(For those unfamiliar, Margaritis is a chorinic infirmity that occurs only in warm weather and is characterized by extreme sobriety. The only cure is Margaritas.)
The reality of getting shut out of the Saturday package is just starting to set in. We only had it for two years, so we have no right to be all up in arms about not being able to renew it. Our friend Nick sat in the same seats everyday for seven years and got cast aside also.
I love the New Stadium and I understand the implications of he price increases. There are fewer seats to begin with, even before you get into the effects of the "relocation". The people who were in the most expensive seats got bumped back, thereby displacing those further back in the field level, which echoed through the mezzanine, into the upper deck, and eventually trickled down to half season packages, 40 & 20 game plans, and at the bottom of the food chain to the poor schlubs like us with weekend deals.
It would be a lot easier to swallow if we didn't have to look at pictures like this, and this, and this, and this, and this, reminding us of the fact that we got fucked for the sake of people who no longer exist. I don't care what Randy Levine says, behind closed doors there is some serious handwringing going on. Over a month ago, we pointed out the fact that the Yankees were getting desperate and saw the writing on the wall.
It's too late now. The Structure That Mariano Rivera Erected has been completed and the prices have been set. Some people (er, corporations) have already bought packages at full prices and I highly doubt that the Yankees are going to piss off their best customers by selling the seats directly next to them at a discount. The bottom line is that, for pretty much every game that doesn't feature the Mets or Red Sox, there are going to be a ton of people like us Fackfaces watching on YES while many of the best seats in the house sit unoccupied.
Hey, there's always next year, right?
In other, happier news, it's fucking beautiful outside.
Every year, when the weather starts getting nice, people who live above the Tropic of Cancer (or below the Tropic of Capricorn) start asking themselves the same question: "Why do I live in a place where there is Winter, again?" We forget, but once the mercury passes the 60 degree mark, life becomes a whole lot sweeter.
Exhibit A, captured last night:
Oh, the Boat Basin. What would summer on the West Side be without you?
That's all for now folks. Although I just figured out how to post from my iPhone, so there may or may be some drunken dispatches from Section 416 once game time rolls around.
In the meantime, get out and get some fresh air: