Took a trip to the South Side today to see my hometown Minnesota Twins get beat the dreaded division rival White Sox... and it was UGLY. But, there were good things to be had at the lovely Comiskey Park (aka U.S. Cellular Field).

Last week a few friends and I decided that we'd catch both games of the Sox/Twins series on Monday and Tuesday, but when the day of reckoning came, no takers. Well, aside from my friend Matt, who came through big time. Matt was going to the game with some of his work friends (I believe there were about 10 of them, altogether, from MCI -- all of which don't really DO anything).

When I called Matt at 330, he was already tailgating with said work cohorts, three and a half hours before game time on A MONDAY. As I began to tell him that the remaining four of my pals had ditched out on the game, he said: "Hey, don't worry. Come sit with us, we've got an extra."

Nice. Now, how bad can these tickets really be?

So I head down the Brown-Line to hook up with the Green-Line downtown (by far the best way to get to Comiskey, by the way. Don't let anyone tell you different. No lines, no stinking, sweaty Sox fans, less stops), and turn up at The Cell at around 630. I don't even have to tell you what shape this group was in at this point, three full hours in to said tailgate.

While his buddies lollygag around, playing some remedial bean-bag toss in the parking lot and finish off the remainder of what's left in the Coleman, I pressure Matt to get the damn tickets so we can head over to the park.

Matt agreed quickly, tired of doing time with his work folk, and we find that we've got VIP tickets. We're thinking they're probably just some decent box seats down one of the lines... no big deal.

We ditch his tailgate and head past trash-party after trash-party, full of Sox fans grilling garbage and drinking Old Slough, shouting obscenities at my Twins hat, and finally make it to the gates.

We wandered into the stadium on a perfect night --- right about 78 degrees, no breeze, no bugs, no humidity, and walk through the labyrinth trying to find section 133. As we walk around from the right field entrance, we keep counting up... 112...120...125... Holy shit, we're getting pretty close to home plate here...

And finally, 133. Right behind home plate. I mean RIGHT behind home plate. 20 rows up. Lower deck. On the isle. Half price. The lineups are announced, the smoke from the hot dogs and polish sausage with onions distracts, and the beer men are plentiful.

PERFECT.

Well, unfortunately, the fun part is over.

The Twins staged a nice rally in the first inning, filling the bases with only one out on an obviously flustered Jose Contreras. You've got to get at least ONE run here, right? No dice. Double-play. Inning over. Nothing to show for it.

After four and a half, it was Twins 3, Sox 1, with the Twins scoring on a garden variety of White Sox mistakes, including a wild pitch, a few walks, a throwing error and a base hit. The Sox had one --- a Carl Everett homerun in the first of Kyle (oops, I really lohsed on that one) Lohse. (By the way: lohse = lowsh' (v); to err in judgment, deed or action.)

The Sox came back to tie it at 3 with a Joe Crede 2 run bomb in the bottom half of the fifth --- again, off Twins starter Kyle Lohse, who, by the way, pretty much sucks.

Another Everett two-run homer off Lohse in the sixth sealed it.

The Twins stranded 10 runners on base, at least 5 in scoring position. They grounded into two double plays with the bases loaded and one out. UGLY. Meanwhile, Kyle Lohse grooved two fat fastballs to Carl Everett, who gamely deposited them both deep into the right field stands. Twins lose, 5-4.

Other highlights:

A really good Polish with fried onions. Just excellent. I'd recommend to anyone going to Comiskey. $4.

Two Miller Lite beers $11. Just like I remembered them.

A barage of disgusting people. I'm not kidding. We were sitting in the premo seats, and we were still surrounded by "that guys." That guys were everywhere. You know, the Chach's with the cut-off sleeves and slicked back greasy hair, about 10 beers deep by game time, trying to start the wave in the third inning, hitting on any breathing female, screaming unintelligible taunts and cheers (too hard to discern which was which)... Disgusting.

You know, the Twins lost, and that's a bummer. The fans belonged at a WWE SlamFest (or whatever) and that was gross. But, it was 78 degrees. It wasn't windy. Smells of hot dogs floated overhead. Beer men were plentiful. The seats were great.

But I was outside watching baseball in April. In Chicago.

You can't beat that.