Cooperstown, New York, Heaven

After making it back to the land of little pink houses and amber waves of grain, I stopped by Mecca, New York. Also known as Cooperstown, or the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum. For a sport that prides itself on records and recordable feats, this is the shrine that I expected it to be. Even the introductory video, long a home for cheesy outdated graphics and footage, went the extra mile, leaning more towards a Disney Imagineer presentation that a sports montage. The place had all the stats that the stat geeks live for, enough history and displays for the sports fans, and not enough of anything else to make it ok to bring wives, children and the disinterested in to ruin the experience for the die hards milling about. I could go on about the entire experience in the museum, but for those who don't care about the baseball side of this story it will only bore you, and for those who do it will only provide a crutch excuse to not go up and see it yourself. Quit being pathetic and go. It is well worth it.

One other note about Cooperstown before I retire this post. The small town of Cooperstown itself is worth going to as well. The entire place reeks of 1950's kick ass-edness. Milkshakes, pizza parlours, an eternally played baseball game at Doubleday field, and enough little town shops to make you really enjoy the whole experience. Yes, I was at Doubleday, when a milkshake brought me in from the yard. Yes, I bought I souvienir piece of crap. Yes I had greasy pizza dipped in Ranch Dressing. Yes, I teared up a little bit walking through the streets of Heaven--no exaggerration.

They have built it. You should go.

The Jersey of the Man. The Leader of the Team. America's Team.

Yes it has been done before. Mine, however, was done with a twist. It had a budget.

These are the Pearly Gates. St. Pete Rose is standing outside ushering everyone but himself in.

Blue Jays vs. Dodgers June 19th

The Rodgers Center, for all the technological achievements of being one the first retractable roof stadiums as well as a respectable arena despite the fact that it houses a Canadian Football League Team (Go Argos!) as well, has one major glaring flaw. It doesn’t take plastic. I’m pretty sure even the friendly women on the street corners in most cities nowadays will take credit cards—and keep a detailed phone list if they are in D.C. This lack of accepting fake money is doubly troublesome when you learn that they also only take Canadian Dollars, or Dollars Jr. as I call them. Thank the good American Lord that I had already gotten a hotdog beforehand and wasn’t particularly thirsty, or else the wrath of the Southern Gods would have been unleashed upon them a righteous vengeance unseen on Canadian Soil since the French and Indian wars left the still lingering scars of fully armed mechanized combat upon the countryside.

While soaking up the games I’ve enjoyed in the past, one of the lights shined onto my life is the realization that when I grow older and have a son or daughter, that I will legitimately claim (no bastards getting a cent from me), I am genuinely looking forward to taking them to baseball games. It is funny that the “slowest” game is the best to take kids to, since the spurts of action last as long as their gnat-esque attention spans. Toronto, however, provided an eerie example of what can occur when a large group of urchins concentrate their high pitched powers on continuous cheering during a game that invokes raucous cheers as often as a spirited badminton match. Sprinkling random futbol cheers (Olè, olè olè olé! Oooolè, oooolÈ!) alongside their dueling “Nomar” chants, fifteen kids sitting in the upper grandstand out shouted the entirety of the Rodgers Center Toronto BlueJays home fan base, and nearly deafened yours truly sitting in front of them. Lucky for them that Ontario had already flexed its policing muscles with me at the border, otherwise I might have taken to beating the little wonkers back into the womb. Or asking them politely to be quiet. As it was I just left and went to one of the fifty thousand other seats unoccupied at the game, watched Toronto parade out the entire bullpen to try and stop the beating occurring, admired the extremely large scoreboard, and then went merrily back to the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave (America). Little did I know that I had a stop with heaven along the way...

Toronto

Lagging a bit from my encounters with the Iron Belt and Border Patrol, I limped into Toronto with high expectations. Canada, the Great 51st State, is a whimsical place with vociferous advocates needling me about the wondrous time I was bound to experience there. Rumors surfaced of beautiful sirens unknowing of their feminine charms, willing and able to speak with even the most poorly goateed travelers. Culture flashed from the mouths of these sojourners, whipping up tales of an elite populace sitting just behind the impenetrable slums of America's borders. I was intrigued, and promised to stay in only the nicest of hostels in this fair city, for slumbering in an auto was simply below the standards prematurely set forth by Toronto.


Domineering over the skyline was the CN tower, and I must say that it is nice to finally see something do my initials justice. The large tower pointed towards the sky in some phallic swords battle with the Washington Monument, but after having already experienced the joy of seeing inanimate objects from a high distance in St. Louis, I skipped my trip up. If I had to choose, though, I'd say that CN was bigger.

As for the city itself and the rumors surrounding it, they were for the most part true, except for the false parts. The women were beautiful, with a mix of culture surfacing in almost every one. If America is the boiling pot of different races and ethnicities, then the really hot amalgamation of women are poured into Toronto. Upon being poured, the city promptly tattoos and dresses them as if they were extras in a Billy Idol Concert. This held true for the most part of the city as an auru a British punk seemed to be injected into the majority of people as if shot from the proverbial Sex Pistol. This infusion of Europe did not, however, make Toronto the classier cultural counterpart of America. It was by and large simply another big time town in the United States, except for the part about Canada it not being United with our States. Just totally dependant on them.

My hostel was great, giving me a chance to sleep in a bed, which is all I can truly ask for in this trip. The place was littered with Brits and Aussies visiting for the summer and picking up women strictly with their accents and no effort whatsoever. Having one of these accents for a guy is like having big boobs for a girl, you don't have to bring anything to the conversation--just so long as you're in it.