Monday, August 4, 2008
Sunday is supposed to be a day of relaxation. Of reflection. Of rehabilitation in preparation of the upcoming work week. I wish I could have absorbed myself in any one of these three states of mental being. Instead, I watched the Yankee game, hung-over, and went through more emotional outbursts than Christian Bale getting his pockets run by his mom.
The day started off on a bad note. I woke up extremely hung-over on a pull-out couch across the river in Hoboken. Maybe my head feeling like it was bashed in with a Fungo bat had to do with the shots of Jamison and/or 27 gorgeous Miller Lite beers - I'm not sure. I then swallowed enough aspirin to kill a wilting bum, ate an egg sandwich that was drier than the fucking Sahara, and garnered enough strength to head to Manhattan. And while all of this was happening, my stomach was throwing a fit because I filled it with delicious pizza the night before, even though I was not hungry in the least bit. But it was delicious pizza, and you never turn away delicious pizza, even if you just finished eating Thanksgiving dinner, so fuck you stomach.
When I left the PATH/sauna, I headed one block West from 6th Avenue to the Broadway line, to go downtown. The platform was obviously packed and it's fucking obviously 250 degrees down there and I start to sweat from the back of my head to the crack of my ass. Miserable is not a sufficient enough word to describe my mental state. Then, I saw the lights. The pair was all the way down the tunnel, barely visible, but it was a 2 or 3 train, and I was beyond relived.
*Note: this is over an hour after I left Hoboken.
The train pulls up and it's empty. It's my lucky day. I want to spread out on the seats and do calisthenics. Then I realize the conductor is leaving. Hey. Wait. What's going on here?
The conductor tells me the train is headed uptown, and there are no trains from 14th street to the end of the island. I kill him. Then I curse and sweat my way back up the staircase, scream at two tourists for blocking the top and pray that the nerdy Eurotrash takes a swing at me so I can push him over the railing in front of an oncoming train like the scene from The Warriors. The only thing left to do is hoof it over to Union Square in the 145 degree unshaded death heat.
So, when the trip was all over with, and I was left weeping in my living room, holding my soggy head over the air conditioner, I had just wasted over 2 hours of my precious life on NYC transit because they're too fucking inept to post a sign. It could have been on a bed spread, a fucking sheet, anything - just let me know if I need to find another way home. And the worst part was, the trip usually takes about 25-30 minutes. FUCK YOU, MTA. And fuck your magic Metrocards, too.
I flip on the game, and what's this, what the fuck is this? It's already 5-0, Angels? GODDAMMIT! Can someone please throw Darrel Rasner in front of a bus? At this point he's not even worth a spot in the Scranton/Wilkes-Barre rotation, let alone the Yankees. I weep some more, eat some ice cream, smile and rub my fat gut in gluttoness contention, and decide to give the game another shot.
Then Bobby Abreu gets thrown out tagging to third, negating a run. Again, the game goes off. I succumb soon after, turn it back on hoping to see Abreu has been murdered, and see that it's 5-4, the good guys are making a comeback.
Nady turns into a hero. I cheer Brian Cashman, and promise to send him a fruit basket on Hanukah. 8-5 Yanks.
Edwar "Revenge of the Nerds" Ramirez gives up a grand slam to Mark Teixeira. There's a brief but legit moment where I want to put my hand through the TV screen. Game goes off, The Deer Hunter goes on.
Since nothing cheers me up more than The Deer Hunter, I change the channel again, vowing to never let any of my friends go fight in Vietnam. A moment of joy punches me in the face - it's 9-9. Then, A-Rod grounds into a double play, but it's booted by Chone Figgins at 3rd! Yankees take the lead, and the rest of the game is a cakewalk. I take a nitroglycerin pill and a nap.