing, however, if the Phils don't come out of this victorious. Period. If I believed in God, I would pray for a win. Since I don't, I'm going to have to rely on nine men and a little luck to bring me and everyone in this city what they've hungered for for so long - a championship.
The other day was my very firstest fantasy football draft. I was so wound up before it started that instead of doing some last minute prep, or straightening out a plan of attack, or possibly even custom ranking my players, I just stared at the timer as it ticked inexorably towards 00:00. Boy, I never knew how quickly sixteen minutes could pass - in total silence. As I sat there, looking like a particularly robust zombie, my thoughts became more and more frantic, and I thought my heart was going to beat its way straight out of my chest.
Of course, as usual, I had not prepared to the best of my abilities, despite the fact that my brother had kindly provided me with all the information I could ever need to have a successful draft. I had glanced over the kit he sent me, sure. But I didn't peruse it carefully, being busy with sitting on the couch watching Family Guy and all. It wasn't until a couple days before the draft that it occured to me that I was up shit creek without a paddle. Luckily for me, I read and absorb faster than the speed of light. I also ruthlessly misuse my time at work. Nothing like an eight extra hours a day to catch a girl up on her reading, eh?
When I got home it occured to me that some kind of system was in order, and I decided that higlighting the players I particularly wanted would be a good start. After I read over the player lists and rankings for about the billionth time, I had my optimal team, and many, many highlighted sheets of paper. By this time it was about half an hour until the draft, and I nervously took my position at the computer and laid out various positions laid out neatly around me; I was ready for my first pick (as soon as the meeeeezmeriiiiiiizing clock stoped going tick tick).
Unfortunately, I was picking in an unenviable position; second. That's great for the first round (though fucked if Adrian Peterson got me point one this weekend), but not so great nineteen picks later. Added to the stress of thinking on your feet, yikes, you only get a minute and a half to choose a player once it actually is your turn, and keep in mind that most of the time someone has snatched away the player that you had wanted one pick before yours and now you're completely panicking. That little situation is how I came to pick Carson Palmer as my quarterback, along with the largest shambling, scrambling collection of malcontents to ever be called a fantasy football team. Swear to god - it's like I drafted the friggin' Bad News Bears or somthing.
By the end of the extremely nerve wracking, exhilariating, enervating experience that was the "live draft," I felt like a wet noodle, and my kitchen looked like a paper hurricane had blown through. Formerly neatly arranged sheets were crumpled, stained, ripped, and scattered all over the place like a monument to despair. I was likewise rumpled and dissarranged, and in sore need of alcoholic libation.
I bet I don't win one match-up this season. It occured to me on Sunday that even though my *real* team had won, I still felt a lingering sense of shittiness about the whole experience. Fuck my city's team, what about *my* team?!? It's just one more thing to worry about all week long this fall, I guess. Though, i do have to say, even with all the angst and disappointments, there was an added savor to all the games this weekend that's left me jonesing for more. Sneaky, that; combine tragedy and comedy to bring me crawling back, bloodied, for more.
Viva fantasy football!!
Well, as to how things are going here, I've been better, Bob (please ignore the obscure movie reference). The last few days have been a little hectic. Let's see...this weekend I shopped 'till I dropped - a couple times. I hung around with friends, doing nothing of substance. PS, that's pretty much par for the course these days. Even when I "go out," most of the time I'm sitting my ass on someone else's couch rather than my own. Woo. Party.
Anyway, as usual, the weekend positively whizzed away and the week started with an abrupt buzzing noise. Very annoying. On Monday the thought drifted through my foggy brain that, hmm, it was creeping close to September. Perhaps, if I wished to attend classes this fall semester, I should check my university's website to see when I should register. You know, like sometime in a week or so. Ha! I say. HA! HA! Understandably, that day being the eighteenth of the month, it was the last day to register for the upcoming term. Silly me. I launched immediatetly into panic mode. Holy shit - I wasn't set up in the system, I wasn't a hundred percent on what classes I had to take, just everything, everything - I was woefully unprepared. So there I was, suddenly spinning and fluttering from one side of my cubicle to the other like a startled bantam hen. Many long, frantic calls and minutes later, I was signed up for one of the two classes that I needed. Had I signed up for classes when I was actually able to, I'm sure the other class would have been available, but that didn't happen. In the end, it's not a huge deal. I can have the prof sign me in when class starts, but I just felt like kind of an asshole.
And then, do you remember those shoppng sprees? Yes, my friends, that money should have been spent on my education, instead of plaid skirts. Not that it would have been nearly enough. After I signed up for my class, feeling vastly relieved, I went to pay. The computer screen had a number printed on it. The amount of money that I was supposed to shell out. It was so ridiculous that I called the registrar once again and checked with her that that was the actual cost of one measly little class. Oh, yes, she replied sweetly, I did owe one thousand, two hundred and eighty dollars. Holy hershey swirled underwears, Batman! The second wave of panic broke over me like a storm swell and rolled me under. I did not have the liquid resources at hand, and if I didn't pay immediately, my registration wouldn't count. Thank god for the payment plan. Everything buffed out, but it certainly taught me a salutary lesson. The money that used to go to booze, trips to Bigej, vacations, clothes, flip flops and whatever else struck my fancy at the time should now be going to BILLS! Oh, yeah, those things. Kind of tough to keep all of them stuck in my head when I couldn't even pay my monthly phone bill on time. Even though it was the only one I had on Kwaj.
I guess stuff like this is what everyone was talking about when they mentioned the real world; the one beyond the tide lines of our safe little universe. I'm defintely still getting used to it. By the way, thank you a million times over, mom and dad. Thanks for paying for my college degree. It was very good of you, especially considering how damn long it to me to graduate. I never quiiiite understood what it was like for you until now. Yes, I'm off on many a new adventure these days. Stay locked.
Finally, finally. I am now to the point that I am caught up with all the backlog and can concentrate on the present, which hopefully will result in some better writing. My apologies for the huge lag in entries, but I am only now coming out of a two month period when everything was upside down and inside out. I honestly tried to blog, but mostly I just felt like I'd been hit over the head with a mallet. I wouldn't be surprised if not one single soul still reads this page, but I like to pretend I have a huge audience of rabid fans. It's more satisfying that way. So, hi there. I'm ba-A-ck!
The first thing that I did when I actually tried to start building a life was to get a cell phone. When I went into the store to do so, I was met by a bright eyed young man who asked if he could help me. When I replied "yes," he asked me what I needed. "Everything," I replied, "I just came from a place with no cell phones." I might as well have poked him with a cattle prod. His entire body jerked in surprise and he said in ringing tones of horror, "NO CELL PHONES?!?!?" He said it the same way as if I'd told him "no fresh water," or "there were scorpions everywhere." I talked him down and we managed to get me outfitted with everything that I apparently needed in order to continue breathing properly. After I was finished paying, I jokingly said, "Now I'm a whole person again." Well, the humor was completely lost on him, because he looked wildly sympathetic and said to me, "Yeah. Yeah. You enjoy that cell phone." He seemed so relieved on my behalf that I didn't have the heart to tell him that I was totally kidding. I hope nothing ever happens to that dude's communications equipment! I do have to say, though, that I can understand, a little bit, at least. I found that while I could do without a phone quite easily, not having internet access made me feel as though somone had cut off my left arm.
Getting all the other stuff I would need to live in the world again came a little easier, and with less drama. An apartment presented itself to me with perfect timing, and I got my shipment almost right away. A job proved to be more elusive. Calls I had aplenty, but no interviews and no offers. I spent most of my time sitting in a stupor of unhappiness and smoking thousands of cigarettes. Thankfully for both my sanity and my lungs, somthing eventually did pan out, and I am now gainfully employed. It's still tech writing, so it's still boring, but I still need money, so I'll still do it. Groan.
Once I got a job, there was only a car left on my "to buy" list, so I reverted to type and got a V-dub. A Beetle, to be precise, and it kicks so much ass I can't even believe it. Things are slowly starting to improve, and I'm feeling less like a disaster victim and more like a Jersey Girl. I've put down some tenative roots, and I'm so glad. I hate to feel transplanted.
