"Hooters!"

"Woooooo! Wine!"

Well, actually, it was the Kaz Bar in Scottsdale. Lots o' fancy wine and crap. Steve, Dawn & Brandy went there after lunch, and Ron and I met them after watching "Zodiac" (great movie, by the way). So we all got good and liquored up and headed to a night game at Phoenix Muni.

A lovely evening for a ballgame.

And thank god it was a night game. It hit 102 today. Though thanks to the movie and the bar, I didn't have to use sunscreen once.


I've never hit a woman. But tonight I came close. The fucking woman behind me, who better have been Mike Piazza's grandma, almost blew my ear out with her incessant, shrill cheers for Mike "I'm Still Not Gay" Piazza. My boos for him grew in proportion to her cheers. And when I got up for a hot dog & beer, I got back to find her with her nasty-ass feet on my seat, and her peanut/Papago-dirt covered feet on my seat. I sat down after a nice nasty glance and a long, obvious, brush-off of the seat. Yeah, I'm not passive-aggressive or anything.

Meanwhile, the seats Steve sold to the meth-head were used by some overly friendley, three-generational family. The youngest, a kid who was maybe 10, randomly stood up and shouted "Hooters!" at one point.

They also had the lamest between-inning entertainment ever: Dudes dressed in gold star outfits doing "Dancing With the Stars" routines on the dugouts with a mix of hot chicks in purple dresses and random fans.

This is a bit of a non-sequiter, but fucking Phoenix drivers are the fucking worst in the fucking country. Holy shit, what a bunch of fucking morons. But I digress. . .

So now we're home, I'm a little buzzed, the gals are playing pool, and the guys are eating burgers and watching the romantic comedy "For the Love of the Game." Go figure.