Kjel.org and crew is back from Seattle after helping the M’s put one more season in the books. We got to watch a satisfying game, with run-scoring, good Mariner pitching, and about the best seats we will ever have. Not bad at all.

Our afternoon started early at a little sports bar called the Admiral Pub. Not too early though; I was cheated out of an hour or two of Admiral time because of my own stupidity. Note to self: if I actually want the Chief Educator to arrive in Seattle at 2:00, I need to tell him that he should plan on getting there by 1:00. You’d think I’d know this by now. Anyway, once we got there it was all good. We had their always excellent combo of burgers and beer, and this time I actually paid my bartab and even left a tip. Don’t spend those two dollars all at once little sis! (A certain CEO’s sibling manages the place, and was our waitress. Now that’s service!)

Our seats were right behind the visitor (Rangers in this case) dugout. Right behind: when we (by “we” I mean me and the Educator; the ladies were having no part of this) seized an opportunity to inform Sammy Sosa that he sucked he turned around in the on-deck circle and pinned us with his cold dead eyes. “¿Hay un problema aquí?” He then took a few wicked practice cuts while looking at our skulls. Oops. That wasn’t us sir. Good luck sir. Go Dominican! “Usted dos pendejos tienen suerte.” Anyway, our seats were that good.

I’d forgotten about the contest that the Mariners run the 2nd to the last game of every season: if your seat number is called you get to play center field for an inning. The damndest thing: guess who’s number was called?

Ichiro likely would have made the same play, but would he have looked as good? Doubtful. Well maybe. He is a fine looking man.

The Chief Educator and the CEO have a standing bet on Safeco hydroplane races ($50) and I continued my grand tradition of gambling domination. Unless we are talking about football. Or cards. Or greyhounds. Or really any other wagering opportunity other than counting on the green hydro to come through for me again. You owe me $50 Chief. We can let that one ride if you want to.

During the 7th inning stretch there was dancing. The Jumbotron was showing pictures of various folk around the stadium jumping around spastically enough to get onto the big screen. I was looking back at the press booth trying to pick out Niehaus when several people near me began to scream. I spun around and saw the big screen. Holy shit those kids on the screen are seated right behind us! A bunch of middle school miscreants were getting all funky behind me and the big screen was showing it. Wait a minute, if those kids are being shown. . .uh oh. I spun another 90 degrees and saw the dude with the remote cam right next to us, pointing it in our general direction. The Chief Educator and I had that same thought simultaneously (ie: Aaaaaaaa!!) and tried to hide under our seats.

The two dancing queens the Chief and I had with us felt differently about the matter. They of course immediately started to get down, and were so, um, expressive that remote-camera-man made it so that it was just the two of them up there shaking it on the Jumbotron. The Bride even attempted to sexually harass the Edumacator on camera but he was able to escape with his anonymity; since I wasn’t sitting by the CFO I was in no such danger. Finally it was over. I was literally rendered speechless. The CEO normally can produce a comment (not an appropriate or germane comment, but a comment nonetheless) for any and all situations. Not this time. The Chief’s response to seeing the ladies on the big screen mirrored mine pretty closely.

We allowed the CFO’s parents to serve us breakfast the following morning, then it was back to Portland. We dodged about a dozen accidents on I-5 during the monsoon but we were never in any danger. As far as the CFO is aware of. You know what’s funny? When you replace the wiper blade that goes in front of the driver with one brand new and functional, but leave the horrible old non-working one on the passenger side. Ignorance was the CFO’s bliss. . .