Cubs vs. Nationals, 8/23

Post Thunderfist, Game 1. Mrs. Witz and I hop aboard the 22 Chicago Bus heading south to the stadium. Another one of those ridiculous 12:05 early starts. This leaves me no time to drink a pre-game Bloody Mary or smell an old man's armpit at Bernie's. As usual, the bus is painfully slow and involves a 'shift change', meaning we sit at one stop for 10 minutes. Son of a bitch. I'd like to speak to a manager please.

We arrive with 20 minutes to spare. Enough time to fill thy horn with 'not quite Chicago Style dogs' (grilled onions, neon green relish, mustard, tomatoes) and an order of ballpark nachos with jalapenos. Section 205, Row 9 beckoned us closer. Pretty good seats. The poor couple next to us? Smack dab behind a pole. And I'm not talking about the one in my pants when I saw Eddie Vedder throwing out the first pitch. Eddie proceeded to do a somersault after his pitch. You drunk grunge rocker, I salute your courage!

Odalis Perez vs Ryan Dempster. Oh the drama. The Cubs get a poop load of runners on in the first 3 innings, including loading the bases twice, but come away with nothing. Frustrating at best. Get me another Old Style, post haste. Come the fourth inning though, Fortuna's Wheel begins to spin our way.

D-Lee RBI single! A-Ram 3 run dong! Mark DeRosa's 5 o'clock shadow even got into the act with a jack of it's own. I start to drunkenly text Brant Brown, who writes back "DeRosa is (his wife's) weekend lover." Being DeRosa's weekday lover, I thought something was fishy.

Fred Willard sings the 7th inning stretch. Where is Vedder? One can presume 'too drunk to sing'. It briefly begins pouring rain in the 8th inning, but luckily we are under the awning. No rain will touch us, though one is never immune from falling concrete there. Aramis hits another line drive homer. I dance a jig in my seat. Beers are flowing like communion wine.

The Cubs end up winning 9-3 and we sing 'Go Cubs Go'. I then find the bathroom and 'Go Pee Go'. Off to Gingerman. We saddle up to the bar and order some of those space age bottles of Old Style. I watch the same tattooed, slightly pudgy female bartenders dole out Bloody Mary's to some old timers at the corner of the bar. One of them asks the bartender the story behind her arm tats. She responds coldly, "I don't want to talk it." He's flailing. "I only ask because I have one..." "I don't want to talk about it." She walks away. Awwwwkward.

I'm hungry and tired so we only stay for a few more beers. We decide to head north to avoid douchebags. We stop at a watering hole near our place, Konak's pizza. Weird vibe, punctuated by a hippy with a pony tail and a tye dyed shirt arguing politics with a stringy haired white woman. I introduce myself to them as Joe Biden and then leave. Off to Edgewater Lounge, an oasis of dive bar perfection. I order the ribs and whatever beer was on special for $3. It contains the word 'Golden' but not 'shower'. Maybe dog? Who can be sure? The beer is tasty and so are the ribs.

Chaim needs a nap. Stumbling home, the sun still barely visible in the sky, I crash onto the couch and flip on the Olympics. Go Cubs. Go America. Go ribs.

Cue 'Yellow Ledbetter'.


Field of Dreams Part II: If You Build It, They Will Cum (sp)


Ryan, Ryan, will you sign my copy of Thunder Matt's Saloon: The Magazine?


The Tofu Burger at Edgewater Lounge. I kid because I care.

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