Jake & Bake VII: The Postmortem
Two full weeks have passed since Jake & Bake VII--one which will forever live in infamy—and the statute of limitations has seemingly expired for any further investigations by officials. As such, it is safe to disclose the details.
Saturday kicked off innocently enough. After the pre-requisite viewing of a bad cable movie at the Wyndham Hotel ("Heat"), Sean, Tom and Chris headed out to Old Brooklyn for a pizza party at MikeN's. Due to his continued raucous behavior, Mike's 4-yr. old son, Andrew, was in constant danger of being arrested and placed into the spider jail. Violations included swinging too high, eating pizza, and taking a bath.
Around 5pm the group headed downtown to Cleveburg to convene at pre-heat HQ, Wilberts. They were soon joined by attendees Harry, John, the Hayster and special guest, Mike O'Connell. Luckily, extremely few of the 200+ seats were occupied by the three or four other bar patrons, so the crew basically had their run of the place. This included a marathon session at the bar-top video trivia game.
At roughly 6:30pm--"roughly", as in, no one was sober enough to have any idea what time it truly was--Chris, the Hayster and MikeO were engaged in a thoroughly detailed and scientific discussion of the current state of the pharmaceutical industry. At this point, a young "lady" sporting a tank top emblazoned with the phrase "Viva la Bam" sidled up next to the Hayster, nodding in agreement as he continued his soliloquy. Now while Chris was pretty sure he'd met Jack's future-wife-to-be last year, he wasn't sure if she and Viva la Bam were one in the same. Apparently, as it would soon be proven they were, and still are, not.
Turns out VLB was out with friends at the bar next door celebrating her 21st birthday. In the midst of her drunken stupor, she'd wandered away from the crowd, no doubt drawn by the effusive intellectual tomes emitting from Wilberts. She admitted she was "lost", though being 40 feet removed from said friends could hardly be considered as much. We briefly entertained her with by posing with her for some photos for the camera she'd brought, and continued with our in-depth conversations on the comparative ethical merits Pfizer vs. GlaxoSmithKline.
Shortly thereafter, a thuggish-looking character--we'll call him, "The Jackass"--entered our private bar and interrupted our innocence. The Hayster asked coyly, "Hey, do you know this girl? She says she lost her friends...". At that point, The Jackass stated, "She ain't lost," as he not-so-gently wrapped her head/neck in a semi camel-clutch position. The happy(?) couple then departed, and our time with VLB was over.
Or so we thought...
The two walked outside the bar and proceeded to (apparently) have a somewhat heated conversation on the deck, some 20 yards away from pharma-chat central. While the JB7'ers resumed their discussion, both Chris and Hayster noticed out of the corner of their collective eyes a flash of flesh, which they quickly, and accurately, interpreted at The Jackass popping VLB in the forehead with a forearm shiver. Agreeing on the events, they walked outside only to find a sobbing VLB standing alone on the deck. She was soon joined by one of her female "friends" (where the hell was she 20mins. ago?) who assured them that everything would be handled.
Our pharma boys then informed the rest of the attendees of the unbelievable events which had just unfolded. With heightened interest, a few of them wandered next door and pointed out The Jackass, still boozing away after his abusive tirade. Chris and Jack proceeded to quite obviously and emphatically point him out, going as far as to tell the details to a table of six or seven Ohio State jabronis seated near the door. By now, about ten guys were edging towards the next-door bar deck entrance to get a look at The Jackass. He eventually became aware that a number of boozed-up testosterone-ladened gents found more than a passing fancy in his antics and he jumped in a cab to leave for the evening.
Or so we thought...
A few minutes later, a couple of his buddies came next door to confirm what had occurred. We gave them the details, but did not feel especially comforted when one of them remarked, “Geez, this stuff happens a couple of times and you don't think much of it. But then he does it a third or fourth time and you start to wonder". Yeah, good observation, Einstein.
Close to 9pm, one member of the JB7 group reported back that the tarp was being removed from the playing field and the game would start shortly. The crew then wandered to the box office to get tickets--not from the box office, but from one of the many scalpers who circle the area like vultures in an attempt to unload their wares. Through the slick negotiations of counselor Donohue, we procured eight tickets for a mere $50. Not bad.
Proceeding into the Jake, it was clear that some time would pass before any baseball was in fact observed. A quick stop at the Pepsi Porch, a few beers from the nearby vendor, then off to the outfield gardens. Here the group decided to take in a few pitches while engaging in additional important conversations about critical topics such as child safety gates and the surprising Jagermeister availability nearby. Hopefully Dr. Pepper has details on the latter, as counselor Donohue admits to not recalling as such. By this point, events and chronology seemed to become shrouded in a veil of alcohol.
The group decided to start towards their seats soon thereafter. Chris and Tom opted to try their luck at the radar gun pitching game. Well, Chris, with Tom paying. But first, the fireballer needed a pre-game freshening at the loo. Approaching the head, he spotted none other than The Jackass, now attired in a different thuggish baseball shirt. Very smooth. Not.
Rejoining counselor Donohue, Chris noted, "Hey Tom--there's The Jackass who popped that girl from the bar", to which Tom replied with disagreement. I mentioned that he must have changed his shirt, but still had on the same hat and was talking with some of the other gaboons from earlier. Tom decided that something must be done about this, and told me he was going to talk to him. I knew very little good could come of this rapidly approaching series of events, but opted to watch from a distance.
Tom then approached The Jackass and inquired as to whether he was the guy who was "beating his girlfriend" before the game, to which he must have taken offense. I say this not because Tom told me as much, but because he then took a swing at Tom (but missed). His handlers quickly restrained him, and I scurried over to aid counselor Donahue, hopefully by getting him the hell outta there. As I was pulling him away, the police arrived, while a number of fans in the section began yelling at The Jackass who was still being restrained. (I later found out that he had been involved in some spitting incidents with these fans. Yeesh--busy night!) The police approached us for a recap of what had occurred after said fans gave them the low-down. Upon discussing the details, Tom was asked if he wanted to press charges, to which he then asked if he'd have to truck back to Cleveburg to testify. The answer being 'no', he happily agreed to press an assault charge against The Jackass. Our friend was led away in handcuffs to spend the rest of the night in jail.
These events would in themselves be more than enough for a memorable weekend. But it was just the start.
Finally completing their go at the pitching game (top speed: Chris, 71mph), the two insurgents decided to rejoin the rest of the group in the section 541 seats.
Or so we thought...
Walking up a stairway past the first club box level, I peered down the hallway to luxury, only to see the expected sentry guarding the entrance. However, no such sentry was posted at the second level of club boxes. "Hmmm," I wondered out loud to counselor Donohue. "Of course, the door is locked anyways."
It wasn't.
We walked in, and started strutting as if we belonged. "Of course," I continued to Tom, quietly, "each club box door is locked anyways."
They weren't.
We walked for a bit before trying one door, and then walking in. It looked as though someone had been in there previously, but no more. We opted to sit down and have a few beers. Sadly, we were disappointed that the beer selection was not so great--we opted for a couple of Lites. Pretty soon a club box cleaner & restocking lady came in. She asked if we were supposed to be in there. Duh, of course not. Counselor Donohue, however, noted “Yes”, but when prompted for our tickets, we confessed that we must have lost them. She then asked us to get lost, and we agreed to do so, if only temporarily.
Not having suckled sufficiently on the teat of the forbidden fruit that is the sporting arena luxury box, we strutted a bit further and found yet another vacant box (thank goodness for the Indians' recent 9-game losing streak). We once again entered freely, and sat at the barstools overlooking the field. Soon, we opted for another round of free beers, and made a few cell phone calls to let other losers know how much more we were enjoying the game, if only for the time being. I'd say we were in our "new" club box for the better part of 45 minutes.
Alas, all good things must come to an end, or at least that night our good thing must come to an end. The very same club box cleaner & restocking lady came in to our new box (I guess when you only have 3 or 4 club box owners show up each game, you don't need many helpers) and we once again went through the charade of "you sposed to be here", "yes", "where's yer ticket", "musta lost it", "get out". This time, upon exiting, we'd decided our luck had run out and I whispered to Tom that perhaps we should amscray to our "real" seats. Yea, our cleaner friend had had enough of our indiscretions and had already alerted the authorities. As we scurried towards a stairwell, I relayed to Tom, "don't look now but a couple of guys in suits are following us."
Indeed they were, and caught up with us in the concourse patio. We went through another round of the game (charade of "you sposed to be here", "yes", "where's yer ticket", "musta lost it") but with higher stakes and without the "get out" part...for now. Pretty soon we had three stadium box officials, the cleaner lady, two plainclothes cops and other official characters interrogating us like we'd just knocked off the local bank. Still clutching his 32oz beer procured when we first entered the Jake (but sipping ill-gotten spoils from elsewhere), Counselor Donohue took over the defense for the plaintiffs in "Jacobs Field v. Fillio/Donahue". The questioning included a walkthrough of the alleged box where we allegedly procured beers. In responding to their questioning, Tom answered that, yes, we were "mistakenly" in the club box but, no, "I didn't take any beers" (which was true--Chris was the one who had absconded the brews, not Tom). He apologized for any confusion and noted that we would be glad to pay for any missing brews. Throughout the questioning, our defense hinged on having some tickets (later "lost") from Tom's colleague or uncle or something, supposedly for the First American Bank suite (none such existed).
Eventually the posse dissipated to the two stocky plainclothes police who were tasked with escorting us out. They took down our address/information and walked us down to the street exit. One of them noted before this, "weren't you guys down on the lower level with that dude who got arrested for assault?", to which we acknowledged. Indeed, they must have thought, “these two guys are just trouble waiting to happen.” We left the Jake and returned to Wilberts to take in some horrific cover band music.
The remaining night's events are still to be told by other parties. This includes:
I defer to the other distinguished "gentlemen" for comment...
Saturday kicked off innocently enough. After the pre-requisite viewing of a bad cable movie at the Wyndham Hotel ("Heat"), Sean, Tom and Chris headed out to Old Brooklyn for a pizza party at MikeN's. Due to his continued raucous behavior, Mike's 4-yr. old son, Andrew, was in constant danger of being arrested and placed into the spider jail. Violations included swinging too high, eating pizza, and taking a bath.
Around 5pm the group headed downtown to Cleveburg to convene at pre-heat HQ, Wilberts. They were soon joined by attendees Harry, John, the Hayster and special guest, Mike O'Connell. Luckily, extremely few of the 200+ seats were occupied by the three or four other bar patrons, so the crew basically had their run of the place. This included a marathon session at the bar-top video trivia game.
At roughly 6:30pm--"roughly", as in, no one was sober enough to have any idea what time it truly was--Chris, the Hayster and MikeO were engaged in a thoroughly detailed and scientific discussion of the current state of the pharmaceutical industry. At this point, a young "lady" sporting a tank top emblazoned with the phrase "Viva la Bam" sidled up next to the Hayster, nodding in agreement as he continued his soliloquy. Now while Chris was pretty sure he'd met Jack's future-wife-to-be last year, he wasn't sure if she and Viva la Bam were one in the same. Apparently, as it would soon be proven they were, and still are, not.
Turns out VLB was out with friends at the bar next door celebrating her 21st birthday. In the midst of her drunken stupor, she'd wandered away from the crowd, no doubt drawn by the effusive intellectual tomes emitting from Wilberts. She admitted she was "lost", though being 40 feet removed from said friends could hardly be considered as much. We briefly entertained her with by posing with her for some photos for the camera she'd brought, and continued with our in-depth conversations on the comparative ethical merits Pfizer vs. GlaxoSmithKline.
Shortly thereafter, a thuggish-looking character--we'll call him, "The Jackass"--entered our private bar and interrupted our innocence. The Hayster asked coyly, "Hey, do you know this girl? She says she lost her friends...". At that point, The Jackass stated, "She ain't lost," as he not-so-gently wrapped her head/neck in a semi camel-clutch position. The happy(?) couple then departed, and our time with VLB was over.
Or so we thought...
The two walked outside the bar and proceeded to (apparently) have a somewhat heated conversation on the deck, some 20 yards away from pharma-chat central. While the JB7'ers resumed their discussion, both Chris and Hayster noticed out of the corner of their collective eyes a flash of flesh, which they quickly, and accurately, interpreted at The Jackass popping VLB in the forehead with a forearm shiver. Agreeing on the events, they walked outside only to find a sobbing VLB standing alone on the deck. She was soon joined by one of her female "friends" (where the hell was she 20mins. ago?) who assured them that everything would be handled.
Our pharma boys then informed the rest of the attendees of the unbelievable events which had just unfolded. With heightened interest, a few of them wandered next door and pointed out The Jackass, still boozing away after his abusive tirade. Chris and Jack proceeded to quite obviously and emphatically point him out, going as far as to tell the details to a table of six or seven Ohio State jabronis seated near the door. By now, about ten guys were edging towards the next-door bar deck entrance to get a look at The Jackass. He eventually became aware that a number of boozed-up testosterone-ladened gents found more than a passing fancy in his antics and he jumped in a cab to leave for the evening.
Or so we thought...
A few minutes later, a couple of his buddies came next door to confirm what had occurred. We gave them the details, but did not feel especially comforted when one of them remarked, “Geez, this stuff happens a couple of times and you don't think much of it. But then he does it a third or fourth time and you start to wonder". Yeah, good observation, Einstein.
Close to 9pm, one member of the JB7 group reported back that the tarp was being removed from the playing field and the game would start shortly. The crew then wandered to the box office to get tickets--not from the box office, but from one of the many scalpers who circle the area like vultures in an attempt to unload their wares. Through the slick negotiations of counselor Donohue, we procured eight tickets for a mere $50. Not bad.
Proceeding into the Jake, it was clear that some time would pass before any baseball was in fact observed. A quick stop at the Pepsi Porch, a few beers from the nearby vendor, then off to the outfield gardens. Here the group decided to take in a few pitches while engaging in additional important conversations about critical topics such as child safety gates and the surprising Jagermeister availability nearby. Hopefully Dr. Pepper has details on the latter, as counselor Donohue admits to not recalling as such. By this point, events and chronology seemed to become shrouded in a veil of alcohol.
The group decided to start towards their seats soon thereafter. Chris and Tom opted to try their luck at the radar gun pitching game. Well, Chris, with Tom paying. But first, the fireballer needed a pre-game freshening at the loo. Approaching the head, he spotted none other than The Jackass, now attired in a different thuggish baseball shirt. Very smooth. Not.
Rejoining counselor Donohue, Chris noted, "Hey Tom--there's The Jackass who popped that girl from the bar", to which Tom replied with disagreement. I mentioned that he must have changed his shirt, but still had on the same hat and was talking with some of the other gaboons from earlier. Tom decided that something must be done about this, and told me he was going to talk to him. I knew very little good could come of this rapidly approaching series of events, but opted to watch from a distance.
Tom then approached The Jackass and inquired as to whether he was the guy who was "beating his girlfriend" before the game, to which he must have taken offense. I say this not because Tom told me as much, but because he then took a swing at Tom (but missed). His handlers quickly restrained him, and I scurried over to aid counselor Donahue, hopefully by getting him the hell outta there. As I was pulling him away, the police arrived, while a number of fans in the section began yelling at The Jackass who was still being restrained. (I later found out that he had been involved in some spitting incidents with these fans. Yeesh--busy night!) The police approached us for a recap of what had occurred after said fans gave them the low-down. Upon discussing the details, Tom was asked if he wanted to press charges, to which he then asked if he'd have to truck back to Cleveburg to testify. The answer being 'no', he happily agreed to press an assault charge against The Jackass. Our friend was led away in handcuffs to spend the rest of the night in jail.
These events would in themselves be more than enough for a memorable weekend. But it was just the start.
Finally completing their go at the pitching game (top speed: Chris, 71mph), the two insurgents decided to rejoin the rest of the group in the section 541 seats.
Or so we thought...
Walking up a stairway past the first club box level, I peered down the hallway to luxury, only to see the expected sentry guarding the entrance. However, no such sentry was posted at the second level of club boxes. "Hmmm," I wondered out loud to counselor Donohue. "Of course, the door is locked anyways."
It wasn't.
We walked in, and started strutting as if we belonged. "Of course," I continued to Tom, quietly, "each club box door is locked anyways."
They weren't.
We walked for a bit before trying one door, and then walking in. It looked as though someone had been in there previously, but no more. We opted to sit down and have a few beers. Sadly, we were disappointed that the beer selection was not so great--we opted for a couple of Lites. Pretty soon a club box cleaner & restocking lady came in. She asked if we were supposed to be in there. Duh, of course not. Counselor Donohue, however, noted “Yes”, but when prompted for our tickets, we confessed that we must have lost them. She then asked us to get lost, and we agreed to do so, if only temporarily.
Not having suckled sufficiently on the teat of the forbidden fruit that is the sporting arena luxury box, we strutted a bit further and found yet another vacant box (thank goodness for the Indians' recent 9-game losing streak). We once again entered freely, and sat at the barstools overlooking the field. Soon, we opted for another round of free beers, and made a few cell phone calls to let other losers know how much more we were enjoying the game, if only for the time being. I'd say we were in our "new" club box for the better part of 45 minutes.
Alas, all good things must come to an end, or at least that night our good thing must come to an end. The very same club box cleaner & restocking lady came in to our new box (I guess when you only have 3 or 4 club box owners show up each game, you don't need many helpers) and we once again went through the charade of "you sposed to be here", "yes", "where's yer ticket", "musta lost it", "get out". This time, upon exiting, we'd decided our luck had run out and I whispered to Tom that perhaps we should amscray to our "real" seats. Yea, our cleaner friend had had enough of our indiscretions and had already alerted the authorities. As we scurried towards a stairwell, I relayed to Tom, "don't look now but a couple of guys in suits are following us."
Indeed they were, and caught up with us in the concourse patio. We went through another round of the game (charade of "you sposed to be here", "yes", "where's yer ticket", "musta lost it") but with higher stakes and without the "get out" part...for now. Pretty soon we had three stadium box officials, the cleaner lady, two plainclothes cops and other official characters interrogating us like we'd just knocked off the local bank. Still clutching his 32oz beer procured when we first entered the Jake (but sipping ill-gotten spoils from elsewhere), Counselor Donohue took over the defense for the plaintiffs in "Jacobs Field v. Fillio/Donahue". The questioning included a walkthrough of the alleged box where we allegedly procured beers. In responding to their questioning, Tom answered that, yes, we were "mistakenly" in the club box but, no, "I didn't take any beers" (which was true--Chris was the one who had absconded the brews, not Tom). He apologized for any confusion and noted that we would be glad to pay for any missing brews. Throughout the questioning, our defense hinged on having some tickets (later "lost") from Tom's colleague or uncle or something, supposedly for the First American Bank suite (none such existed).
Eventually the posse dissipated to the two stocky plainclothes police who were tasked with escorting us out. They took down our address/information and walked us down to the street exit. One of them noted before this, "weren't you guys down on the lower level with that dude who got arrested for assault?", to which we acknowledged. Indeed, they must have thought, “these two guys are just trouble waiting to happen.” We left the Jake and returned to Wilberts to take in some horrific cover band music.
The remaining night's events are still to be told by other parties. This includes:
- Mike O'Connell, sleeping in the van in the driveway of his aunt's house;
- Harry's attempted rally with patrons of the Boneyard;
- Tom losing his debit card; and
- Tom almost getting arrested...again...at the Marriott.
I defer to the other distinguished "gentlemen" for comment...
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