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It was a rainy 9:00 PM in downtown Seattle, near the stadium when I turned to Brent and said "I never thought I's say this, but I miss St. Louis." Brent, who wasn't much more enthusiastic then I was at this point, understood what I was talking about. It's the Metrolink, guys and gals. A Seattle Mariners game doesn't just feature baseball, it also features block upon block of occupied thirty dollar parking with police at every intersection playing the most frustrating game of Red Light, Green Light in existence.
I don't have a problem with sports in general or baseball in particular. In fact, I have good memories of baseball games with my folks ,sitting in the stadium and drinking smuggled Cokes in plastic bottles, warm with time and confines, gritty and sweet in the way that only twenty ounces of Coca-Cola become on a summer day. So you understand, that in principle, I have no problem with sporting events.
In practice, it is up in my grill, and I am obligated to pick flies and stale Cracker Jack out of my chrome in order to get to where I am going because all I want to do is find parking and change for a twenty so I can actually listen to some live music, and I am being stiemed not just by a flow of vehicles that sees no end, but by an organization that historically is exhorted to 'serve and protect'. Out last chance for success was removed from play when Brent discovered that a nearby Starbucks, at 9:30 PM on a Saturday, was closed like every other nearby venue. No matter what we did, we both decided we'd be miserable, so we just drove back to scenic Issaquah to buy beer and watch Pineapple Express.
If you haven't seen it, and this is my segueway. Pineapple Express is a movie about crime and stoners in the tradition of many such movies, and it is better then it has any right to be. The plot meanders, but then again, it is a movie about frequent marajuana users and their subsequent hijinks, so perhaps meandering is even somewhat expected. I am not really the expected demographic for these kinds of things; I thought that Cheech and Chongs Up in Smoke was about arson, once upon a time. But I enjoyed it then went home to sleep, so maybe things worked out ok in the end.
I don't have a problem with sports in general or baseball in particular. In fact, I have good memories of baseball games with my folks ,sitting in the stadium and drinking smuggled Cokes in plastic bottles, warm with time and confines, gritty and sweet in the way that only twenty ounces of Coca-Cola become on a summer day. So you understand, that in principle, I have no problem with sporting events.
In practice, it is up in my grill, and I am obligated to pick flies and stale Cracker Jack out of my chrome in order to get to where I am going because all I want to do is find parking and change for a twenty so I can actually listen to some live music, and I am being stiemed not just by a flow of vehicles that sees no end, but by an organization that historically is exhorted to 'serve and protect'. Out last chance for success was removed from play when Brent discovered that a nearby Starbucks, at 9:30 PM on a Saturday, was closed like every other nearby venue. No matter what we did, we both decided we'd be miserable, so we just drove back to scenic Issaquah to buy beer and watch Pineapple Express.
If you haven't seen it, and this is my segueway. Pineapple Express is a movie about crime and stoners in the tradition of many such movies, and it is better then it has any right to be. The plot meanders, but then again, it is a movie about frequent marajuana users and their subsequent hijinks, so perhaps meandering is even somewhat expected. I am not really the expected demographic for these kinds of things; I thought that Cheech and Chongs Up in Smoke was about arson, once upon a time. But I enjoyed it then went home to sleep, so maybe things worked out ok in the end.
