GB2K7: For Whom The Bag Tolls V

..by Herr Leonard

...as if you, faithful reader, didn't know that. Of course I do. But there's a reason I'm telling you this, once again, as if you've never heard it before, at 2:33am. It's because once again, as on countless other occasions, my faith in the Greatest City In The World has been renewed tonight.

I just got a summons.

For those of you who don't live here, a "summons" is basically a ticket... but one that generally requires a court appearance. Don't be skerred - court appearances are different here. Generally, "court appearance" just amounts to more money. If a police officer hands you a piece of paper and says "you have to show up in court," I'd say it's pretty obvious they're not too concerned with whether or not you actually show up or not. If they were - like they are in most places - they'd just arrest you. I promise, this information is going to seem relevant in just a moment.

BACKSTORY (skip if you're bored):

I play in a pool league on Tuesday nights in Brooklyn... Park Slope, to be precise. Our more loyal readers know Jason Field - we're on this team together. Those of you who know Jason don't need any explanation of what happens when he and I get together, particularly (and this is pretty much the norm) when whiskey is involved. Most of you know I've also got a penchant for heavy whiskey consumption while playing pool. It should shock no one that I sleep on the couch most Tuesday nights (and I'm sitting there right now - let me know once you've regained consciousness).

Our pool league starts at 7pm. I generally try to get there by 6:30 so I can "warm up." Can any of you honor students guess what that means?

Tonight, we had a make-up game. That means we played our usual competition PLUS made up an evening's pool against someone else. At the risk of boring you, what this means to you, faithful reader, is that we played EVEN MORE pool and drank EVEN MORE whiskey than usual. Usual is.... usual.

Park Slope really isn't all that far from Battery Park City, where I live. Geographically, that is. I think it's about 5 miles... but at 2am, it feels like the distance between NYC and Philadelphia (or, for you "foreigners," Ft. Lauderdale and Orlando). It takes what seems like forever to get to the subway station, wait for a train, and then hope it actually stops where you want it to.

So...... I usually buy myself a 40 for the trip.

This is pretty much my Tuesday ritual. There's a bodega outside the N train stop at Prosepct Ave. (uh, Google it if you don't know what a "bodega" is), and the guys who work there pretty much know me at this point.... not by name, just by face (complexion? one of them once asked me if I was Arabic). They know me not because I'm remarkable... just because I come in at about the same time every Tuesday, and every time I buy a 40 oz. Coors Light, and thank them for their kindness on the way out.

Tonight, as every other Tuesday, I hopped on the N on the way to Manhattan. While watching "Super-size Me" on my iPod, I noted zero people on the platform watching me crack my beer. When the train came, I got on and there was all of one person on the car with me. He got off a couple of stops later.

All is well, right? No double-secret probation for me. I'm golden. I've done this a hundred times. In fact, on some nights, the train has "gone express" (Google), and I've ended up at Canal Street... only to either (on my dumber nights) go back to Brooklyn, trying to get a train that stops closer to my apartment (to no avail), or worse, gotten out of the subway and taken a cab home from there. One of my favorite drunk and belligerent Tuesdays, I recall getting off the subway at Canal, angry and hateful, and carrying a familiar 40oz Coors Light... and then having a conversation with the conductor:

Me: grumble anger hatred f**ing stupid subways
Him: Where are you trying to go, sir?
Me: F**k you, I know where to go
Him: Are you sure?

Back to the present. I've got my 40 of Coors Light, and I'm on the train. I'm worried about the possibility that the train might screw me by bypassing my stop, as it's done so many times in the past.... but I'm buoyed by the electronic dazzler that indicates that this particular N train is actually STOPPING AT RECTOR STREET. Sweet Jeezus, I've hit the jackpot!

Er something.

I'm the only one in my car, and I'm really enjoying the trials and tribulations of this skinny dude eating McD's for a full month... when I notice some commotion in my periphery. I look up, and... it's one of New York's Finest. He's looking fairly good-natured, but it's obvious he disapproves of my 40. As I pull out my headphones, he says "would you mind coming with me?" I do, even though I do.

Officer Friendly actually is. As we step onto the platform at Dekalb Ave., he notices the pool cue slung over my chest, and asks me about it. By now, my 40 is on the wooden subway bench next to me, and I'm as sober as a ghost. That said, Officer Friendly is very interested in me, in a totally non-sexual man-crush kind of way. He's gabbing me up about pool, telling me how, yeah, he too played a lot in college, and damn, he hates some of those straight-pool, APA rules too! Holy crap, we both play in a Brooklyn league, and wouldn't-ya-know, he knows some of the same people I do. This is getting creepy!

By now, other Joes on the Beat have joined in. They're not saying much (although I sense the disdain over this cop talking to a perp), but Friendly asks me (VERY politely) for my ID. I hand it over, and he wonders (aloud) if I'm an "axe murderer" (direct quote), or some other type of miscreant. I assure him that I'm not (currently). He says he believes me, and proceeds to "call it in."

This might be the best part. "Calling it in," when you're on the platform at Dekalb Ave., means using one of the rubber pay phones that are on the platform... the ones no one has the guts to use. I actually make fun of Friendly while he does this:

Me: Seriously? You have to use a pay phone?
Him: Does your cell phone work here?

After Friendly and his colleagues determine that I am, in fact, NOT an axe murderer, the real fun ensues. He says to me... as my 40 sits next to me on the wooden bench....

"Here's a summons. You can either come to court to fight it, which would mean I'd have to come to court as well.... or not. You don't want me to come to court. Besides, all you have to do is pay $25 and you won't even have to bother.

"I'm not going to do anything about your... contraband either. You're going to do that for us. Do you understand? I'm NOT GOING TO TAKE YOUR PACKAGE THERE. WE'RE GOING TO MOVE ALONG. ONCE WE'RE GONE, WE'RE GOING TO TRUST YOU TO DISPOSE OF THAT. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

I did.

As I hid the 40 behind the seat, summons in pocket as they walked away, I wondered... how big are my balls? I mean, it was still a good five stops to mine. Did I really want to do that without beer?

As I watched the cops looking down the platform while I got on the train, I decided I was right to go this one alone. No need to tempt fate. I left the 40 behind a column. The Raiders have won two straight, and even though the Redskins are choking on a fat bowl of horse cock, I still have a decent chance of not being in the bag (and perhaps even face-painting my favorite team). I have a lot to be thankful for... not the least of which, living in this City. I made a pact with myself when I moved here... to NEVER go to JAIL here. It's harder than one might think.

There will be plenty more opportunities to fight the law... but tonight, the law won.

By: Boe-Boe

Not a lot of time,
Gotta keep it terse.
Don’t want to get a penalty flag,
So I’ll submit a little verse.

There, their and they’re,
Which one will I use?
Can’t mess up the grammar
Or Lenny will come unglued.

I’m fixin’ to learn me some words,
And use them in a sentence.
Uh-oh, here we go
With some maudlin corporeal maleficence.

Three weeks to go in the season,
And I hold a two game advantage.
If I rise to the rank of Overlord,
My subjects’ livers will need a bandage.

Miami’s winless, Vick’s in jail
and the Patsies haven’t lost.
Sometimes I wonder if Tony Danza fondled Alyssa Milano
On the set of ‘Who’s the Boss?’

Wait - back to 2007,
And things that make football nice.
But first I have to ask what’s the deal,
With this dude named Kimbo Slice?

As long as there’s bars that dispense golden joy,
I guess it doesn’t matter a pittance.
So to Jimmy’s Corner, the Village Pourhouse and 3rd and Long:
Thanks for making a difference.

Boe-Boe clinched yet another write-up with a dominating 2-0, 68-point week. In the process, he stole Randie's thunder - even the Fish's first victory of the season wasn't enough to get him into the winner's circle.

With only two weeks of bagdom left, there is still much to play for. With his 2-0 this week, Randie pulled within only a game of me for third place. I believe Boe-Boe has clinched the Overlord spot at this point... but all three remaining positions are still up for grabs.

Boe-Boe, can we expect some gloating in the write-up this week?

By: Boe-Boe

Oh boy what a week. As Lenny alluded, it is looking good for me to clinch the championship. This is basically the only “good” possible outcome of playing this sucker’s game, and I can’t wait to dole out punishment like a discount dominatrix from the adult services section of Craig's List. (CALL ME DADDY LOSERS!!!) I’m seriously looking forward to being the last one standing after only 3 hours of drinking. After I make Shawn, Lenny and Randie drink enough liquor to intoxicate an elephant, I just may treat myself to a nice dinner in peace and quiet.

Let’s talk about the Dolphins win. To be honest, I am disappointed. The only thing the Dolphins won, in my opinion, is the right to be closer to the fatter part of the bell curve and consequently, less interesting. Boo. I’m guessing the same people who wanted them to win are hoping the Patriots lose? God forbid anything strange might happen to hold our collective interest.

Deep shame for the Ravens - and that is on top of the shame they bear for the god-awful purple color of their uniforms. Knock-knock. Who is it? The Vikings. The Vikings who? The mother fucking Minnesota Vikings from the NFL, you dumb bitch, and we want our shitty color back!!! Is it rational to be angry at a color? Seriously, purple doesn’t need to exist. And the Dolphins - if possible - have become even less interesting to me.

What WAS interesting, on the other hand, was this clip of Isiah Thomas. (WARNING: Use headphones if at work). WTF??? Sunt? I’m uncomfortably speechless, but in a good way. Look at the guy between Thomas and Knight cover his ears, head, and face. He wishes he could disappear! Such a train wreck!!! Oh, the internets!!!

Somehow this week I stumbled upon the wikiquote page for Douglas Adams and it brought me back to my junior high days, passing time trying to beat the text adventure version of “The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy” on my dad’s PC. Kind of a good coincidence, what with all the self-righteous heavy bible thumping going on in the Republican primary race. Adams was an astronomer/philosopher type, and as an atheist, his view was, “I'd take the awe of understanding over the awe of ignorance any day.” I hear ya, buddy! I just don’t get why religion matters - particularly in a campaign to serve in an executive capacity for a representative, capitalist government in the 21st century. Whenever I hear about conflict escalating over “my god is better than your god” or “my faith is stronger than your faith”, it reminds me of the rednecks in my hometown who would get in pissing contests over whose 15 year old, rust-bucket pickup truck was better. In my mind, they are all bragging, “my awe of ignorance is greater than your awe of ignorance.” It makes about as much sense to me to thank Jesus and his ilk for my good fortunes as it does to blame him for my smelly farts.

Who farted? That sneaky sombitch Jesus farted. I swear to his dad it was him. And the stain it left in his tighty-whiteys that somehow transferred into mine tells me that he loves me. That’s in my Book of Revelations.

Seriously, if some sort of deity calls me to the carpet in an afterlife with a copy of this diatribe in-hand, fully prepared to banish me in my own personal hell, I’ll just tell him (it?) that FDR told me I have nothing to fear but fear itself. Then I’ll be on my merry way, searching for the Muslim terrorists from 9/11 and brewing for a fight over the harem of virgins Allah promised them. You don’t think Allah would renege on his promised virgins, do you? Anyway, you don’t even have to subscribe to “Pascal’s Wager” if you have the FDR excuse in your back pocket. You can thank me when this all happens. Because I'm told it will.

If I ever am in court, I will refuse to swear on the bible. I will bring in a nearly mint copy of The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past, and swear to the holy mother land of Hyrule to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, or may Ganon take my soul.

Back to football. Well, it’s been a great season in football. If you really believe in football. Ironically, the amount of time I spend watching football in a bar is inversely proportionate to my ability to remember any of it*. I watched about 9 hours last weekend at St. Marks and the Pourhouse. There were 15 TVs with every game on…yet I really couldn’t tell you who played - I only know that there wasn’t much scoring going on, and I can drink a 20 oz. Coors Light draft faster than I can drink water. Next thing I know, I’m sitting in a yellow cab in front of my building, being rudely awakened from my slumber by the driver, and thanking Jesus for loving me.

* - heretofore known as the Boe-Boe Paradox.