Day nine belongs to me.

Woke up that morning fully aware of what day it was. I just didn't know how we were going to spend it. After countless walks on the beach, laps in the pool, trips to the mini golf course, applications of aloe on sun burned skin, cocktails and the spending of lots of money, we were ready for it. I'm talking about the last day of spring break.

Unable to go in any direction due to the locust-like swarming of tourists at the entrance to Ft. Myers Beach, we knew we weren't going to drive anywhere. The wife and kids headed down to the "square" for an air-brush tattoo and a souvenir or two. And alone there I sat, contemplating how to spend my final hours in paradise. I decided after doing what the kids wanted for 8 days, day 9 was going to be mine. So I threw on my shorts and sun-block, now down to SPF 4, (thank-you Nan and Pop for my Italian skin) and headed for the pier.

Bikini's and umbrellas as far as the eye could see, I trudged down the length of the pier, and plopped down $15 for a fishing rod and bait. By far, the biggest deal of the trip. Hooking a squid head onto my hook, I ignored the "no casting" sign and flung my rig as far as I could, watched it settle to the shallow bottom, and began what would be the best of my past 8 days. 15 minutes in, I got my first reward, a baby Bonnet Head Shark. This was no coincidence, the shark, it was what I was hoping for. I got lucky on the first one, having snagged it's fin, and the hook came off easily to the growing crowd of astonished beach goers. I let little kids, college girls, and a few parents touch and/or hold the catch. Shark skin, if you've never felt it, is like running your hand on like wet 1500 grit sandpaper. I was an instant star.

Over the course of the next 6 hours, I managed to pull in a total of 5 baby sharks, Bonnet Heads and Black Tips. Would have been 6 but the biggest one of the day was too heavy on the meager line, and having to pull it up some 20 feet from the water to the pier, it flopped off inches from the top. No worries, it was a day in paradise for me. It was even more enjoyable that the obnoxious New Yorker to my right got shut out. (Do they ever talk about anything but the damn Yankees?) The kids each pulled in one, and they visited me from time to time, asking if/when I was coming back to the room. I never wanted to leave, and only did so when my bait ran out. But was I being selfish? Abandoning the troops for some American pastime? If I was, I didn't care. This was my day, and I'm sure I won't get another one like it for a very long time.

A cell phone, a taco, and the tale of 2 Chicago cops.

The Guitarman knows, unequivocally, that he is prone to ramble. I'm like a little stone at the top of a hill. Get me going, and nothing can stop me. Except of course the bottom of the hill. Which might tend to hurt if I get going to fast. So today, lets try small doses of a new feature I like to call: Things that piss me off. And I promise I will not talk about cheesehead drivers. (Oops, I just did, tee-hee) And as usual, I get my morning fuel from the Chicago Suntimes. (Which brings me to a side note: that 80% of people get their news from an online source, thus leaving me feel a bit dinosaur-ish)

Hit on head by armrest while using cell phone in in theater, woman sues. Some headlines are so descriptive, there is no point in actually writing the ensuing article. First of all, stupid bitch got what she deserved. How is it that some people feel they are entitled to do whatever they want no matter what it does to other people? She says she was hunched forward to "discreetly" hold her conversation. Wow, where to even start with this one. That big blaring sign on the screen that says TURN OFF CELL PHONES wasn't clue enough? She was probably talking to someone and didn't see it. And I'm positive that seat positioning has a lot to do with the volume of your voice, hunching forward probably toned it down at least a decibel or two. That's when the armrest hit her on the head so hard she had to go to the hospital with a concussion. And here's the best part. It was in 2008. It took her two years to decide she had suffered grievously enough to be awarded monetary compensation from the heinous act of the movie theater seat. Either that or she just awoke from the coma she was in. Here's a tip Ms. Taj Showers. When you go to a movie, SHUT THE F*&K UP AND WATCH THE DAMN MOVIE!


Rep ripped for Latinos, tacos remark. Now here is a headline with the opposite effect. I saw that the rep in question is Monique Davis, previously ripped on this page for the whole statue in her office thing. I was ready to cast her into a fiery pit for continuing to be a menace to the people she is supposed to serve. But guess what? I'm on her side. Responding to a bill to license hair braiders, here is part of her offending remark: "...you do not license a Chinese person to sell Chinese food. You do not license a Latino to sell tacos..." Had she substituted "Mexican food" for "tacos", I would be talking about something else in this space. But did I miss something? Aren't taco's Mexican food, most probably being made and sold by someone of Latin descent? The two Hispanic alderman on the floor immediately were "appalled" that someone was making fun of their ethnicity. So while Ms. Davis was guilty of generalizing, it's a bit of a stretch to think she was being racist in her remarks. More than likely the two offended alderman were feeling a bit left out that morning and noticed the chance to grandstand a little bit. We are becoming a nation obsessed in avoiding hurting someones feelings, lest they sue you for it.

And lastly, Pair allege cop abuse. Ok no need to tell anyone that Chicago cops have been hurled through the press on abuse charges lately, be it female bartender beating Anthony Abbate, or forced confession super hero John Burge, both of which are soon to see some jail time. But the old phrase "Serve and protect" begs the question here, serve and protect who? Two ordinary guys coming out of a taco joint, excuse me, Mexican food joint, were severely beaten by two plainclothes cops at 3am for the crime of being "nerds". Chances are, lots of alcohol was involved, but these poor guys not only had their noses broken and were left unconscious, but the responding uniformed officers were less than accommodating. They didn't file a report, they didn't call these guys an ambulance, and in fact told them to "go home and forget the incident ever happened." These guys did go home, but called 911 instead of letting it go. The 911 dispatcher actually dismissed the allegation and they had to drive themselves to the hospital. Wow again. The city that works right? I think I will be buying my tacos, EXCUSE ME, Mexican food in Gurnee from now on.

Idaho. That's a state out west, right?

There's a road out west,
Don't go nowhere, and back again.
You can try your best,
won't get you there, my friend, my friend,
you go back again to Idaho...

I was reading the blog of a friend last week, (see my blog list to the right, hell he IS my blog list) and he's pretty funny most of the time. I never really am sure if he is making the shit up, or is more or less relating his real life to us. The funny part for me, is that I can imagine him as he describes being "all jammied up" with a beer in his hand walking around his apartment contemplating his life. And I contemplate mine too, thinking to myself well at least I don't live in Idaho.

OK, kidding!! Now before anyone gets their dander up, let me start by saying that I did live in Idaho, actually, for about 3 years as I went to college in Pocatello. I loved every minute of it. Major awesome skiing everywhere, away on my own for the first time in my life, (ok second, the one semester trial run in Tampa didn't work out, I admit, I was homesick), joined my first band with my jammied friend, basically it was one of the best times in my life. But you see, I am a suburban boy, of the Chicago variety, meaning I live close enough to one of the great cities of this country to enjoy all it's assets, yet far enough away that I can avoid it's many pitfalls. You know, murder, politics, taxes, city stuff. And one of the great attributes is being able to see just about any touring artist as no one would DARE leave Chicago off of it's schedule (you here me Peter Gabriel?). But in Pocatello, Idaho? Good luck.

In 3 years at school, exactly 2 concerts came to town. Bon Jovi, (sorry, not a fan), and Van Halen. Not really into VH at the time, I was more into openers BTO, a good 300+ pounds and 10 years past their prime, but I went anyway. Decent show, no swinging across the stage David Lee Roth, but with the newly crowned Sammy Hagar. I did manage to see a few more shows during my time there, but like I said, they were not in Pocy. Now around here, within one hours drive, there has to be a good 50 different place to see a national act, including all the intimate venues and massive arenas from Chicago to Milwaukee. But in Idaho? We had to drive 4 hours to Salt Lake City, Utah, to see Frank Zappa and UB40. Occasional trips to Boise as well, but they got about twice as many shows as Pocatello did, which to say, ain't much.

Living out west is living in isolation. Let me clarify. You leave Gurnee, IL in any direction, you hit Libertyville or Waukegan or Grayslake or Wadsworth or any number of tiny municipalities. And when you leave those you hit more of the same. And so on, and so on... Leave Pocatello in any direction and you will be a good 20 minutes from the next town. That's just the way it is. Thus, for some odd reason it always felt like I was living a good 10 years earlier than in any part of the country, like Pocy was trailing the rest of the country by a decade and liked it that way. I have no physical evidence to back this up, but it just felt like I was in a time machine every time school was up for the summer and I went back home.

The above mentioned quote is from a song I wrote about, duh, Idaho. My time there did leave a lasting impression on me no doubt, but there was never any intention to stay. (Unlike my buddy Lucky who went out west with me and has sort of melted into the landscape and has now become a fixture in Jackson, CO.) So when I say I am glad that I am not walking around my house in Idaho in my PJ's, drunk at 5pm on a Friday wondering how I screwed up my life, I am content that I am walking around my house in Illinois in my PJ's, drunk at 5pm on a Friday wondering how I screwed up my life. But doing so in Gurnee somehow makes it all better.

The Hendrix Experience, with only a one point deduction from the Russian judge.

Holy guitar strings Batman! Just sat through 3 amazing hours of modern interpretations of Jimi Hendrix's indelible music. Billy Cox from the original Band of Gypsies, Robert Randolph, Susan Tedeshi, Johnny Lang, Eric Johnson, Kenny Wayne Sheppard, Ernie Isley, David Hidalgo, Brad Whitford, Chris Layton, Living Color, and last but not least Joe Satriani, all took turns making this one of the most memorable concerts I have seen in years. And even slightly disappointed in no-show Doyle Bramhall II, the night was a 10. OK, the music was a 10, but I have to give the night on a whole a 9 for one dubious reason.

Not to distract from the awesome display of guitar fueled rock that spanned from the beautiful (Wind Cried Mary), to the powerful (Foxy Lady), to the psychedelic (3rd Stone From the Sun), I still have to take away a point. It wasn't for the 90 minute drive through rush hour traffic, we were not in a hurry. It wasn't for the $30 for 3 hours of parking, a deal no doubt. And it wasn't for the $5 lemonade either at the Chicago theater, (half a bottle of what is overpriced at $1.79 at a gas station, but I digress). Nope, I have to detract a point for the couple that sat to my right.

When we took our seats, about 20 rows back, there was nobody in our row. As the seats filled in, the pair to my right remained empty, and I hoped that it was some rich asshole who bought the tickets on a whim, only to wimp out and stay at home favoring a couple of vodka tonics and a re-run of Wall Street on HBO. Even the girl right in front of me was about 5'4". Awesome. Right up until the lights went down, and the woman from hell took her seat. First thing I noticed was the over abundance of perfume. She could have left the bottle at home, but instead smelled like she had just bathed in it in the ladies room. When the first song started, as people do, she worked herself up into a frenzy, screaming over the singer. But it wasn't a Yeah! or a Whoo! Ever heard the battle cry of a blood lusting terrorist? That shrill scream that sounds a bit like a Native American from the frontier days? Over and over and over, all bloody night long. And it came at the most inopportune times. Not, say, at the end of the song when everyone else is whooping and clapping.

And there were other annoyances. Like trying to have a conversation with me in the middle of one of the guitarists personal stories about Jimi. Would have been nice to hear that. Or her telling me she had to go pee as she was stepping on my foot attempting to squeeze down the aisle. To much info, but thanks. But as they left, I was thinking that maybe I would get lucky and her boyfriend would switch seats with her. That is until he stepped on my foot as well, thus allowing me to know what it's like to have a 400 pound man step on your toes. And they did this like 3 or 4 times, always in the middle of a song, always ruining a moment when I could have otherwise been enjoying some amazing music. We never left our seats, but the approximately 600-650 combined pounds of human flesh needed to go in and out like they were subbing at a basketball game.

The night was not ruined, as it sounds like here. Just a minor point deduction for atmosphere. In the end, I did got my wish. The boyfriend sat next to me when they returned, forget about using that armrest. Hell, forget about using the right side of my seat. The people behind us must have thought my buddy and I were gay, the way I was snuggling up to him. (He did smell nice) Thus is the moral of today's story. An amzing night no doubt, but be careful what you wish for.

Holy crap, what the hell is that?

Everyone has there morning routines, right? Some jump out of bed, put on the running shoes, and hit the pavement. Some wake up their spouse and play hide the salami. Me, I'm less ambitious, but monotonous just the same. Feed the cats, start the coffee, grab the paper, and read it cover to cover. At some point between the sports and Zwecker, I move from the dining table to the throne room to do a little side business. Like I said, I am regular and robotic, in more ways than one. Anyone or anything that disturbs the morning routine is heavily frowned upon. Thus it was today as I was leaving the throne room.

Without getting extremely technical or disgusting, lets just say when it comes to colors, you really only do expect to see only two. I mean, it's either yellow or brown right? If there is on occasion red, then yea you would probably seek the opinion of your doctor. But as I gazed at the wonder I had created this morning, I was dumbfounded. You're not supposed to see green. Had I consumed too much seaweed last night? A few California rolls, but that was minimal. Sometimes too many carrots will give way to an orange tint, but this is weird. I did eat like crap, pardon the pun, yesterday. I am not proud of it, but 2 trips to McDonald's with a hot dog squeezed in between is not exactly living like Euell Gibbons. But what in the hell is that I am looking at? Should I call the emergency room?

It was the wife, finally, who figured it out. A slave to the trend, I cannot make it through the St. Patricks Day holiday without partaking in the most sacred of traditions, the Shamrock Shake. Green dye. Who knew?

Big Brother vs. The Common Man: No contest.

They are no sure things in life, except death and taxes so the saying goes. Just when you think you have something all figured out, a curve ball out of left field blows the lid off of your theory. Most of the time. But I think I have found another sure thing. Bring up the words "abortion" or "guns" in an election year, and it is a virtual certainty that the left and the right will put each others in their cross hairs and pull the metaphorical trigger.

Abortion is the one topic that really leaves me scratching my head going, huh? I mean, every election year, the same tired arguments are rehashed over and over. Does anyone really believe that that the supreme court is going to overturn the infamous Roe vs. Wade? Some actually do, but I don't. And when a politician uses RvW as a cornerstone of their platform, I am thinking, Is this all you got?

But today's real topic is the matter of guns and the Supreme Court case of McDonald vs. Chicago. Jesse Jackson, Mayor Daley, and Neil Steinberg all seem to think that we will all be better off if we leave well enough alone. That is, let the really nasty bad guys have all the fun while the rest of the city sit at home hoping that tonight isn't the night when some lunatic with no soul is going to bust through a back window and shoot us while we sleep as a favor to a friend. I am talking about the Darien murders and how today's headlines could read, "Hero Father Only Doing His Job: Protecting His Family", or "Slain Gunman's Motive Still Unknown". Yes, you can argue semantics, like Darien isn't Chicago, but I don't think I really need to pull out any instances of this happening within the city limits, do I? Jesse argues that the real meaning of the second amendment was to ensure that militia's would be adequately armed when called upon to fight for their country. But is there a big difference in fighting to protect a union or fighting to protect your family? Yesterdays Confederate soldiers are today's Latin Kings, both are/were trying to disrupt your very way of life.

I know the counter-argument. A gun in the home leads to accidents that we can avoid by not having a gun in the home. Which in turn leads me to the point of my morning rant, and is in effect the very thing that really puts gas in The Guitarman's tank. The dumbing down of the world to save us from ourselves. Just because some people are too ignorant or too stupid to take the precautionary measures of ensuring accidents will not happen, the rest of us are protected for our own good. Whether it's guns in the home, no turn on red signs at every intersection, warning labels on lawn mowers, or whatever, because of the stupid actions of a few, the majority has to suffer. Big brother is here to protect us from ourselves. Thanks for that, but I would prefer to make a few decisions for myself. Like whether or not I want to be at the mercy of some loser pointing a gun at me in my bedroom at 3am.

Look, I am sure the founding fathers could not have imagined the world we live in, nor the debate that still rages on today over the 2nd amendment. They didn't have to deal with gun-toting, soul-less gang bangers in 1776. There were no stop lights. There were no lawn mowers. And there certainly weren't lawsuits with punitive damages in the gazillions of dollars because someone burned their thighs on a cup of McDonald's coffee. But I can only guess here, that they probably leaned toward less government and giving people the benefit of the doubt. Something that seems impossible today, given the path on which our government walks. A path that will no doubt lead to helmets and body armour for all so that we won't hurt ourselves when we trip over a crack in the sidewalk and get a boo-boo on our chin.

A Close Encounter Of The Rodent Kind.

So today as I was getting home around 4:30, I did what I normally do when it's winter. Grab as much of the crap that is turning my van into one of those curbside garbage cans that I can, and carry it into it's respective place. First stop, recycle bin. With my lunch box, cell phone, car keys, McDonald's bags filled with garbage, and sunglasses all being deftly clung to by one or more fingers, I try and drop the empty water bottles into the little yellow recycling bin just inside the garage door. It was at that precise moment that I had a close encounter of the rodent kind.

No, I am not afraid of mice. I used to have them as pets. Until the little buggers started breeding like, er, mice. One or two is cute. Five or more is Willard. And it wasn't a rat. Never seen one in Gurnee. Saw a couple in Chicago that were big enough to pull a dog sled, but never here. Nope, I was about a foot and a half away from the gaping, hideous, hissing mouth of a possum. Scared the freakin' bejesus out of me! I actually went Nyaaahhh!! You know that sound, the one that Curly would make in every episode when something was wrong. He, or more likely she looking for a place to have some little hissing babies, was all nestled up with a pizza box as a bed and a newspaper as a blanket.

So I dumped my load of crap in the house, and tried to get the little bastard to budge. He wasn't going anywhere. I kick the bin. He hisses again. At least I think he's hissing when he opens up and bares his teeth in crocodile like fashion. I grab a stick and push the bin into the driveway. He ain't budgin'. So finally I turn the thing over thinking it would freak out and scamper, but apparently freaking out and scampering aren't exactly in this guys repertoire. So I lift the bin and shake the contents out, including the offender. He finally gets the hint, but just before he waddled away around the corner of the house, he looked at me, and in one instant he said with his eyes, "You fucker! I was all warm and cozy, the perfect spot! Food in the big blue thing right next to me, no blistering wind blowing up my ass. What gives you the right to kick me out into the cold, bitter winter again!" Or something like that.

Last night the wife had me look in the garage because she swore she heard something. I tried to give a listen, but he must have been playing possum at that point. And is it possum, or opossum? Does it matter? They have the grossest, most hideous, evil, snaggle-toothed grin of any animal out there. Except maybe the hyena. But I guess a possum is sort of a rodent-like hyena. But who's laughing now bitch?

The invasion of the teen-aged teenager!!

Our house, by most standards, is modest. Not a lot of room for us to spread out. When we moved in, it seemed bigger I remember. I guess because the kids were smaller would be as good a reason as any. But I feel some days like there is nowhere to go. Wife napping up in our room. Girls watching TV in living room. Boys, well duh. Playing video games in the basement. It's what they do. It is becoming increasingly clear to me that the teenagers are taking over our house. And not just mine.

A two teenager household, as some of you can attest to, is hardly ever a two teenager household. It's, on average, more like 3-5. They seem travel in packs and secretly coordinate their plans to all be in my house at the same bloody time. But I'm the cool dad, I can't say no. And it's getting to the point now that when the younger friends of my 16 year old son are actually the same age as the older friends of my almost 14 year old daughter, the hormone factor comes into play and that raises the ante considerably. Now I have to keep an eye on them again. Damn, I thought I was done with that when they were like 6.

And dare I mention the food? Holy crap they graze like stoned Australian cattle that have the munchies. $200 at the Jewel is gone in a weekend if I don't hide some of the stuff. The basement is littered with empty bags of chips and pop tart wrappers and water bottles and cereal boxes. And I swear something is wrong with my son. I thought I was going to have to scoop out the toilet kitty litter style this morning, I shit you not.

In the summer it's easy. I kick them outside and lock all the doors. But in the dead of winter with spring break teasing us with like 4 weeks to go, we're like that puff ball John Belushi squirted out of his mouth. I'm a zit. Get it? All of us little powder kegs ready to explode at any time. I can't wait for vacation. At least the only teenagers I will be dealing with for a week will be mine. I hope.

Counting the days, yea.

I can see it on the horizon. And I swear I can smell it. That early morning smell that says, "...the little caplets of dew evaporating into the morning sunshine that will soon give way to the slight gulf breeze wafting across your nasal passage as droplets of sweat wind their way off your torso like miniature streams beginning to form..." Got it yet? You know that smell the minute you step off the airplane, or the first morning you wake up in a strange bed. I am talking about VACATION. I am talking, of course, about southwest Florida.

Our home away from home for every spring break since I can remember. We love Ft. Myers Beach. Love everything about it. The crowd, the beach, the mini-golf, the fishing charters, the wave runners, the pools, the Edison museum, the music wafting down the shoreline from the one man band guitar players in every bar, and even the performance artist on the corner that has spray painted himself and his bicycle gold. (And the scantily clad spring breakers with their tatoos and naval rings are just a bonus.) But I guess there is one thing I don't really like. Okay two. All the money I am going to dump, and the kids bickering, from everything we aren't going to do today to the do-over they should have got on the 7th hole at Jungle Golf. Is it too much to ask to leave it at home and, I don't know, actually enjoy ourselves?

And why the heck do they charge like $30 bucks for a family of 4 to play mini-golf? Oh yea, because they can. It's a money pit I know. You can't be a tourist without actually being charged like one. There are other, possibly cheaper, places to vacation, I know. But it has been my home away from home since I was like 10. Some people are into exploring the world. We are into Florida.

Now close your eyes, and imagine you are in you ideal vacation paradise. Got it? Now imagine you leave in 4 weeks. It's torture, isn't it? Knowing you have to stay in the real world while this Eden-like paradise beckons you like a mermaid to a lonely sailor. So I am counting the days. Counting the days until I don't have to look at snow. Counting the days until I don't have to drive someone to a basketball game. Counting the days until I can wake up in the morning and know all of my troubles are behind me. Sort of.

From die hard Cubs fan to just plain dead.

Like many of my local brethren, I am a Cubs fan. I guess at one point you could say I was of the die hard variety. In the famous "Bartman" series, I specifically remember game 7, and how I hoped with all my heart, that the Cubs would pull it off and go to the World Series. My head, however, was a bit more realistic. I knew deep down that the night would end in misery, as I literally couldn't watch. I mean, the game was on, but I had my head covered by a pillow, only furtively peeking out when it seemed there was some glimmer of hope. I also remember 1984, when the team was up 2-0 on the Padres, only to watch them dump 3 in a row in the biggest choke fest I had ever witnessed. That is, until Bartman came along. I was screaming at the TV in game 5, alone in my living room at school in Idaho, isolated from the real world. But alas, I think I may have attended my last game at Wrigley Field.

As ticket prices and "fan-demonium" have soared over the years, I have been attending less and less each year. When tickets go on sale to the public, it's almost unfathomable that after a very short time, like a couple of days, all that is left are single seat tickets for 81 games. With 41,118 seats to every home game, that's 3,330,558 tickets gone in a blink of an eye. So that leaves me with StubHub.com, a legal ticket scalping website where ticket prices go up 2x, 3x, hell even 5x face value. And with 2 kids, and 4 tickets to purchase, and hot dogs and pop and beer and cotton candy and peanuts to buy, the average game, with less than average seats, is a piggy bank breaker. That is, for someone like me. Unemployed and lower middle class wage earning even when I have a job.

So, aside from the fact that prices go up every year, as team wins seem to go down every year, we now learn that the Rickett's family, the saviors from everything Tribune and Zell, are just in it for the money after all. In case you haven't heard, there is a "pre-sale" this year. It's open to everyone, of course. Everyone that has enough money to blow between $250 and $500 for 3 hours of "fun at the old ballpark". Oh wait, there's a catch. For this honor, you have to fork up an additional 20%. Getting tickets on the day they go on sale have just gotten even harder. So it seems, the chasm between the haves and have-not's just got a little wider. And I thought Sam Zell was the greedy one.

Flashback yet again. Late 70's, early 80's, the gang used to drive to Skokie, catch the swift to Wrigley, buy a ticket at the gate, and sit in a section all by ourselves, the entire day costing like $20. I know, 30 years of inflation, yada, yada, yada. But that misses the point. It used to be fan friendly, or more to the point, wallet friendly. The brass didn't have some unbelievable marketing tool they could sell back then, but boy do they have one now. As other old ballparks across the nation succumb to time, Wrigley's magnificent wonder only continues to grow.

We used to be very lucky. Some close family friends have some season passes on the home dugout and we have been lucky enough to snare some each year. I was willing to cough up a few extra bucks for the privilege of these premium seats, each year cringing a little bit more as I wrote the check. This year? Those 4 tickets, along with the requisite parking pass, is almost $500. That's like 2 weeks of groceries for us. Or almost half a mortgage payment. How can I justify that? No, I am afraid that short of finding some tickets on the street, our Cub watching days at Wrigley Field have come to a close. I guess I am going to have to wait until my kids are grown up and can afford to take me to a ball game, because the Cubs have priced themselves out of my budget. Thanks a lot Rickett's family. I guess they're keeping one recent tradition alive. Greed.