Friday, June 27, 2008
Bleached Out
Yesterday I took my parents to the Cubs game and we sat in the bleachers. Normally, the bleachers are totally awesome because 1) they're within easy heckling distance of the other team's outfielders, 2) they have their own concessions and bathrooms, which don't even require you to pee in a trough, and 3) pretty much everyone there is drunk and in some state of relative undress. But when it is ninety degrees out and the Cubs get completely destroyed for essentially the first time all year, it turns out the bleachers aren't quite as much fun. I got a terrible sunburn on the inside of my arms (?) even though I essentially bathed myself in sunscreen and some drunken Orioles fan (yes, they do exist) more or less assaulted me by the hot pretzel stand. I ended up taking my mother home to nurse her injured knee (see yesterday's Great Navy Pier Caper) during the seventh inning stretch. At least there I could flip back and forth between the game and Reba.
Yesterday I took my parents to the Cubs game and we sat in the bleachers. Normally, the bleachers are totally awesome because 1) they're within easy heckling distance of the other team's outfielders, 2) they have their own concessions and bathrooms, which don't even require you to pee in a trough, and 3) pretty much everyone there is drunk and in some state of relative undress. But when it is ninety degrees out and the Cubs get completely destroyed for essentially the first time all year, it turns out the bleachers aren't quite as much fun. I got a terrible sunburn on the inside of my arms (?) even though I essentially bathed myself in sunscreen and some drunken Orioles fan (yes, they do exist) more or less assaulted me by the hot pretzel stand. I ended up taking my mother home to nurse her injured knee (see yesterday's Great Navy Pier Caper) during the seventh inning stretch. At least there I could flip back and forth between the game and Reba.
