When sending out my missive yesterday from the wireless connection at the Maryland campsite, I was able to scour the internet for the information I needed and devise my plan. We headed to Philadelphia through severe rain that fortunately missed us once we got to the city.
We got there just in time to get bilked for parking, to the tune of ten bucks; get bilked for tickets, to the tune of thirty bucks; get supremely hosed for a cheesesteak, nachos, a sprite, and a beer, to the tune of twenty-one bucks; all in order to catch the national anthem and what turned out to be Shay's first Major League Baseball game, between the hometown Phillies and the Milwaukee Brewers.
Apparently, while I was overseas, the Star Spangled Banner went through some revisions; either that or "o'er" had been removed from the lexicon, as the presumably acclaimed singing duo, "FAVOR", replaced all instances of the word with "for". I have no doubt that FAVOR didn't make the change themselves, nor, as accomplished singers, could they not realize that for metric harmony sometimes one must excise a pesky consonant. Yes, it made much more sense to hear, "FOR the ramparts we watched/ were so gallantly streaming".
During the ride before and after the game, I took the opportunity to practice what I like to think of the "Andre" method of educating. I made Shay pull out the atlas and had him start studying the states and the capitals; then I quizzed him. When it got to the point that he seemed bored and wasn't paying attention (approximately .3 seconds after I handed him the atlas), I introduced what makes the Andre method so darn effective: violence. It took him awhile of being punched in the same shoulder, but eventually he stopped forgetting that Boston was the capital of Massachusetts and that Detroit was in Michigan. Pain is the greatest educator. Thanks for teaching me that, Dad.
Shay tolerated the game, which was won by the Brewers, solely because there had been a promotion where all kids under 14 had received a Phillies batting helmet. I suppose that's a difference between me and Shay. I would rather read an atlas than figure out myriad ways to wear a batting helmet for three hours.
After the game, on the way out of town, I was resolved to fix the odor problem. After an afternoon baking in the Philly sun, the boy was ripe. In addition to the feet, we had a new underarm stench. That was not going to stand. We got out into the suburbs and I pulled into a K-Mart.
My first move was to go directly to the shoe department. Shay's shoes are beyond saving, so, though I know that there's no way in hell that a kid who can afford to will wear K-Mart shoes (I wouldn't at that age), I bought him a pair of cheap shoes, which I told him he only had to wear on this trip and then could set on fire as far as I was concerned. That was just the initial barrage against the wretched smells as I figured there was no reason to take any chances and bought the economy size of foot powder. After getting that and a few other things for the trip, including anti-perspirant for the boy, I made him change shoes and socks in the parking lot and dumped half the foot powder into the old shoes and socks, as well as the new socks before he put them on.
The drive to New York was relatively pleasant, for me at least, as we continued to work on US geography. Actually, that's not quite true. When he'd called the capital of New Hampshire "contour" and "condor" for the eightieth time, I punched his shoulder so much that I hurt my hand and had to switch to knocking and slapping. Since then still hasn't forgotten Concord, though he does wince when he's saying it.
I was brilliant enough to gauge my fuel consumption so that we would be nearly on empty just as we hit Manhattan. I exposed the boy to some grade-A soldier speak, expletives, as we fought traffic to get to Queens. Why would we be headed to Queens one might ask? Easy, we were pulling off that rare gem, the double city Major League doubleheader. My Cubs were playing the Mets, so there was no way I was missing that if I just happened to be within a few hundred miles. I didn't spring the idea on Shay, until we were nearly in the parking lot of Shea ("your stadium," I said to placate him). Surprisingly, he thought the idea of going to two games in two different towns was cool, even if his eyes glazed over once we sat down in our seats.
I resolved to not spend as much money on the game, so other than the thirty for tickets, which I bought from a stereotypically obnoxious New Yorker ("Gimme a break, buddy; you're bustin' my balls… alright, tell ya what? How's about yous gimme thirty? They're good seats. Swear to God."), and the twelve for parking, we didn't buy anything. Shea was yet again given a "toy", this time a Pedro Martinez bobble-head doll, so he was as entertained as ever. I was thoroughly annoyed to watch the Mets beat the Cubs like red-headed step-children and glumly trudged back to the car.
Shay was thrilled that there was a homerun hit (by the #@#!ing Mets), though he hadn't seen when the guy hit it, merely watched it clear the fence. I'm going to have to teach this kid that you have to earn the big payoff, otherwise it's just like paying a woman of ill repute instead of making sure to do all the fake-smiling, dinner-buying, door-opening, and false-compassioning that it takes to do the job right.
P.S. The main reason I don't like it up north? It's cost us $29.00 in tolls so far (to Boston).
No comments:
Post a Comment