The trip started off as most of the other road trips Brett and I have taken throughout our lives: late and with a trip to Wawa.
All was well. We had hoagies in our bellies, ice and beverages in the cooler in the backseat, and a full tank of gas. Then we hit I-80.
We’ve all experienced torrential downpours, the kind that deluge the world and those unlucky to be out of doors, but only last for a short time. I drove through a mountain hurricane in the dark for over an hour. My visibility was at most twenty feet. To make matters worse, patches of fog sprung up like malicious ghosts. I had been making great time, breaking the local speeding laws with gusto and skill. Until the storm halted my conquest of time and asphalt by slowing my speed to forty-five.
But I came out the victor, despite my fellow motorists’, most of whom were driving massive tractor-trailers, contempt for the laws of physics and hydroplaning. The rest of the trip went off without a hitch. And we even got to see three older gentlemen, each with a different type and year of Porsche, at a rest stop.
Another staple of our road trips is our lack of planning. When we were younger, this disdain for any type of plan coupled with our complete lack of finances usually resulted in disaster. Case in point: Brett and I worked for UPS the year after I finished high school. We worked from around 4 am to 8 or 9 am. One day after work, we went to the local McDonald’s for some pancakes and sausage. There must have been something in the horsemeat that day because we decided to leave straight from there for Boston. Mind you, work at UPS is laborious and tiring. We were in no condition to drive. Oh, and Brett had a rental car,which wasn’t supposed to leave the state. Long story short, or rather a short story even shorter, we ended up driving 110 miles an hour, stopping in Connecticut in an overpriced hotel, and falling asleep in a theater while The Mod Squad played. Yeah, we madeit to Boston, but by that point, what was the point?
So I say all that to say that we had no idea where we were staying once we got to Chicago. I was told of a motel near Wrigley Field (our reason for going to Chicago, by the way) that was cheap. I called them at 11 pm, right before we set out. I asked if there were any rooms available. The guy on the other line answered as if I asked himto give me the exact number of stars in the sky. “I don’t know if we have any rooms. You’ll have to call tomorrow after 8 am.” I thought that odd, but off we went, and ran into the thunderstorm of all thunderstorms as mentioned earlier in my non-linear tale.
The guy behind the desk at the Heart O’ Chicago motel (a motel as classic as its name. Very old school) was a mixture of Baboo (spelling?) and the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld. I asked him if he had any rooms available. He must have been trained in the same session as the guy who I talked to last night. He looked as if I had given him an offer he couldn’t refuse for his prize cow, and he was torn up inside about losing a good cow. He asked how many people, how long we needed the room, and if I was paying with cash or credit. I must have answered him correctly according to his secret shady-retro-motel-manager guidebook because he then did two vital things necessary to rent a room in this motel. He squinted past me at the rooms. Perhaps all those rooms – at least half – with the wide-open curtains were one of the difficult to find clues he was looking for. Next he squatted behind the desk where leaning against a filing cabinet was an old-fashioned chart one could use to schedule things – such as guests who arrive at your motel and who you treat like Norman Bates treated Arbogast. Apparently the esoteric, inscrutable answer to my question was also found in this nearly empty chart because he then told me he had rooms to rent.
All of a sudden he was nice as pie, asking me what Wawa was after I gave him my Wawa credit card, saying Pennsylvania was a beautiful state, something he learned as he drove through it on his way to New Jersey (he didn’t say New Jersey was beautiful, which I took as his agreement with me and many others that it’s ass-ugly), and treating us like paying customers. As he handed me back my ID and credit card, Brett asked him about the free Wi-fi, which was advertised online and on the large poster next to the front door. When Brett said “Wi-fi,” the guy looked at him as if he had said “a;fkjqweopifnnfpanfa” in response to a question about what day it was, and then he said, “What’s that?” Once we said “internet access” or something along those lines, he began to explain the motel’s username and password. The guy knew exactly what we were asking about, but he played dumb, and then explained it like any normal customer-oriented manager would do. Somehow this guy’s demeanor and completely psychotic treatment of us (was he having the good-manager/bad-manager argument in his head?) was humorous, and not at all something that pissed us off.
So after we got settled in our room, which is a perfect room if you really want to impress your whore, we went to the trusty internet to find something to do. We had plans to go to St. Louis on Monday, so we didn’t want to do anything crazy. I remembered that Anthony Bourdain had done a No Reservations in Chicago, so I looked up the places he had visited for that episode. One was Burt’s Place, which served deep-dish pizza that Chicago is known for. We decided to check it out. But first we hit the beaches. We were afforded wonderful views of Lake Michigan and its beaches on the drive into and through Chicago. This city seemed to have it all: buildings and the usual concrete solidity of a big city, with the relaxed softness of beaches.
There are many entrances to the beaches. We didn’t know which to go to, and unfortunately, we picked one of the ghetto ones, or “Bobby Abreu’s bathtub” as Brett put it. Once we found a parking spot amidst the tremendous amount of cars trying to do the same, we walked to the beach through numerous groups of people barbecuing or just relaxing. Groups of people seemed stacked on top of each other, the amount of ground between each negligible. Trash, including used baby diapers, littered the ground, and I even saw a man walking his dog allow his dog to pee right near where people had set up their picnic. Hygiene was not a priority at this beach. We reached the beach and all along it, packed as tightly as the sand was (complete opposite of the sea shore) were people. In my experience at beaches, people usually want some space between themselves and others. Here, space didn’t exist. I walked down to the water but decided against any swimming that day because it did indeed look like people were using it as a bathtub. Later we saw nicer beaches, but our ignorance of the city landed us at this one.
While at the beach, I had to use the bathroom. I saw a small building that looked like it housed bathrooms. I walked over, and as I entered the men’s room, I was greeted with the usual public bathroom stench. Disgusting, but something I can deal with. What I saw inside, however, was revolting. In front of me were two urinals. Or at least there had been two since one was gone, and the hole in the wall its absence surely left behind was covered with a trash bag. On the right were three stalls, across from which were three sinks. This entire section to the right was blocked by a very large, quite deep puddle. I was wearing flip flops, and I’d have rather pissed my pants than walk over to a stall. A few guys wearing shoes walked through it, but I don’t think I’d do that to shoes I hated. So I waited for the guy using the urinal to finish. When he did, I had another pleasant surprise. The urinal was longer (jutting out towards the user) and deeper than most. Piss reached the top lip. As I peed, the accumulated liquid waste of numberless men began to drip onto the floor. My feet were safe, but it was simply disgusting.
On our way back to the car, Brett got a hankering for some water ice. The bells that water ice man had on his pushcart must have played some secret, insidious music that caused people to want to buy from him. Brett ordered one, and the man quoted a price. He was hard to understand, his accent thick, so Brett asked him to repeat it. It sounded like “$1.50.” Brett gave him three bucks. As Brett walked away, I noticed the guy counting the money, a look of confusion on his face. At that time, I thought he considered Brett a nut for paying twice as what the water ice costed. However, when Brett bought the same water ice the next day for $4.50, it dawned on me that perhaps the man had said “$4.50” and that Brett had jipped him.
As I mentioned, we had used the internet to find a place to eat. Using another trusty piece of intrusive technology, a GPS, we arrived at the address for Burt’s Place – but couldn’t find it. I made a u-turn and drove back to where the GPS said Burt’s was. I eased into a parking spot and surveyed the sight before me. Because what a sight it was. Amongst modest, but well-kept homes and a tidy apartment complex stood a rambling hulk of a building. It looked like a bar from the 70s, the kind that has limited window space so that those inside and outside can’t see what the other is doing, allowing for all manner of bad things to happen, or an antique shop in which you’d find either crap or an authentic copy of the Magna Carta. As Brett and I looked at the place, deciding if Anthony Bourdain, the GPS, or the internet were somehow playing a cruel joke on us, a woman and her two sons, all well-dressed and not the types to walk into a seedy bar, got out of their car and approached the building. I said to Brett, “If they go in, we’ll go in.” He agreed, and when the family entered, we parked and followed. We then entered Burt’s Place.
Think of a classic pizzeria. A bit dark, red “leather” booths around the perimeter with tables in the middle surrounded dutifully by hard open-backed chairs covered in the same mystery material. You know the type. Well Burt’s was one of those places, but one that seemed to be left dormant for ten years. The window sills were dusty, the venetian blinds were grimy and seemed hung by some guillotine operator. But the place had it’s charm. It was small and therefore cozy. All along the walls and on a plank of wood running down the center of the room were various old radios and film equipment. Jazz played comfortably from some contraption that looked like it had achieved antique status years ago.
When we walked in, a woman came up to us and asked if we had called ahead. We hadn’t, and as we learned later, we should have. Those that had (everyone) were seated and served immediately. We had to wait an hour for our pizza. Normally this would have pissed me off, but we had time to burn and this allowed us to order appetizers and digest them somewhat.
But first a word about the woman who greeted and served us. We soon learned it was Burt’s wife, and after a few minutes Burt himself came out of the kitchen. What characters. Burt’s wife (I forget her name. Let’s call her BW) was not your typical hostess/waitress. She was brisk and all-business. One could construe her demeanor as rude, but once she had us, her unexpected guests, settled, she was very nice. I overheard her chatting amicably with other patrons. Burt was a sight to be seen. He’s an older gentleman with a long white beard. Though I saw him for only about half a minute, he seemed all-business as well. Which was the prevailing theme coming from this couple. While the building itself seemed to be a neglected step-child, one could tell even before eating that these two were all about making good food. In my limited culinary experience, I’ve learned that what’s not important is the location, the décor, the service, or any other thing we have come to expect out of a restaurant. It’s simply the food. If the food is good, the customer will have a great time, and the feeling one gets from eating quality, carefully prepared food is something sublime, mystical, and dare I say spiritual (in the sense you feel content and happy on the most basic, most important level). So the food.
We ordered small salads, onion rings, and poppers for appetizers. The dressings on the salad were fresh and homemade (or so it seemed. I don’t know for sure). The onions in the rings were thick, but not too thick, and a perfect texture. The batter was sweet and crunchy, making them some of the best onion rings I’ve ever had. The poppers were fresh and delicious as well.
But then came the pizza. We ordered a fourteen inch pie with sausage and onions. I say this with no exaggeration: this was the best pizza I have ever had. The sauce had an amazingly fresh tomato taste to it. The sausage was seasoned perfectly and was in large chunks that you could cut up and eat with numerous bites. The onions were perfect, both in taste and quantity. The underside of the crust was crunchy, which played well with the rest of the doughy portion of the deep-dish pizza. The crust was carmelized and was absolutely delicious with the tiny bit of sauce along its edge.
The menu included some information about Burt’s career, along with write-ups he received in various magazines. The one thing repeated again and again was that Burt took exceptional care to make a good pizza, something that included experimentation to finally reach the product he now served. Eating that pizza backed up what all the food critics had said. Even if I had never read the reviews, I would have been able to tell that Burt’s mission was to make one damn good pizza.
On Monday morning, we met Brett’s sister Amanda, her husband Justin, and their nine-month-old son Jayden. They live in Racine, WI and came down for the day. We met up with them at Navy Pier, a lakeside attraction that is refreshing to see in a city. Philadelphia would do well to learn from Chicago as it relates to waterfront attractions. Lake Michigan is a gorgeous blue, and if we had had the time, I would have liked to take one of their boat tours along the Chicago River (is that the name of it?). The main thing that catches your eye on the Pier is the Ferris Wheel (of life). The main thing that caught my stomach’s eye was a hot dog place inside the mall on the Pier. It’s a place called America’s Dog. They serve hot dogs from all over the country. For example, the New York Dog has sauerkraut and brown mustard on it. I take it this is a staple for New York hot dog eaters. The Philly dog was “whatever you want on it.” What’s that all about? Are we a bunch of indecisive rebels against the routine? Perhaps. I got a Tuscon Dog which had chorizo, melted cheese, and jalapenos on it. It was quite good. My only complaint is that it didn’t have enough chorizo on it.
After we left Brett’s sister, we headed for St. Louis. Our plan was to drive there (four and a half hours each way), catch a Cardinals game, and drive back that night. As stupid and hare-brained as that “plan” sounds, it worked perfectly. As you drive towards St. Louis, you see the Arch from at least ten miles out. Coming in on 70, you get a perfect sight of the Arch and the Mississippi. A little further on you see Busch Stadium.
We found parking once we got into town. We parked in a garage that offered a special for the game: $5. We were four blocks from the stadium. We would have paid three times that much in Philly, at least. As usual for this trip, we didn’t plan ahead by buying tickets to the game. I had been looking online for tickets and saw that as game time approached, the cheaper seats were sold out. But we still went, refusing to buy the $40 tickets the Cardinals website said were available. We walked to the stadium and bought $34 tickets at half price. Sometimes planning is a waste of time and money.
From the stadium we walked about four blocks to the Arch. It’s breathtaking, soaring out of the ground like an alien ship plunged into the ground. It offered amazing views at different angles. Even though it was only a little over an hour before game time, we decided to go up into the Arch. It was well worth it.
After a bit of a wait, we were led down some steps to stand in front of a row of futuristic doors numbered one to eight. I felt like I was an astronaut waiting to get into my space pod to be flung to the far reaches of the universe. When the elevator arrived and the doors opened, that feeling intensified. The car was a claustrophobic’s nightmare, five seats crammed into a pod probably five feet squared. Once inside, with the doors shut, for all your senses knew I could have been in an elevator about to go up the famed St. Louis Arch, or I could have been a space pioneer preparing for a journey to Saturn, or a miner about to descend into the depths of the Earth. It was surreal. Since the Arch is curved, a traditional elevator won’t work, so what this elevator did was rotate the pod ever so slightly as we ascended. I could feel the pod tipping, then there’d be a click, then a sound of mechanical movement, and I was level again. It was pretty cool.
Once at the top, we exited into a narrow staircase that led to a narrow hallway at the top from which I could see on the one side the Mississippi River (something I have always wanted to see. The Mighty Mississippi, the powerful force created beautifully in a little boy’s mind as he read Mark Twain, seen with adult’s eyes. Finally.), and on the other side the city of St. Louis and beyond. The views were awe-inspiring.
We then headed to the stadium, where we met some interesting characters. The Midwest seems full of them. As we walked to the stadium, a guy yelled out to us that he had tickets to sell, and then he added, “They come with doobies.” It was hilarious. He was calling it out as if this was a normal incentive to buy scalped tickets. At the end of the street, a guy came up to me and asked if I wanted to buy a tennis bracelet for my girl. I decided to play around with him a bit, instead of giving the usual “no.” I told him I didn’t have a girl, I had many, and that’s the way it should be. I don’t think he found the humor because as I’m walking away he says, “C’mon my nigga.” I didn’t know we were that close.
As we approached the stadium entrance, a group of four older, very hot women (I believe the word is MILFs), all pickled drunk, stopped us and asked us if we could take their picture in front of an All-Star game banner. Brett and I were both wearing Phillies gear, which the women of course commented on. We had heard this a lot since we parked, and it was getting a bit old. Except with these women. As I said, they were hot. I could describe them, but I’ll selfishly keep the mental picture to myself.
So Brett took the picture and I stared. The woman who seemed to be the group’s spokeswoman was joking around with us and asking us where we were from and what we were up to. She asked where our seats were, and I pulled out my ticket to look. When I told her, I then asked where she was sitting, hoping to prolong the visuals, so to speak, but she blew off my advances with a general location and something about her girl friend. But before we said goodbye and entered the stadium, the spokeswoman gave Brett a hug. I figured he deserved one for all that work he put in taking two pictures of the broads. But lucky me, I got one too. And I, as Brett did, pulled her close in the right places.
Busch Stadium was a disappointment. It was new, the field was attractive, and the overall design of the stadium, intended to give a view of the Arch from most seats, was a good idea. But the stadium was boring overall, and excessively corporate, just like downtown St. Louis. Most of the buildings downtown are home to major corporations, and they make sure you know it with their huge signs. Apparently Cardinals baseball isn’t immune since what draws your eye the most is not the field or what’s happening on it, but rather the obnoxiously huge lit Budweiser, Bud Light, and Hardee’s signs, just to name a few. There were no MILFs or any of my niggas where we were sitting so we left before the game ended. And Brett forgot his bag of souvenirs at the top of the Arch, and he wanted to see if he could get them back. He did, which was more exciting than Busch Stadium.
Before I leave the topic of St. Louis, I’d like to mention the Mississippi one last time. We could see only a small stretch of it, but that small part seemed to be telling the story of the whole river. It lay between its banks with latent force. Somehow you could tell it was a powerful river. Along the banks were remnants of industry that has either deserted St. Louis or run its course and been replaced with something more advanced. There were riverboat tours available, a touristy reminder of what once patrolled its waters. It was an iconic sight, and it had a profound effect on me. That body of water is older than me, more powerful than me, and its purpose and beauty greater than me. I’m no environmentalist, but the power and grandeur of nature is something to be marveled at.
On the way back to Chicago, we nearly ran out of gas. I was driving, Brett was sleeping, and I wasn’t paying much attention to the gas gauge. The road we were taking branched off away from civilization and wound through Nowhere, IL. I saw with gratitude signs for gas, exited the highway, and drove towards the gas stations. The first was closed. No problem. I drove a bit further and entered Atlanta, IL. It was a Main Street and two stoplights kind of town. And it’s only gas station was closed. I started to worry since the gauge was now below the E line. If we would have run out of gas, we probably would have had to sleep in the car and wait for the stations to open because we were truly in the middle of nowhere. Thankfully we found an open gas station about ten miles down the road.
We slept in a bit on Tuesday morning since we hadn’t gotten in until almost four the previous night. Our plans for Tuesday were to visit another Anthony Bourdain-recommended place and go to the Cubs game. It turned out to be the best day of an already incredible trip.
Fat Johnnie’s Famous Red Hots is on the Southside of Chicago. The Southside is quite different from the Northside. The Southside consists of many, many, many liquor stores and auto shops. That should tell you everything.
We were driving down a main road, stores and businesses of all kinds on either side of the road. The GPS told us we were approaching our destination, but I didn’t see any Fat Johnnie’s sign. When it said were had arrived, I still didn’t see it. I whipped my head back and forth, and something caught my eye. A run down box with a faded sign, peeling paint, and a sagging, rotting roof was our destination. A few picnic benches sat outside and next to a dilapidated house, and a canoe filled with flowers sat on the grass next to the curb. Fat Johnnies!
Fat Johnnie’s has two windows, one to order, and one to pick up. They are six inches apart, and you can barely see into either. So I placed my order of a Mighty Dog and a Suicide soda with The Voice. He asked if I wanted everything on it, and of course I did. A Mighty Dog is a hot dog with tamale (which is like, or is, corn meal), chili, and melted cheese. “Everything” turned out to be onions, some green things that Brett thinks were chives, and a slice of cucumber on top. Best hot dog I have ever had. Again, no exaggeration there. The multiple ingredients blended so well together that again I was left with a soul-level contentment from food. The Suicide soda is a mixture of all the sodas they have. Sounds nasty, but it was really good. I tasted different flavors with each sip, and overall, it had a delicious sweetness to it.
But our good times at Fat Johnnie’s was not to end there. As we sat at one of the picnic tables cramming our faces with the messy goodness, Fat Johnnie himself came out. I don’t know if it was Fat Johnnie really, but he seemed to be in charge inside the little hut. He walked out from behind the fence that borders his store, and as he started to talk to us, spittle flew out of his mouth, his teeth were black, and his voice sounded like gravel. I immediately knew the secret ingredient. Another character. We told him we were going to the Cubs game, and he said, “Ah fuck the Northside” with true hatred. It was awesome. He talked to us like we were old friends, and when we told him we’d tell others about his place, he seemed genuinely excited and grateful. Again, here was a guy dedicated to making good food. All other things – the premises, his appearance, and perhaps his and the place’s cleanliness – were secondary considerations. If you want good food, go to the ghettos and the miscreants.
Then the Cubs game. The reason for our trip. Wrigley Field, a baseball and personal mecca. Like when I first saw the Mississippi, I wanted to cry when I saw Wrigley Field. Anyone who grew up watching baseball understands.
We had planned (there’s that awful word again) to park at DeVry University, where a free shuttle was to take us to and from the game. However, the trusty GPS couldn’t find it, so we just drove to Wrigley. When we got there, we circled the block to see the stadium all the way around. We tried to park on the streets, but Wrigley is in a residential neighborhood and anyone without a permit would be towed. After driving around for a few minutes, we decided to park at a Taco Bell. There’s one, and a McDonald’s, across the street from the stadium, and they allow (for a hefty sum, I’m sure) their lots to be used for parking. So we pull up to the guy at the Taco Bell lot, and after an exchange of greetings, he says, “$25 to be blocked in, $40 for in-and-out.” He explained what that meant and said if we decided to be blocked in, we’d have to wait up to an hour after the game before we could get out. We weren’t in any rush, so we decided to be boxed in. They put us in the corner, and the car was quickly surrounded.
After a few beers, we walked towards the stadium. We had outfield bleacher seats, which are first come, first served, and we had seen people already lined up four hours before the game. We got in line a half hour before the gates opened, and it was a block long. We were kind of worried, but once we got in (having received our free Ryne Sandburg bobblehead, an added bonus), we were able to get excellent seats three rows from the wall.
Seeing the inside of Wrigley was like walking into heaven. The field, the stands, the scoreboard, the ivy, the brick, everything was Baseball. Pure and simple: The Game. It was a dream come true, a pilgrimage completed, a son come home. One of the best experiences of my life. Again, if you’re a baseball fan, you understand.
Since we entered the stadium so early, we got to see batting practice. It was difficult to see who was batting because the sun was right in our eyes, but that didn’t stop me from catching a ball. Whoever was up (we think it was Dobbs), hit a fly ball. I noticed the people around me weren’t really paying attention, and looking at the trajectory of the ball, I knew it was leaving the park. As it neared, I readied myself. It was coming near me, and I decided that no matter what, no matter if I broke my hands or if I had to jump, dive, punch, kick, bite, scream, squeal, or cry, I was getting that ball. Thankfully all I had to do was stick out my hands to the side of me and catch it. I didn’t know how much it was going to hurt. I just knew that when it hit my hands, I had to clamp them shut over it. It was easier than I thought, and my hands didn’t really hurt. They tingled a bit, and then got numb. But they’re fine now. Catching a ball at Wrigley Field was simply awesome. It was also nice to have a number of Cubs fans come up to me and congratulate me on a nice catch. That was the end of the niceties.
I’m jumping out of chronological order here, but there’s a reason, and not just any writing deficiencies on my part. To say the whole experience was a blur is not entirely accurate. I remember everything vividly and in the proper order, but the whole experience was one shot of adrenaline and ecstasy and wonder after another. From the good-natured ribbing we exchanged with Cubs fans outside the stadium (a bunch of “Phillies suck,” which lacks imagination and veracity so as to be easily forgotten, on their end, and (1908!” over and over again from us [1908 was the last time the Cubs won the World Series. And you think the Phillies have historically shit the bed), to the rather nasty taunting that happened during the game (the game was a tight one, with the Phillies failing to even get a hit after a number of innings. Brett and I cheered whenever the Phillies did something, but we saw they weren’t playing their best game and knew when to shut our mouths. However, when we tied it up and then took the lead, we yelled, cheered, and jeered.), it was one highlight after another. Here are some:
- As I was walking back to my seat in the crowded thoroughfare behind our seats, two women and I reached the same narrow passageway between people at the same time. I motioned for them to go ahead of me. They thanked me and walked ahead. As they did, I noticed them whispering to each other and looking back at me. When I was sure, I asked, “Are you talking about me?” One turned, laughed, and said, “No one else in this stadium lets you pass by. It was nice what you did.” I said, “No problem,” with a smile. But then the woman caught me completely off-guard. She said, “Or you just wanted to stare at our butts.” It was incredibly hilarious, both woman laughed, as did I. It’s nice to meet funny, good-natured people, even if it’s only for thirty seconds.
- As I mentioned, once the Cubbies started to slide, and then lose, the good-natured taunts lost their friendliness. Some examples:
o At one point, I stood up to answer the “Phillies suck!” chants, which were directed at Brett and me, two lonely Phils fans in a sea of Cubbies blue, with “1908!” I chanted it in the sing-song fashion to the tune of the music baseball stadiums play to get the crowd to clap (den den den-den-den). Brett got limited video of it, and it’s hilarious. At this point, I think, I made two specific enemies. Their jeers were inane and easy to counter. One of the guys isn’t worth mentioning besides the fact that he shouted himself hoarse at us, and when the final out came and his beloved Cubbies had fallen, he wouldn’t return my stare and left in silence.
o The second guy however, was quite funny in his humorless, bellicose, pointless taunts. At some point the taunts became personal, and the guy led a chant of “Mullet man!” directed at me. This was so funny because since I had a Phillies hat on backwards, I guess it must have looked like I had a mullet. Although I don’t think (hope) so. I took off my hat, straightened my hair, and yelled, “Is this a mullet?” The chant continued, and I then said that the guy must have gone to the Chicago schools because he was so dumb he probably couldn’t read. His only response was to continue his chant, which showed a truly creative and adept mind at work.
o The genius mentioned above had a friend who decided that it was appropriate in the context of a professional baseball game to call me a pussy. I asked him why he wanted to discuss his own genitals in public, but he had no response but to continue to call me that. Must have went to the same school as his friend.
* At some point in these festivities, I nearly got kicked out of Wrigley. I’ve already been kicked out of Shea Stadium, and while it would be a badge of honor to be kicked out of Wrigley too, I didn’t want my wonderful time in that hallowed stadium to be cut short. I can picture this event in my mind’s eye as if I was an onlooker and not a participant. Starting two or three rows up from our seats, most of the Cubs fans were standing and yelling at me, as I returned the favor. The rotund attendant standing in the aisle against the wall told me to sit down. I didn’t, continuing my rants. Brett told me to sit down, and I eventually did. Barely had my rear touched my seat when a realization dawned on me. “Wait a minute!” I yelled. “They’re the ones yelling at me, and I get yelled at to sit down. I’m not sitting down.” And on I went with my pro-Phillies cheers. The obese attendant heaved his mass off the pitiable wall and started towards me. Brett pointed this out to me, and with one last vocalization, I said, “OK, OK, I’m done,” and sat down. Had I continued, I’d surely have been sent packing.
The stadium quickly cleared of Cubs fans as soon as the game ended. We had a good time walking back to the car, bumping fists with fellow Phillies fans, and singing “Oops there goes another Cubs loss” to the tune of “High Hopes” as sung by our beloved Harry Kalas.
We returned to our car, drove back to the hotel, and walked to McDonald’s only to find the restaurant itself closed only four minutes prior. However, the drive-thru was open. We tried to walk through it, but that trick hasn’t worked despite numerous attempts throughout my life. We decided to walk back to the car, and return to McDonald’s drive-thru. We finished off the night by eating our cuisine in our plush (ha!) hotel room and sleeping the sleep of victors. Go Phillies!
We awoke the next morning, briefly met my coworker and her husband, who we were unable to meet up with at the game, checked out, and headed home. The ride home wasn’t that bad, except for when we got to Pennsylvania where we were greeted with another storm that took its inspiration from the Great Flood. I was driving, again, and had been making great time. The storm slowed us down, and we got back almost two hours later than we had expected. I arrived home very hungry, very tired, and ready to head off to Vegas the next morning.
Thus ends a great road trip, the best one Brett and I have ever taken. We’re getting older, but we still got the craziness to drive thousands of miles with no definite plans. Long may we run.
There are plenty of more pictures, but they all won’t fit here. Visit Brett’s Facebook album for some really great shots (he’s photographer, for those that don’t know him, so you’ll see quality pictures, not the crap that most tourists take).
Here’s the link: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?page=1&aid=27209&id=1453291798
Bellicose Blatherings 
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