To Toronto

Rolling out of Cleveland was every bit as relieving as I had hoped it would be. After what quite possibly could have been the very last night I sleep in my car on this trip, I awoke the next morning and headed to Toronto, stopping by Buffalo on the way. Buffalo reminds me slightly of Charlotte, and during the summer at least it was a hip little city, with some old buildings and a compact little bar district.

A funny thing happened on the way to Canada though. As I sat patiently in line trying to cross over the border, passport in hand, daydreaming of all the mission work I hope to do in my life when I'm not giving my money to charity, the border agent began to interrogate me. It began as it should, asking me what I was doing, where I was staying, what I was going to see, and when I would be leaving. I politely gave my answers, followed by a sir, a deep head bow, and a thank you for keeping our borders safe from terrorists after every question. He then repeated the exact questions. I believe this is to catch terrorists who are smart enough to hide in plain sight by driving their WMD's directly across a border check point in an elementary mistake of forgetting the answers they gave not 1 minute ago. To his credit, he did not believe that the rugged (ragged?) looking Texan sitting in front of him had driven all the way up to Canada simply to see a baseball game, even when presented with the entire story. He proceeded to ask me if I had any drugs, foreign plants or vegetables in the car--I assume a standard question. When my no didn't satisfy him, I began to wonder if he thought that I had driven up God knows how many hours from Texas to buy Canadian Pot when I live 4 hours away from Mexico. You know Mexico, our little 3rd world neighbor where I can buy a live Panda for the right price, much less weed. He then asked about any firearms, which I answered no. It was beginning to wear on me. The kicker of the experience was when he asked about my ninjas on the dashboard. Relieved that he was finally making pleasant conversation and about to let me go, I launched into the story of how I received the ninjas and what their names were. He cut me off and asked if I was trained in any of the martial arts. As if looking at my sagging, road trip ravaged body didn't convince him enough that I, myself, was not a deadly weapon.

My gift was to pull off to the station so that my car could be searched for all of the things I answered that I didn't have. Considering the state of filth in which my car perpetually resides, I believe Justice was served.

Oh, and I saw Niagara Falls.

Indians vs. Braves June 16th

Warning: By the end of this Post, there is a chance you may think I am a terrible person, petty, and judgemental. Nice to meet you.

It appears if there is a way for me to not enjoy a pleasantly sunny Saturday watching John Smoltz pitch a winning game for the Braves, in which Edgar Renteria goes 5-5, and the Ballpark gives away sample hotdog wieners all during Batting Practice. Simply hold the game in Cleveland.

While I am trying to reduce the amount of qualifiers I use while speaking and in writing, I must say that this is not about the city and honestly don't see it as a "Mistake by the Lake." Unless that mistake is exemplified by a few individuals I was privy to experience at the ball game.

The first I have no photo of, and will therefore briefly state that there is nothing more pathetic than a middle aged single drunk man unable to accept that other people may cheer for teams other than his own. I'd delve further into this, but the bottom line is that the man had the confrontational abilities of a middle school child.

Secondly, if my veiled opinions on the majority of tattoos haven't surfaced yet, then I will go ahead and tell you. If I had dated my body during my life with images represantative of myself, I would have to pretend to not mind the Inspector Gadget, Natty Light Label and Irish Shamrock on a non Irish man simply because I would have no other choice in order to save face. The only tattoos I agree on are Armed Services tattoos after you are done with war, or a rendition of my face should I meet an untimely death. There may be other exceptions of course, but when a woman sits down in front of me with a tattoo of this on her shoulder

Lets just say that I don't plan on approaching her in a bar anytime soon. She doesn't exactly seem like the marrying type.

Speaking of marrying, Congratulations to Dave and his new bride! Nothing says romance like a proposal by a baseball mascot on the big screen.

Do you think, with all of the superstitions that involve marriages and weddings, that the fact that their team lost on the day he proposed is a bad omen?

At least he's not this guy.

So there it is. My petty, soapbox post about my experience in Cleveland. I'd have a seperate post about the city as a whole, but after the game I got the Hell out of of there.

Pirates vs. White Sox, June 15th

First of, Yes, that is me in a Goatee.

Pittsburgh began a frantic stretch through the iron belt in which I attended games from teams I didn't care for, and in cities that I thought would terrify me. I say thought because Pittshburgh turned out, from my few hours lost and driving around the city, to be a very cool place. The my only problem with the city-that I got to experience-was that it seemed every good looking woman was in a hurry to beat the other good looking women to the tattoo parlor to ink inconsequential doodles on their bodies. We're talking about poeple across the spectrum here, from every walk of life. I saw a nun with a barb wire tattoo around her bicep.

When I first looked into doing this trip, most professional write ups about the best ballparks held PNC Park as one of the highest. If that were the case, then it must have been heralded so highly because of the view looking out of the park, because the skyline of Pittsburgh towering above the field is only comparable to St. Louis's park.

As for the game itself, my tried and tested method of gaining the best seats in the house backfired when my incredible seat directly behind homeplate happened to be in front of the woman who was the perfect antonym of class and tact. Worse than her being the loud fan of the other team in the nice seats populated by old season ticket holders who go to the games to see and speak with the other old season tickets holders (and we're talking old old people here) was that she had an incredbly loud whistle. This would have been a complete wash of my time spent in these seats if it wasn't for the innocence of the three year old in front of me loudly caalling out the woman, asking why she had to whistle so loud. Needless to say the Witch of the West did not stop fulfilling her duty to whistle deafeningly loud in order to motivate her professional athletes of choice.


The highlight of the game was the Mascot of the Pirates. Whoever the creative mind is hidden in that sweltering costume of feathers and fluff deserves a round of applause for bringing an entire ballpark into a moment of roaring laughter.