25 Things We're Not Bitter About: 16-20

Friday, February 13, 2009

25 Things We're Not Bitter About: 16-20

. Friday, February 13, 2009

It came to our attention last week that certain elements of the blogoverse find us to be, shall we say, sarcastic and bitter. We have no idea why. Anyhow, the experience has inspired us to round up 25 of the things that give us the joy that only a bright Saturday afternoon game against the Cardinals can. These are in no particular order, and I suspect we'll likely end up leaving out some great elements of the Cubs universe. Feel free to correct us in the comments.So to the mysterious blog aggregator (or aggregatrix) who deemed us sarcastic and bitter - please consider the following declarations of joy and happiness. Oh, and fuck off.

16 - Rubberband Man


"Hey thou, prepare thyselves .."

The discovery of one of my favorite things ever began with frustration unknown to most men. As a former entertainment editor, it kills me to not know something related to pop culture. Well, Emily began hearing a song at Wrigley over the P.A. that just so happened to coincide with my last call beer runs. She loved it, but had no idea what it was - the audio quality on the Eisenhower-era P.A. speakers wasn't such that you could pick out specific lyrics. But even then, the song was intoxicating to her. This drama of not knowing went on for several games, to the point where she was considering e-mailing someone in the front office. She even called me from a Starbucks that was playing the song and held the phone up to the speaker in an ultimately futile attempt at identification. I felt like less of a man. Then we brought my brother to a game, who does this whole retarded Rain Man thing with music. He not only was able to identify it, but happened to have it on his iPod. Kids these days. This was the song:



Seriously, that is a bad-ass song. I think it may be Marmol's music, but I seem to recall hearing it later that year in times of Marmollessness. It was always in the 8th inning. Either way, if I hear one more reliever come in to "Enter Sandman," I'm going to put on mime makeup and nail my pinkie toe to a sheet of plywood. Emily, not prone to outburts of self-violence, likes to think that it's a favorite of the P.A. guy, and he sneaks it in there every time he can. I would dig that.

Regardless, "Rubberband Man" is bad ass. It's so bad ass, that it makes T.I.'s "Rubber Band Man" more badass through name association. It went from unknowable frustration into the realm of my top 10 favorite songs. Without hyperbole, if you don't like this song, you are literally worse than Hitler. That's right - a Hitler reference on the Internet. The gauntlet has been thrown. Now crack a beer and toast to the Spinners, you sons of bitches.

17- 1998


What's more dated, Sammy being a beloved figure, or someone actually buying a TV guide?

In 1998, everything was changing for me. I was newly in high school, and the catamaran of my youth was in the process of being battered to hell by the tropical storm Puberty. To top it off, even the Cubs were behaving differently. They were winning, and some kid named Kerry Wood was absolutely burning it up. There were ups and downs, and a deliciously terrifying conclusion to the playoff race. I still have fond memories of Sammy Sosa from this year, despite the man's repeated attempts to erase them from my memory. During the dark year that was 2004, I remember thinking "how the fuck are we choking this bad when we made the playoffs in 1998?" That team was by no means a powerhouse. Steve Trachsel was our #2. Gary Gaetti and Mickey Morandini were the leaders of the infield. Some dick named Brant Brown got enough playing time to almost ruin my young life. And yet they perservered, winning a playoff slot that at the time meant the world to me (Damn you, raised expectations!). I would talk about the previous day's game with literally anyone who would listen - including this tall dude named Steve who I hadn't met before.

And now you know ... the rest of the story.


18 - Jersey watching

One of the best things about being urban is the sheer volume and diversity of people to watch. And when I'm settled into my green plastic chair, I like to commence the watchin'. There are mild amusements, like the fanny packs, mullets, and douchebags wearing Devin Hester jerseys for some reason. But nothing, to me, beats the guy walking around in his Nomar Garciaparra, Mark Prior, or ... this thing


I'm going to Mesa at the end of the month. If I come back with something like this, I want one of you readers to drive a stake through my heart.

19 - Old Style with peanut shells


The nutritional pyramid

You can't eat peanuts and drink Old Style at the park without the twain meeting in your cup. This is cross contamination that I can really support. I suggest you do the same.

20 - Foam Claw guy

A vendor's albatross. Let's hear it for Samuel Taylor Coleridge references!

Is there a crappier job in the entirety of Cubdom than the guy who has to walk around trying to vend foam claws? While his compatriots in hotdogdom and beerdom are up to their shoulders in customers, they walk around looking sort of sad. And the job even neuters the best part of the job, which is the yelling:

Beer guy: "beAH, BEER heAH! Cold OLD STYLE - WHO wants an OLD STYLE?"

Hot dog: "HOT DOG! Red hots HERE"

Lemon ice: "Cool! LEMONCHILLLEMONICE!"

Foam claw: "Pardon, but would anyone care for ... ahem ... foam claw. What has happened to my life? I can't live anymore" (puts gun in mouth, can't quite bring self to pull trigger, cries and listens to the Cure in the shower). Pitying the foam claw guy is one of my favorite pastimes.

3 comments:

Erin said...

I actually remember the peanut vendor yelling during the fourth inning in the bleachers "Who wants my BIG SALTY NUTS!" I happened to be with my mom who was shocked, but what drunk doesn't like big salty nuts?

Erin said...

It was an excellent marketing strategy.

cubbiejulie said...

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