Concession lit.
At the Indians game last night Hannah pointed to a near-by vendor and said, "Outside of this seat, would you ever buy anything from that guy?" I followed her invisible-finger-ray-pointing-device to find a man who hadn't had a shave or a haircut in nearly a decade. When he smiled, or tried to, you were treated to a flash of beautiful brown teeth, and his eyes looked like those of a senile 80-somethinng on a poor 40-something's face. Sparking my curiosity, I scanned the area for this guy's coworkers. There was a 20-something guy who definitely had at least a bonus 47th chromosome, a guy who was a definite veteran who couldn't find a job who made me wonder if he shuddered at every crack of the bat from PTSD, and a beerman who looks like he's still clutching to his 1983 Cokebottle glasses because he hasn't been able to afford a new pair since.
All of this, it made me sad.
I remember being a kid, and thinking of the sporting event vendors as having a respectable job. These people were so visible it was a job you could lump into the generic grade school fireman, policeman, president, teacher, what-does-Scottie-want-to-be-when-he-grows-up category. Now all I could imagine is this group of people, who definitely did not make it, having a meeting before the game. Picking at their asses and noses, getting distracted by butterfilies, and doing anything but paying attention. Yikes.
BOSS: Hey Karl, make sure to shout, "Lemon Ice," between pitches today.
KARL: Sorry, what was that boss? I was busy wiping my booger off on my sock.
Needless to say, we went to the concession stands to buy our Pepsi when the time came. For whatever reason, these are usually manned by competent teenagers and bored housewives. Alright, fine. Hannah went because I was too anal to miss a pitch.
The only other thing I have to comment on is my failed attempt at purchasing a book today. Everything I picked up in the lit section at Borders was pretentious crap. Too many adverbs and too much of nothing about nothing. Every story was based in Africa or NYC or China, or LA. If a novel were based in the midwest, they buried it in the cornfields of Indiana. Because, you know, if you can't relate to an exotic country or the two largest cities in the US, you are obviously a backward ass hick from small town usa. It's times like today, when I literally spend an hour in the lit section and walk away empty handed, when I wonder, how could I not be published?
Anyhow, I'm missing the Tribe put a small trouncing on the O's, so I shall be off for the time being.