a night at Yankee Stadium

Last night I went to see the Yankees play the Detroit Tigers at Yankee Stadium. This was my third game of the year, and the Yanks lost again, 6-2. On a cold night, there is nothing worse than sitting on your hands while your team produces no offense, and you have nothing to cheer about aside from the fact that the Dippin' Dots carts never have lines.

Honestly, if I didn't have a season ticket package, I would never go to another game at Yankee Stadium. Whenever I go to a game on a weeknight, I leave straight from my job, which is in Westchester. I don't arrive home (in Bridgeport) until after midnight, in most cases, and thus I tell Grandma not to fix a plate of food for me. I tell her, "I'll eat at the Stadium."

What a mistake. Eating at the Stadium is the greatest paradox I've ever heard. You can't eat at Yankee Stadium because they don't have any food!

So get this: I'm standing in the line for Sausages. The lady goes: "there's no hot dogs." So we're looking at each other, my fellow liners and I, saying, "that's OK, what about the sausages?" So the lady then says, "there's no SAUSAGES!" We're like "what the fuck, this is the SAUSAGE line. What do you have?" She says: "beer."
We all stayed in line.

I searched everywhere for a sausage and peppers sandwich, all night. Lines were too long, the workers are so fucking slow. SO slow. My grandmother can fix a whole meal faster than they change money at the concession stands in Yankee Stadium. I'm never eating there again.

My friend, Eileen, is home from Med School (in Miami) for a few days, so I brought her and her boyfriend to the game. Her boyfriend, Jesse, is from Detroit, so he was able to see a game a Yankee Stadium against his favorite team, which was pretty sweet. Even though the Yanks sucked, I was happy for him. He's a good kid -- and I approve. But he's got to keep her happy ... or else ....

... or else I won't do anything. Can you imagine me beating someone up?
Nor can I. When I was little, I used to have these attacks -- my siblings called them: "psycho attacks". During these fits of rage, I would throw things, beat people up, scream at everyone. It was like having Terrett's, but with your whole body. Just a little aside, there.

Last night was fun, even though Yankee Stadium is quickly becoming one of my most minimally desired destinations. Nine dollars for a beer? I'd have to be a fucking millionaire to get smashed.