Last Thursday morning, New Yorkers awoke to a heavy sleet and near-freezing temperatures. Not exactly a great day for baseball.

That same day, the Yankees — professional sports' version of royalty, the most beloved franchise in America — played their first spring training game in Tampa, a city known for beautiful weather, Ybor City revelers and highly regarded strip clubs.

Three buddies and I boarded a flight that evening to catch up with them. It just sounded like more fun than hopping yellow puddles on the sidewalk. Let's see how it went.

(Oh, photos have already been posted.)

Weather: Must not be hard to be a meteorologist in Tampa during March. "Doppler 7,000,000 tells us it'll be perfect again today. Highs in the mid-70s, lows in the upper 50s. Expect the same all weekend. Tourists are urged to pop the top on ther rented convertibles. Now back to you, Bill."
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The Original Hooters: On our way to see the Yanks play the Phillies in Clearwater, we stopped at the first-ever Hooters for lunch. They served pitchers of Bud Light for $4.99. I can go on about how the male-to-female customer ratio in the joint was 100-2, or how our server was wearing someone else's name tag for a reason that remains a mystery, but does it even matter when pitchers are $4.99?
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Spring Training Games: I wanted to delay my maiden trip to Tampa for when the Yanks were scheduled to play games that mattered against the Devil Rays at the Trop, but I was told by many that these games were a good time. Eh, yes and no.

We saw three games: Friday at Clearwater against the Phils, Saturday at Legends Field in Tampa against the Reds, and Sunday in Dunedin against the Blue Jays.

The weather, proximity of seats and beers that sell for about half the price at Yankee Stadium ($4.50) are great. But it felt like being in an outdoor bingo parlor, surrounded by people just hoping to get through the day without dying. Worst of all was seeing a Yankees outfield of Kevin Thompson (72), Kevin Reese (70) and Mitch Jones (90), whose jersey numbers combined to tally 232. Not that I don't wish 'em luck, but there's no way these games were more spirited than a regular-season affair, even against the Rays. Hell, I've seen more cheering for ugly chicks in wet T-shirt contests.

Saw Randy Johnson give up a blast to an unknown, so he's already in midseason form. But my personal highlight was welcoming Jays reliever B.J. Ryan to his new team by yelling from the second row, as he walked to the bullpen after giving up one run in one inning, "We're gonna own you this year, Ryan. All year long, baby."
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Bern's Steakhouse: One of the super-cool things about New York is that there are places where you know every living person who's ever mattered has been. Take Madison Square Garden, for example. Is there an entertainer or athlete worth a Lindsey Lohan freckle who hasn't at least walked through those doors, even if not performing? It's interesting to think about: when you say everyone's been there, you really do mean everyone.

Anyway, Bern's Steakhouse is one of those places that's so great, I imagine anyone who's ever mattered in Tampa has been there. Shit, Doc Gooden probably did lines in the john at some point. The 28-page menu is a monster and worthy of a place that seemed to house more artwork than a museum, though it wasn't excessively stuffy, if more formal than the original Hooters. They have the world's largest private collection of wine, at 1 million bottles. You get a tour of the kitchen when you're done with dinner, then are moved upstairs to a private dessert booth, which was especially Brokeback for us four guys.

In all, it was a nice reminder that I can't cook for shit.
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Ybor City: Easily the most disappointing part of the trip. On the surface, it seemed to have the spunk of Bourbon Street in New Orleans with the relative cleanliness of Duval Street in Key West. Upon closer inspection, it was filled with trash, and that's just the people.

On Thursday night, we were shooting pool and drinking $2.50 beers in the fairly empty dive Reservoir Bar, which, as opposed to almost every other watering hole on the street, wasn't totally empty, when we saw slutted-up chick after slutted-up chick go into the club Code across the street. I loathe clubs, but figured the people-watching experience would make up for 'tude that was sure to permeate from the pores of every guy and gal who thought he/she was all that. Ya know, like every club ever invented.

And it wasn't too bad inside. It was college night, which made me more than 10 years these people's seniors. Of course, it's hard to talk to anyone when the music is blaring like that. Two-dollar Bud Lights (for real) made the $10 cover tolerable. The outdoor balcony was an uncrowded, fresh-air haven. If only there were actual people on the street to observe, other than these fighting assholes.

When the club emptied I saw more fights and near-fights. And the absence of such stupidity defines where I hang and who I hang with. I've been out drinking to 1,000 places with 1,000 people and never get in fights. But clubs don't attract the smartest segment of the population, do they? Well, except for the Gotti boys. They're geniuses.

Tried Ybor again on Saturday night to see if it was a Two-Night Town (my moniker for a place that jams only on the weekend) and it was a smidge better. In other words, it still sucked. I don't know what the deal is. There were plenty of bars, the prices seemed right, the businesses were welcoming. Maybe they just need to flush some of the garbage out of there somehow. Bourbon Street has its packs of trashy loiterers, but the sheer number of tourists overcomes that. Not the case here.
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Mons Venus Strip Club: I have a love/hate relationship with strip clubs. On one hand, I love tits and ass. On the other hand, I hate being patronized. I guess if you can suspend the idea that you're being treated like nothing more than a wallet, then you can survive, but I normally can't. I'd rather take a run in the sack with someone not physically perfect but is at least aggressive and into it and, thus, legitimately naughty and way more mentally stimulating. And the cash savings helps, too.

Mons works different than other strip clubs I've been to. It's totally nude and no liquor is served. The $20 cover sucks, but there's no pressure to buy any non-alcoholic bullshit. It's a small, no-frills space and guys crowd, standing up, around a circular stage where about eight dancers do their thing for minimal tips, while other girls work the room to give dances for $20-30 on couches that line the walls.

I have to say, my first dance was awesome. Like Montreal — where it's only $8 American per dance, and in a private booth — it's a full-contact Human Car Wash, so your hands can explore almost every inch of these near-perfect bodies. A lot of top talent fly into Tampa just to work a few nights. I wasn't used to the grinding action that I found laughable in Showgirls and, get this, guys actually get off in their pants if they ask a girl to continue for a few dances. I wasn't about to pay $75 to stain my jeans, but I was told it happens. And, disturbingly, I saw some furious movements and o-faces that hinted it was occurring before my eyes.

Saw one familiar face who was worth tens of millions of dollars. His identity wouldn't add to the story, but at least you know even the super-rich hang out at this dump. Apparently, he's there "all the time."

I sampled one dance each from four girls. All had fake tits, which look nice but, of course, feel as unnatural and unsexy as grapefruits. I asked one girl if she liked dancing. She lamented it was just a job, which was a boner-killer. But two minutes later, she brought it back to life! And then I paid her $20, and I'm not sure if either of us came out on top. Still, she might be the hottest chick I ever touched. Or ever will.

I give it a high rating simply for the unique experience. Wanna feel up some super-hot broads and have them grind your crotch? Chances are it's better in Tampa than where you are right now. But I wasn't drawn back for a second go-'round. Maybe next time.
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Overall: I've forgotten what it's like to have to relieve stress. Especially since Kevin Brown's Yankees contract expired. Having no boss, no girlfriend, no kids, no pets, no religious duty, no health or money concerns and no reason to set an alarm clock, I have no responsibility whatsoever.

So as much as I liked this trip, others may get even more value out of it. Because I can't imagine that riding bayside in a convertible to an afternoon baseball game, under clear skies in mid-70s temps, stopping at a Hooters for $4.99 pitchers, cold-coolin' in a hotel pool afterward, then heading out for amazing eats, cheap drinks and the occasional lap dance wouldn't put anyone in the right frame of mind.

There's still a month of spring training left. If you need a break from everyday life, get on down there for a weekend.

Oh, and if any readers are Yanks superfans, have some free time and wanna follow baseball royalty around the U.S.A. this season, get in touch with me. Baltimore, Washington and Philly for sure, but all cities considered. Dallas, Seattle, Oakland, Toronto, even Detroit and K.C., etc.

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