Yeah. Busy day at work yesterday. I was running around practically nonstop until 4:00 at which point I figured no one would tune in late in the day to check up on li’l ole me.

And to those of you who thought I’d update on my day off? Ha! Double ha, even.

But I have lots to share from this weekend, so I’ll break it up into several parts, and if I get to Cult Film Week, then fine. If not, then next week. I’m in no particular hurry.

So Thursday night, I went to the Yankee game.

I met my friend Lee at his office, and we, including some of his coworkers started the long journey up to NYC. It shouldn’t take more than two hours, although we were traveling during rush hour, but we took a shortcut that extended our trip an additional hour. Well, at least I wasn’t driving.

We stopped about twenty minutes into the trip to find a rest stop so one of Lee’s coworkers could find a bathroom. This guy thought it prudent to drink a liter of water before getting in a car for a few hours drive. That, and he has the bladder of a little girl.

So as we waited for Matt to return from the little boys’ room, I noticed that the car parked next to us, from which I had seen a grown woman emerge, had a giant stuffed Tigger seat belted to the rear passenger seat. What the hell? What adult carries life-size stuffed animals with them? And then, why belt them in? It’s not as if you need to worry about Tigger’s head smashing through the windshield at 90 miles per hour. He’s made of foam.

Anyway, we were back on the road and Lee put on a CD of a guy he went to high school with. It turns out this guy had signed to a major label a few months back, and had just finished opening up for Dave Matthews Band on his last American Tour. The guy’s name is Jason Mraz. I don’t know if you’ve had the chance to hear his stuff or not, but you should check him out.

I only mention this because yesterday afternoon, I saw an advertising pimping Jason’s CD “Waiting for my rocket” on Yahoo. Think John Mayer/Dave Matthews/Paul McCartney/G Love. It’s very cool, and his style is very diverse. If you want to take a listen, then I believe you can find some songs on Kazaa.

So we’re listening to Jason croon some tunes, as the car we’re following up to NYC suddenly makes a break for an exit. We’re maybe 100 feet from the turnoff, and the car in front of us has decided to make a Smokey and the Bandit-like maneuver, veering off through traffic in order to make the exit.

So naturally, we follow. Had we not had the two-second “what-the-fuck” delayed reaction, we might have made it. As it was, we came to a screeching halt, inches from the guardrail, mere seconds before making a Dukes of Hazzard-esque jump across I-195.

The car in front of us got on their Nextel two-way radios, asking if we made the turnoff. Barely. They asked if we could still see them. We told them we saw two guys in a pickup truck holding hands, so that must be them.

That brings up the subject of the Gay Test. It seems, someone at Lee’s office passed around a web quiz determining the percentage of homosexuality each person has. And Matt, the guy with the shy bladder who was mocking us from the lead car, had scored a whopping 46%. I think marking that you are a cat person added an additional ten percent.

Finally, as we were nearing the city, we hit stop and go traffic by the George Washington Bridge, when suddenly out of nowhere come sirens, and flashing lights as two undercover cops rush by us in their unmarked vehicles. One was an Acura, and the other, a minivan.

Have you ever seen an undercover cop driving a minivan? Was the cop undercover as a soccer mom? There’s no way that minivan can involve itself in a chase unless it was stripped down and retrofitted with a pursuit engine, cop tires, cop suspension, etc. It was truly a sight to behold.

Anyway, after passing over (actually under) the GW bridge, we took a slight wrong turn, and detoured through Harlem. Lock your doors, and roll up your windows, kids! No big deal, but you would have thought by the lead car’s broadcasts over the two-way that we were entering through the very gates of Hell. Dude, it’s Harlem (the better part, anyway) during the daylight. What could go wrong?

So we finally parked the car near Yankee Stadium and as we walked to the stadium from the lot, we passed a man playing a baseball tunes on a fife for tips. It was like: doodoo loo doo doodoo! Five dollars please.

So we hand our large souvenir box seat tickets to the elderly security guard who couldn’t catch a cold took our tickets. Apparently, in the luxury skyboxes, once you relinquish your ticket, it’s gone, unlike everywhere else, where they give it back to you once they verify that you belong there. What are you supposed to do if you want to leave the area to walk around the stadium?

The food. The food was pretty good, and there was lots of it. Fried chicken, giant hot dogs, mozzarella sticks, mini egg rolls, toasted ravioli, nachos, chips, pretzels, Cracker Jacks, Hagen Daaz ice cream bars, soda, beer, and more beer. Ah.

Anyway, you walk into the skybox, and there are leather couches, a kitchenette, a 32” television, and the buffet area. Then you exit out to the seats, 20 of them, to watch the ball game. It was a little chilly, so the heaters were on.

These were more like heat lamps, pounding out a billion BTU’s per hour. These were hotter than the heat lamps used to reheat food in restaurants. I, for one, needed sunscreen. Another guy in the box poked himself, declaring that he needed another five minutes for medium-well. Someone took the hint, and turned off the heat.

The neighboring box to our right was empty, so I took the opportunity to lean over to check out their digs. The only thing they had over us was a Jagermeister dispenser. Jager! Cold Jager on tap on demand? This truly was Heaven.

So as the crowd cheered for Bernie Williams, “Ber-nie! Ber-nie!” I persuaded a few others who had noticed the Jager, to chant, “Ja-ger! Ja-ger!” Then, whenever the Yankees would get a hit, as the crowd would cheer, “Yay!” being the immature children that we are, we would chant, “Jager!” It went over well.

After a few innings, and the neighboring box remained empty, the elderly security guard came out to lock it down for the night, and my hopes of hurdling the wall, and mooching some Jaeger were quickly diminishing, I called to her.

“Psst.”

She looked around, confused, and went back to work.

“Psst.”

She looked up, and I signaled her over.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Jager,” I slowly whispered.

“I’m sorry?”

Lee waved her off, explaining to her that I was retarded and we had left my helmet in the car. No Jager for me.

So I switched to Jack and Coke.

We ended up leaving during the end of the eighth inning as the score was something ridiculous like 10-3 in favor of the Yankees, and the others had to get up early for work. As we left the stadium, the guy with the fife was still playing.

Next time, I’m bringing a snare drum and together, we can for a fife and drum corps. Brum pum pumpumpum. Brum pum pumpumpum. Doodoo loo doo doodoo. Jager!

READ THESE JOURNALS Uncle Bob SaraH

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