EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND – We’re reporting this week from the thrift capital of the world, as well as Hamish MacDougal’s home sod, Scotland. If anyone knows anything about holding onto their money it’s the Scots. This pilgrimage, of sorts, was brought on by an invitation my wife and I received on Sunday from two close friends (one of them a diehard Cubs fan) who kindly asked if we wanted to join them for tonight’s Mets/Cubs game. They were planning on buying tickets at the stadium. No real problem with that concept, but that’s where I immediately knew that our answer would be “no thanks.”
This lovely couple was nice enough
to rent me a room in Edinburgh.
I’m not sure how many of you here read Yankee Sucks’ brilliant Mets Boycott Manifesto (or the MBM as we now refer to it) here last Saturday but it was a truly passionate piece of negativism. The reason I enjoyed it so much was that it reminded me of my own baseball boycott which began at the beginning of last year when both New York teams opened their new stadiums. It was then I declared: “I’m not going to either one of these places unless the tickets are free.” For a guy who really enjoys going to games that declaration sounded short-sighted at best and full-on stingy at worst. But my main reasoning was, “Why should I line Steinbrenner and Wilpon pockets with cash any more than I already have?” I mean, if I ever really stopped to do the math on what that amount might be, they’d be carting me off to the Margot Kidder wing of the nearest nervous hospital.
Superman visits Lois Lane in the Loony Bin.
The funny thing is, under this new ticket buying freeze I still made it out to a good number of games at both stadiums. The not-so-funny thing is that I still ended up spending lots of money. In Queens there was almost no way around it. For, while the Mets stocked their opulent new whorehouse with nice things to eat, they forgot the most important thing and let their maitre d’ (who shall remain nameless until I write his professional obituary) fill the place full of whores (players) only Steve Phillips would boink. The product on the field was so nauseating that you had no choice but to direct your attention to the products at the concession stands and wash it all down with liquid comedy aplenty. Meanwhile, across town at Billy Crystal’s Whore Emporium, the Yankees screwed you out of even more of your hard-earned cash, but at least the customers left with a happy ending more often than not, if you know what I mean.
Billy Ball: Whore Emporium owner Billy Crystal indulges in a
disgusting three-way with two of his top ‘tutes, Joey and Reggie.
So, where does this leave me? I’m still going to games if the tickets are free. I’m also going to start bringing in my own damn food from now on. A six buck chicken parm hero at a halfway decent Italian deli will beat most anything I can buy at the park anyway. I could give a rats rear if my toting in a greasy brown bag elicits snickers, I’ll take laughs any way I can get ’em. Taking public transportation will also eliminate the biggest scam of all, parking. Yes, it makes complete sense that after buying tickets and paying tolls and blowing a fortune on food and drink that they still bang you for 20 bucks (and up) to park what’s left of your car.
Chicken parm hero, or as Short Matt likes to call it:
Hangover Helper
So, I’ve eliminated ticket cost, food prices, and the need to kick in for parking. I’ve almost reached Budget Baseball Nirvana. But, not so fast, there’s still one big problem. You see, unfortunately, I suffer from a drinking problem. And just about the most expensive thing you can do at a ballpark (aside from paying Anna Benson for a quickie behind the clearance J.J. Putz jerseys in the stadium shop) is drink. And, although I’m none too thrilled to admit that I have this problem, I have plenty of company. If you ask me, anyone who happily shells out eight bucks for a lousy beer has a drinking problem. Think about it.
Anna Benson cleaned up at the Mets/Cards
20-inning marathon on Saturday
Anyway, until I figure a way around the suds situation I guess I’ll be like every other idiot out there, blindly handing over my cash while watching superstars like John Maine, Alex Cora, and Gary Matthews Jr. work their magic on the diamond. It could be worse I suppose. I mean it’s not like I’m not getting paid to write about this crap. Wait a minute. D’oh!
Dr. Diz, tomorrow.
