YOUR OWN WORST ENEMY

My name is Joe Pendleton, and I am an alcoholic. OK, a weekend alcoholic, but an alcoholic nonetheless.

What other conclusion can I draw from last Saturday's trip to Philly to check out Bruce and the boys at the Wachovia Center.

Here's what we'll do. I'll give you a rundown of my day and you can draw your own conclusion. (Some names have been changed to protect the innocent).

1:45: Me and Mrs. Pendleton meet up with the third in our group in Central Jersey and head to Philly armed with a cooler full of tastes and Tastee subs, and believe it or not, low expectations for the show since Slim Steve, who was there the night before, said it was quite dull.

3:00: Roll into the Wachovia Center lot, bang down taste No. 1, and work on taste No. 2 as we head to check out the wristband scene.

3:20: With wristbands and an order to be back in line at 4:20, head back to the Pendleton minivan, where, on our way, we stumble across a young Sqawking VFR lookalike who is wandering around aimlessly and muttering something about leaving his ticket at his hotel.
3:25-:3:45: Have tastes 3-7.

3:46 Ticket dude strolls by with a buddy and asks if he could "buy a beer or two off of us." Now, while I don't have any proof, I like to think I invented this move. Knowing full well nobody is going to charge you for a beer, you ask to buy one, get a freebie and move on. However, ticket dude (he got it back) didn't realize we were the same folks he ran into a just a 1/2-hour ago, so, while giving him and his buddy a free taste, we start doing schtick. They are cool and hang out with us. Not only am I a weekend alchie, I'm also an enabler. So, by the time 4:20 rolls around (the time we have to leave to lineup for a chance to hit the Pit), I'm on taste 11 and these cats are on about 3 or 4.

4:20: Armed with taste No. 12, the five of us head to line up. We line up, and in the meantime, thanks to Jersey Girls suggestion to go on Backstreets.com, I'm able to unload our extra ticket for face value. Thanks JG.

4:40: We realize this wristband thing is gonna take a while, so our third _ who will remain nameless - heads back to the van for more tastes.

4:50: While banging down tastes 13-17, I call work a few times to catch a Texas-OK score (one of the cats was from Texas) and tick off the folks at work. At one point, they ask me how many tastes I've downed, and I tell them 20 or so, which, I thought at the time was an exaggeration, but now I realize how close I was.

5:10: After a false alarm where I had dreams of being in the first row for a Bruce show, we get screwed on the wristband deal, and head back to the van. On the trip back, the third reveals we are now out of beer. OUT OF BEER? Of course, most non weekend alcoholics would've taken the cue right there to stop, but not me. Using a Philly cab driver, we give our two new friends a $20 and orders to bring back more beer. Did you hear me ladies and gentlemen of the jury? A beer run.

5:30: Fearing we've been conned out of $20, the two cats arrive with a 30-pack of Coors Light. After initial complaints about the beer selection, I proceed to down tastes No. 18-24 in the two hours or so (as you can see, I'm slowing down a bit). Of course, the van needing a battery jump due to playing Bruce tunes without the engine running for two hours, may have slowed me down a bit, too.

7:45: With taste No. 25 in hand and No. 26 in my pocket, we start our walk to the show. I think I only had a few sips of 25 and had to dump 26 before entering, but no we are in the show.

8:00: The third brings me a paid-for taste on the floor of the Wachovia Center. We'll call it 26, since I didn't really drink the first 26.

8:20: The show starts, Bruce opens up with Night. It's an early clue that he's not mailing it in like some reported he had the night before. When song No. 4 is Prove it All Night, it's obvious this is gonna be a good one.

9:45: I see Scialfa getting ready to croon, and see this as good chance to unload tastes No. 15-26 from my bladder and get taste N0. 27. On my way up the stairs from the floor, I trip and nearly kill myself. Only my left shoulder saved my noggin from hitting cement. Some dude, also not impressed with Mrs. Springsteen's act, helps me to my feet. Undeterred, I still head for the beer stand. Thankfully, the line for the men's room resembles one you would find at a WNBA game (there is no line) and there's no one on the beer line. After a near stumble down the stairs I almost fell up just minutes ago, I reach the floor, find Mrs. P and the third just in time for Bruce to break into "Incident on 57th Street." Now, I'm really fired up, and since this is the first time he's playing it on tour, I tell everyone around me - most didn't appreciate it - that after this he's gonna let the piano solo roll into Rosalita. Everyone tells me I'm wrong, which turns out to be true.

10:00: With 27 tastes down the hatch, the highlight of the night comes when Bruce pulls an audible and busts into Cadillac Ranch. The joint goes wild.

10:50: After a rockin version of Dancin in the Dark, Bruce breaks into "American Land," which everyone knows is the final tune of the night. About 3 minutes in, me, Mrs. P and the third head for the exit, and see the end of the show right before we head for the door.

11:00: Dilemma time. While I want to bang down a few post-game tastes, Mrs. P and third want to get in the rig (hope it starts) and get out of Philly before we sit in traffic for an hour or two. I figure at this point I've tested Mrs. P's patience, I chug beer No. 28 and hop in the rig.

1:00: We roll back into Casa Pendleton: The ride home is pretty much a blur, the only thing I remeber is rooting against the Phillies on the radio as if they were the Yankees.

8 a.m.: I wake up in the rack alone, with Mrs. P down the hall in our daughter's bed (our kids stayed a grandma's hut).

So there you have it, ladies and genteman of the jury. Now you vote.

One final thing. I never, never, never have tastes Mon-Thurs and Sunday (since I work on Sunday). So most of this activity goes on Fri and Saturday, hence the weekend tag.

By the way, since that show I have not had one beer, and have decided to try and stay dry until Jan. 1

We'll see about that one, since I'm going to two adult b-day parties in the next 3 weeks. When I say adult, I mean adults only, not like porn star parties, though if that were the case, I would certainly stay sober.

Anyway, great Bruce show. Great time.

A few more quickies:

Another shout out to Jersey Girl, and this one really saved me. While chatting with her Saturday morning, I told her how I actually felt bad for Joba in the bug incident. Without any hesitation, she sternly said, "He's a Yankee." You know what, she's right. Thanks for the reality check. Fuck Joba.

As for the Yankees, I'm still debating which team - Mets or Yanks - had a more disappointing season. Afterall, both teams didn't win a division title, both teams were non-factors in October.
From a Mets standpoint, I'm gonna say the Yanks were a bigger disappointment. I mean, it was clear on about Sept. 10 the Mets - even if they had made the playoffs - had no shot of going anywhere. The Yanks, on the other hand, looked like a force heading into the postseason.
Also, the Met loss could actually turn out to be a good thing as Tom Glavine is a goner and I'm sure Omar Minaya will try to overhaul this team in the offseason. The Yanks, on the other hand, will bring back pretty much the same team (A-Rod, Posada, Mariano, Giambi, Mussina, and I think, Torre). It will be more of the same. Plus, none of our announcers cried like blubbering idiots when the team lost (at least on the air, they didn't).

Plus, all Met pain ended with the Phillies getting swept. The Yankee pain will resurface in about 2 weeks, when the Red Sox win their second title in four years.

One more thing on the baseball playoffs. I'm already sick of this Frank TV guy and the show hasn't even started.

A few things Frank:

-- You can't do a Pacino imitation if your 300 pounds. It doesn't work.
-- My daughter can do a Nicholson imitation. It's not hard to do.
-- Your George Bush is great. Who the hell cares.

Cheer up, though Frank, as long as Chip Caray is employed by TBS, there will always be someone more annoying working there.

Well, that's all for now.
Thank you for your time and courtesy.

Let's Go Rangers.