Sunday, July 25, 2010

In the Land of Plenty there is no mayo on sandwiches

Good time family fun in the city that boasts of puking on non-Phillies fans heads. Brother bear got in around 2AM Saturday so he missed the boys rallying to stomp some faces and Halladay pulling his weight. He also missed what my father affectionately calls EatFest (feet of hoagies and cheesesteaks, and pounds of pizza, candy, and beer) but was saved some choice bits that he made short work of later. Highlights of the weekend below.

Missing Totem:
We faithfully bunk at a seedy Holiday Inn off Broad Street and have every year since before I was born. It's too late to stop the judging and quite frankly my Arlington, yuppified family scorns the place, but it has one glorious thing working in it's favor: location. It is literally across the street from Citizens Bank Park; enabling the blissfully intoxicated to stumble home at little risk to their person. As far back as I can remember there has been a bloated Oompa-Loompa in a Speedo guarding the hotel pool like a terrifying and craggy mascot, my family calls him Guido. He hasn't shown up yet this year, but he was getting on in age. If you can hear me from above, buddy, I hope you went quickly, painlessly, and eating a cheesesteak. As was your way. Homeboy probably just had a pool pass and didn't even bother with the games.

Trojan Men:
Friday night was "Italian Night" at the ballpark. Racism comes in every color, my friends. Some Mandolin and Guitar Orchestra (how it can be an orchestra with only two instruments was beyond me) played the National Anthem....and got some crucial notes wrong... and the music in between innings was schmaltzy restaurant/elevator music. Not to mention questions on the Jumbo-tron pertaining to the ethnicities of a number of players. The best part was four men forced to wear Trojan costumes and dance the YMCA. Weak effort, no pizza, and laughably ignorant. Well done.

Jimmy Rollins can cook AND wake up early:
I went for a run Saturday morning (it was like 80 and the sun wasn't even up) and ran into Jimmy Rollins (SS, 11) around 6:30 going into the stadium. Naturally I had to speak to him even though I was in the midst of my workout so I screeched "EVERYBODY HITS, ONE ONE!" (my dad is full of old-timey baseball phrases. see below) as I trotted past. He laughed and asked if I was at the game last night, I hollered congratulations and kept going around the stadium. If it had been Utley I would have stopped to desperately flirt despite the sweat pouring down my body.

Rolen the Terrible:
My dad is a cool guy. He's hilarious, smart, and personable. He has two soapboxes: his unbridled affection for the Estate Tax, and his deep-seated hatred for Scott Rolen. Rolen, for those who don't follow Philly Nation, was a former Philly who whined his way off the team when they weren't great, and Dad has never forgiven him. He loved to go to Cardinal/Blue Jay/Reds games and scream things like "HEY ROLEN, YOU'RE A BUM!!" and other mild language insults that my brother and I were taught from an early age. When it was reported that Alberto Pujols' son, aged 6 or something, asked Rolen "What are you doing here?!" in the All-Star locker room, my dad bragged about the kid like he was his own son.

Unfortunately for Dad, the Reds weren't in town, the Rockies were, but the Phillies stomped faces both Friday and Saturday so everyone was happy.

We saw Inception at the Roxy, which, to quote my aunt, "is like watching a movie in a boxcar". Tickets are only $8 to sit in a very uncomfortable chair. They also only take cash. What a world.

Heat Index in Philadelphia: 103 F
Number of times I've seen Inception: 2
Number of cheesesteaks consumed: 3
Number of games out of first: 6

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