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I scored more free Yankees tickets . . . this time versus Baltimore. I rang up my best boy (pictured far right — click for a big pic) and asked him to join me for a last minute adventure to the Bronx. Lucky for me he said yes, and off we were on the 4/5 Uptown Express to watch the Bronx Bombers prevail yet again.

It was quite the perfect baseball game . . . lots of excellent plays, perfect weather and, my food group staple: beer mixed with hot dogs and mustard. Really nothing of importance happened, and I thought how telling that is of New York that so many absurd and wonderfully bizarre things happen so regularly that when I have just an amazing, perfect date it seems unworthy of a journal entry. That somehow if no one took a tumble down a flight of stairs, if I didn’t catch a foul ball with my beer mug or see a homeless guy take a dump in someone’s nachos, that I might as well have been comatose. That somehow to just simply laugh and talk and hug and have sex in the bleachers while being filmed on the jumbo-tron is equivalent to my sitting on the couch eating an entire can of Salt n’ Vinegar Pringles while watching a Forensic Files marathon. Well, it’s not. It’s messier, and apparently it’s illegal. Who knew?