babble
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
How not to watch baseball:
Last night, I had every intention of watching Game 6 of the ALCS in my favorite bar, surrounded by the booze, bartenders, and bacon that I love ever so dearly. I'd listen to the other regulars boo and hiss at my team as I gazed up lovingly at the clear, bright screens above my head and thanked the little baby Jesus for letting me find an apartment in a complex that has a fucking bar right in the middle of it.
Yeah. Turns out, not so much.
Instead, I spent the evening watching the game in a series of auto service centers, surrounded by annoying children and mechanics who thought I was hot (I mean, I am, but you can only take so much affection from mechanics). At the top of the first, I turned from the 57 freeway onto the 60 to head home. At about the middle of the 2nd, I felt my car start strongly pulling to the left, and thought that I should start pulling over so I could check the tire pressure. At the bottom of the 2nd, my tire blew out. In the rain. In rush hour. In L.A. traffic.
Fortunately, I rule and didn't even come close to losing control. In another fortunate turn, I just so happened to be about a quarter of a mile from an exit which featured a brightly lit sign which indicated there was a tire center right in front of me. Hooray, I thought.
Yeah. Turns out, not so much.
It was a Wal-mart tire center, which, aside from the fact that I think Wal-mart and its sinister tentacles of retail are the epitome of evil, isn't so bad in and of itself. However, from the bottom of the 3rd to the top of the 7th, I waited in a cramped little room watching my boys suck real bad against Curt Schilling while the cute mechanic boys alternately expressed concern as to why I would choose to live in downtown Los Angeles and dismay as they were unable to either locate a replacement tire in the proper size and rating (205/55 16, H, if you care) or get 3 of the 5 lug nuts off my wheel in order to put the spare on. So, as the boys in blue continued to struggle, I called Triple A and had them tow me across the freakin' street, literally, to Sears.
At the bottom of the 7th, I watched on a blurry television as my boys kept on trying to come back. A series of mechanics came into the waiting room as I breathlessly yelled curses at Johnny Damon and theorized about what kind of conditioner he uses. By the bottom of the 8th, as I watched that little fucking bitch A-Rod slap the ball away from him like a 7 year old sissy, my car was ready. I signed my charge slip while pontificating loudly to the Sears Tire Center about how much A-Rod sucks at 3rd and how he should just go back to Texas already. Many agreeing grunts were heard from mechanics and customers alike.
Between the bottom of the 8th and the bottom of the 9th, there was no traffic between the City of Industry, where my car was treated for its wounds, and my home bar, where I was promptly treated for mine. I got back to the bar in time to watch a very tense 9th inning and take a lot of abuse from Yankee haters. But booze, bacon, and very concerned and sympathetic bartenders were there waiting for me, and finally, all was right with the world.
Even though those dirty Botox won.
babbled by Kat @ 7:17:00 AM |
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