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What I Watched Last Night

After writing this column for about a month now, I have learned something about television. That is that Monday nights are terrible and that is a shame.

Seeing as how Mondays are typically thought of as the worst day of the week, there could at least be some decent television on to dull the pain. But no.

I browsed a couple of stations and then remembered that the Cubs were on, so I tuned in only to see that they were down by six in the fourth inning. Not surprising. After all the Cubs were playing the Pirates. I flipped from top to bottom, what felt like, fifty times and found nothing to entertain me.

So I have to ask the few but loyal readers of this column: What do you watch on Mondays? I would like to
know so I can tune in next Monday. This way I will at the least be reviewing something rather than nothing. If something doesn't happen soon on Mondays I just may have to take them off. Which, theoretically, would involve a cut in pay. So I don't want to do that.

Given that the programming last night was so bad, I thought I'd tell a little story of my own - just like in the days before TV. This is the story of the last Cubs game I went to.

At six o'clock the streets are full with the white and blue of uniforms Prior, Zambrano, Murton, Lee, Woo-Woo. The Addison stop is congested and ticket masters are offering their best seats for "face" by means of megaphone. The bars are spilling fans and alcohol alike into the streets. She is wearing her blue Cubbies shirt and I am in my jersey and dark blue hat. We purchase tickets from a man standing outside a garage. A little sketchy, but he gives us a deal on tickets because there is a birthday in the group. The weather is also celebrating the birthday by producing a Northern wind. A Northern wind means homeruns at Wrigley.

We grab a beer and discuss eating options as we search for a seat in the bleachers. A man with a broken foot shows us to seats that are available.

"Is that my water that was on my seat?" Apparently there are reserved seats for obese woman with cheap perfume in the general admission section tonight.

"Yeah, that's your water." I responded and handed the woman her water. It seems that no one told her that the worst way to put make-up on was with a shotgun.

"Shit!" she said, knocking over my beer.

"Damn, a whole beer!" I squealed. "I need another beer. She just knocked it over and said shit. No sorry."

There was laughter amongst my group. I was a little more upset. The baseball rules are simple: if you spill a drink that is not yours, you are obligated to pay for a replacement. No questions asked. That's the
rule. It also applies to kicking nachos, bumping a dog, and spilling a Coke. Nowhere in the rules does it state, "When spilling a drink that is not yours, simply say 'shit' and continue to watch the game as if nothing happened."

I shared a beer as I preached about the necessity for civility in the ballpark, the kindness of people diminishing, and how "six dollars may have well as been tossed in the air."

I was getting calmed down just as her rather large boyfriend was getting uneasy with me. I went for another beer and some peanuts.

I got back to my seats as the Cubs added one more run to make the score 4-1 in the seventh. I began to crack my peanuts and spread the shell all over the back of the young lady sitting in front of me. She is getting annoyed. My party is getting a chuckle out of these antics. I figure that it is the least I can do. If
she says stop, I have to say "Shit!"

Alcohol and encouragement create a dangerous environment and the couple before me left. The Cubs
won the game. That was in July.

But it's still a more entertaining story than anything TV offered up last night.

Catch up with every night Pat has watched TV for us so far here.



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Posted on August 29, 2006


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