22 Hours Deep in the Heart

My work takes me to various places.  These trips are often fleeting and sometimes against my will.  Take Houston, Texas for example. 

I've always been sort of reluctant each time I've been sent to this sprawling, characterless city; the home of chain restaurants and hordes of oil industry boogymen.  Still, I like to try to squeeze at least a few hours of interesting experiences out of these brief visits and, this time, the Astros were hosting the Cubs.
 

After finishing a work event, I caught a cab across town to Minute Maid Park and made it in time for the third inning.  I present to you a few fractured experiences/thoughts--mostly in the order in which they occurred--from my evening with the 'stros:   

On the way to my seat--a Shiner Bock in one hand and a chopped beef sandwich in the other--I had to dodge a pair of tea-baggers with matching "get off our backs" t-shirts (I think they were even worn over buttoned-down collared shirts) and a dragonfly.  I'm unsure of the political views of the dragonfly, as it wasn't wearing a t-shirt and it flew by too fast for me to notice if it had any bumper-stickers. 

There's this weird burm-thing in centerfield that I couldn't quite figure out.  Is it just creative landscaping or is there a purpose behind it?  Do outfielders frequently run up the burm and leap over the wall to catch potential homeruns?  After some post game research, I discovered it is called "Tal's Hill" and apparently has no purpose.

I wonder if Bagwell hit all of those homeruns in the pre-burm era.

"Mild" beat "Hot" in the Taco Bell Saucy Sprint®.  I was disappointed in Hot's performance, though I did enjoy watching two people dressed as giant taco sauce packets race around the field.    

The PA announcer sounded exactly like Will Arnett (as Gob from Arrested Development).  Really, for a little while I thought he might be guest announcing. 

The cheap seats were really cheap seats: $6 (you should be ashamed of yourself, Fenway).  While that was nice, I was disturbed by the rigid class structure of the ball park.  I sat up top with the Latino and African-American families, while the white frat boys and, presumably, tea-baggers sat down behind the dugouts and home plate.  At least at Fenway, no one can afford a ticket...except for Ben Affleck.   

At one point during the middle innings, the Jumbotron flashed images of people in the crowd playing air bongos, with cartoon image of bongos superimposed on the screen.  Sometimes it looked as though the people were actually playing the bongos, though most of the time they were just awkwardly flailing about, occasionally looking up and into the distance to see if they were on the screen.  

The leftfielder for the Astros was named Jason Bourgeois.  I wonder how many intellectual baseball conversations among fans include comments like: "We don't have a chance at the penant this year--our outfield is so bourgeois."   

During the 7th inning stretch, "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" was immediately followed, with slightly more enthusiasm, by, "Deep In the Heart of Texas."

The day after the game, in a SuperShuttle on the way to the airport, we passed a car with a large "Don't Tread on Me" flag flapping in the wind, several purveyors of "pit trucks" and smokers,  and La Luz del Mundo--a huge, and hugely out-of-place looking church by the highway.  Turns out it may be a scary place as well.   

At IAH, I said farewell to a jaunty George HW Bush in bronze.  I wonder who he was rooting for in the Taco Bell Saucy Sprint®. 

Slaw Dogs on the Midnight Train

On my most recent trip to ATL, I actually left the airport.

After checking into my hotel--situated somewhere in the limbo between Midtown and Downtown--I ventured into the greasy heart of the city. I started with a polarizing landmark perched above a massive highway: The Varsity. Everyone I met in the Atlanta area was adamant that I either "must go" or "must avoid" the place. Apparently, it is known equally for the greasy food (as one person mentioned, even the soda has an oily film on it) and the curt service (What'll ya have!?). I went, promptly ordered the two slaw dog combo meal, and sat in a large, nearly empty room with rows of desks situated like a classroom facing a large-screen TV tuned to ESPN. My meal was a bit heavy on the slaw and light on the dog, but I didn't notice any grease in my cola.

Midnight Train (photo credit: Gladys & Ron)

The next stop on my slog through the Southern Belly involved chicken & waffles. Specifically, Gladys Knight and Ron Winans' Chicken & Waffles. I had the "Midnight Train" (4 large, fried chicken wings and one waffle) while Gladys Knight interviews and performances flashed on the various television screens around the room. Somehow the odd combination of sweet and savory, greasy and syrupy seemed to do the trick.

Step off

We spent an afternoon wandering through crowds of people repeatedly trying to take flash photos of fish at the aquarium. If the picture-taking behavior of the aquarium masses are any indication of the human race's inability to learn and adapt, then we are all doomed. We were also reminded by a well-placed sign to step off the (slow-) moving walkway at the Atlanta Aquarium lest our brains be dashed on the fake rocks ahead. That said, it was a pretty cool aquarium and I took a lot of dark, blurry pictures of fish.

Turner Field made funky by Picasa

LSB and I were in town for a friend's wedding, and were generously invited to an Atlanta Brave's game the day before the ceremony and reception. Unfortunately, the Brave's had just fallen short a few days earlier in their attempt to land a wild card spot in the playoffs, so there was a touch of melancholy at Turner Field that afternoon. Nevertheless, we enjoyed the afternoon at the ballpark, drank tall boys of lawnmower beers in the upper deck, and Tomahawk Chopped away any guilt we felt about supporting a racial stereotype. The game went to extra innings.

I walked through this gate and

have regretted it ever since

October

(Go Sox)

Autumn at Fenway

Fenway Park, in Boston, is a lyric little bandbox of a ballpark. Everything is painted green and seems in curiously sharp focus, like the inside of an old-fashioned peeping-type Easter egg. It was built in 1912 and rebuilt in 1934, and offers, as do most Boston artifacts, a compromise between Man's Euclidean determinations and Nature's beguiling irregularities. Its right field is one of the deepest in the American League, while its left field is the shortest; the high left-field wall, three hundred and fifteen feet from home plate along the foul line, virtually thrusts its surface at right-handed hitters.

Exerpt from: "Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu," by John Updike

Escape to Charm City

I must admit that I'm a bit sad to have to push the photo at the top of the previous post into the depths, but, alas, it is time for Klaus & his monkey to slide down the page. Today's shiny, new post has nothing to do with German madmen or tiny primates flitting about a raft. It does, however, have everything to do with Baltimore.

Back in the late winter, after several attempts at planning a tropical, early spring getaway were foiled, our friends suggested a long weekend full of crabs, baseball, and wanderings in Baltimore. I'd visited only once before, on a junior high school trip--our buses passing through town on the way to Washington, DC--and knew little about it beyond what I've seen in Barry Levinson or John Waters movies (No, we don't have real cable, so, I've never seen "The Wire," but I was aware of the troubles in Bodymore, Murderland). I knew Baltimore was an off-beat sort of place with a great ballpark and a terrible baseball team. They also named their NFL franchise named after a poem.

And, yes, I was aware of the crabs. That was the one of the main reasons for the trip in the first place. I was eager to tear into as many of the little buggers as I could get my hands on, in as many different forms at possible (fresh lump, fried cakes, steamed whole, etc.).

Crab fight!

We arrived, blasphemously, in a car with "H8RSOX" plates to find that a sea of Yankees fans had engulfed our hotel, turning an otherwise perfectly respectable Sheraton into a pinstriped nightmare. We checked in and wandered to where I suppose everyone visiting Baltimore wanders at some point: Inner Harbor for some beers, a raw bar platter, and crab cakes.

The following day was gameday and we strolled down the street to Orioles Park at Camden Yards for a Yankees-Orioles game. It is true what they say, Camden Yards is a great place to catch a game: an old-timey feel, yet newer, cleaner, friendlier, and cheaper than Fenway (but without all of those great obstructed view seats).

Evidence that Big Papi was once able to hit home runs

It was a beautiful day, so we meandered around the park, ate some pulled-pork sandwiches on Eutaw Street, bought a few beers, and settled in to our high, but well-positioned seats.

a $20 view

After the game, we caught a taxi and headed to Obrycki's to don our plastic bibs, roll up our sleeves, and hammer away at a dozen hot steamed crabs (see above photo of said creatures) covered in Obrycki's controversal seasoning (they don't use Old Bay, which is a polarizing choice in the region)

Primal deliciousness. Baltimore.

An infidel at the Cathedral

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A wet infidel

After two futile years of Red Sox "virtual waiting room" limbo, I was finally able to score a ticket to a game. Well, actually, that's not entirely accurate--Andrew, our Yankee-fanatic chef-friend from NY, managed to finagle tickets through his restaurant/hotel contacts and generously invited us down to the Bronx. In the final year of existence of Yankee Stadium, Part I, I was going to witness Yankees vs. Red Sox, on July 4th, no less.

One of these smiles was fleeting...

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We parked Andrew's car, "H8RDSOX" emblazoned across the plates, in Manhattan, and walked across the bridge to the Stadium. I had heard rumors of assorted assaults, drubbings, beer-dowsings, etc. unleashed on the fans that dared pass through the gates with little red "B's" on their hats or clothing, but was reassured that those days had passed. Yankee Stadium had apparently gone soft since the Red Sox started winning important games a few years back and now Sox fans, emboldened by their success, feel pretty comfortable showing up in full uniform.

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In fact, Red Sox Nation was well represented at the game--"Let's Go Red Sox" chants starting up and going for a few rounds before they were eventually overtaken by the Yankee equivalent. I managed to go the entire game with only one "nice hat, asshole" directed my way while waiting in line for a hot dog.

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Big tarp on a wet field

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With the visiting team up by several runs in the 7th, an extended rain delay caused the place to clear out and us soaked to the bone. Poor timing, as alcohol sales had just ended and I could have used a couple more $9 beers to take the edge off.

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Sunshower

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When play resumed an hour or so later, my friend was noticeably irritated by the predominance of red in the crowd that remained. It was surreal to look around the half-empty "Cathedral" dotted with red and to hear Red Sox chants go unchecked.

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However, Andrew's irritation eventually got the better of him, and he started a one-man "Boston Sucks!" chant directed at the vocal Red Sox majority in our section.

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In spite of this effort, the Good Guys eventually won and we made our way back across the bridge to Manhattan and on to Peekskill...

Leah and Pete Go to White Castle

Yay, Chicago!

The weather looked bad. Thunderstorms, flood warnings, etc. - the usual June weather patterns in Chicago. Considering that O'Hare ranked second worst in U.S. News and World Reports' "Misery Index," we prepared for the worst.

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But alas, the clouds parted, or at least relaxed their wrath, and allowed us to take off and land, only an hour later than scheduled. Our visit to Chicago (and Tinley Park, IL) had begun.

We were visiting Leah's Aunt, Uncle, and Grandmother in the outskirts of the city, but also had plans to kick around downtown and catch a White Sox game. I had prepared for the trip by reading The Devil in the White City, and studying up on the goings-on in the AL's Central Division.

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We got off to a slow start on Friday--spending a few hours wandering around Chicago, in search of deep-dish pizza. Inexplicably, we got off of the free trolley at Navy Pier--which has the biggest collection of restaurants and food stands in the city--then wandered away through various neighborhoods looking for a place to eat, before settling on Pizzeria Due, which as the name suggests, is the 2nd restaurant opened by the Pizzeria Uno guy.

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On Saturday afternoon, we headed to the Southside, or more specifically, the "Cell," to catch the White Sox/Rockies game. We had great seats, right behind the home dugout (and the masses of kids who would spill into the aisles after every inning to beg Paul Konerko for baseballs).

The Cell

In spite of all of the efforts of the management to entertain--cheerleaders in tight t-shirts and tiny shorts dancing on the dugouts between innings, loud music blaring at every possible opportunity, firework displays after each homerun hit by the home team (there were none) and at the end of the game (there was one), vendors with Margarita backpacks wandering the stands, and an attempt by an airforce skydiver to drop unto the field that was foiled by the wind (damn you, Chicago!)--the game was pretty boring. Very low scoring, but without the mound-mastery and usual intensity that would characterize a "pitchers dual." Probably the most impressive part of the experience was the pre-game tailgate scene. In the walk from the car to the ballpark, we passed buffets, elaborate grilling equipment, and full bar set-ups (complete with several different types of rum and blenders).

Homeplate from the famous Comisky Park-ing lot

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Our post-game activities started with my admission that I had never been to White Castle before (which later prompted an amazed friend to comment, "Has the man never been drunk?"). Luckily, there was a WC (interesting abbreviation, considering...) on the way home and I experienced my first authentic Slyder.