Friday, June 17, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
BLEACHER FLASHBACK - Subway Series'n it!
As penned "with drunken pen" over a decade ago. How far we've come! Reprinted without permission (though its my own stuff)
Mutts come to the Bronx 2000 style!
Well, the weekend has passed like a kidney stone and I guess we survived. Of course, the weather took a turn that only Noah and Bing Crosby could love, and looking back on things only one of my weekend scorecards survived, so again I am doing this on memory alone. And considering my love affair with the beer bottle, this may not get us far.
Friday started off with cops polluting our park. Setting up park benches to accomadate all of the scalpers and imbibers they were planning to nab. The horses were even out, pooping all over the place. I simply retreated to the bleacher catacombs where i was joined by a drunken DUI James. He was very proud, he was booted out of cooking school earlier in the day. He claims for "showing up drunk" but I think it was cause he burned the truffle or souffle and staining his "Kiss the Cook" apron.
We were pretty waylaid by the time we walked, or I should say "stumbled" in. Met fans were being ragged of course. The Puerto Rican flags made an early appearance, prompting a tepid USA! USA! chant. It took Gang Bang Steve to note that Puerto Rico is actually a PART of the USA, so the chant was a bit sorta awry.
For the second week in a row punches flew in the bleachers. Of all things, the chicks were fighting. I guess the best thing I can say about that is that they were not swinging at me for once. The worst thing I can say is no clothes came off. The hoopla and hootenanny started with a Piazza jersey making the rounds, where unfortunatly someone trying to add mustard to thier hot dog slipped up along the line and "accidentally on purpose" deposited yellow spew on the 1 of his 31. Of course the victim turns around in time to see some skirt innocuously flinging water out of a straw at everyone, which causes his ugly girlfriend to start screaming like girls are prone to do. Punches then flew, eveyone cheered, laughed and patted one another on the back, and next thing we know me and some girls were sitting in Twins Fast Food, sheltered from the last 4 innings of the game. Then Loud Lucy comes stalking in, she also threw a punch and was rewarded for her gallant efforts.
Because of that we missed history being made as Bald Vinny passed a kidney stone in the bathroom while having a conversation with Kwik, who had no idea what was going on in that stall. The original idea for Vinny to give it out as some kind of award did not come to fruition, nor did my idea to play Bleacher Creature Survivor at Jeremy's Ale House, where we were going to vote one of our own not only off the table, but completely out of the bar.
Friday night ended as it always does, with people sprawled all over my apartment floor in a sea of beer cans, fried chicken, and cole slaw (God Damn that Palace Fried Chicken place) Even Junior ended up over somehow, and continued his streak of not saying anything but simply nodding and shaking his head a lot. I remember waking up at 5AM, tv on, Junior sitting in front intently watching, as Matlock played out on screen. MATLOCK.
Saturday started out more of the same, with the old drunken trek to the Stadium complete with dripping egg sandwiches and plenty of moaning and cursing, and a group outing to play pool at a nearby locale which shall remain nameless. Gang Bang Steve pretty much cleaned up on Big Tone Capone, but Anthony pretty much cleaned up on the beer. Needless to say, I was deep into my cups. It was during the Saturday affair that I noticed the Caliente Nacho Booth for the first time, as Steve sarcastically said the fact that they replaced our beloved beer stand with a nacho booth was "Fan-fu*king-tastic."
My brother Dave managed to make some friends next door in the box seats using that old Brown family charm, who felt bad we could not partake in the merriment of alcohol. So some dude threw him over a bottle, and it cleared the space between seating areas fine, but tipped off of Dave's hand and ended up rolling into the mentally handicapped section in front of the bleachers. So thanks to Dave, not only did those folks have the best seats in the house (well, the ones not in wheelchairs, actually) but they got to have a nip of Rum on the box seat morons with bad aim.
I was a good boy that night. The good news is I went to sleep real early, the bad news is I did it in the bar sometime around 6. By the time I woke up around the witching hour the party was generally coming to a halt....anyone know how I got home?
Of course all day Sunday rain was in the air, but like funny lines from Walkman John, it did not appear. Until game time, of course. I will never get our suicidal nature when it comes to the rain. Everyone just stands there shirt off, hooting and hollering like a nursing home bingo game gone mad. And then the daredevil activities that have us known far and wide commence.
Angry Teddy, usually known more for his dour nature than the flair for the dramatic, brazenly announced "hey, look at me!" and took off with a running start, doing a perfect swan dive onto the wet benches where he continued to slide for like 25 feet, splashing water like a sprinkler. Of course I can not stand around while someone else decides to put on a show, so I make an attempt. Like 5 times. And like 5 times, rather then sliding effortlessly like Teddy, I plopped down on the benches like a guy falling off a roof and crashing onto concrete. My black and blues have black and blues. At least once I ended up between the benches, on the wet ground. The only thing that area is usually good for is escaping punches when you are attacked by a gang.
Then, in one of the more surreal things I have ever seen around Section 39, a chipper officer of the law, impressed how well we physically hide our alcohol stash and mysteriously still get drunk, started busting on me how bad my diving was. He said I looked like a guy plopping out of a wheelchair when the attendant is playing a joke and stops short. So I was like, "lets see what YOU got, Car 54 where are you guy". Fully expecting the cuffs to come out, instead he stepped back, did the old running start Teddy made so famous, and slid across the benches. Next time a cop busts me for open container or pissing in a public forum, I will not be able to look at that uniform the same.
That was a Hell of a lot of fun, although it should go into the "lawsuit about to happen" category.
Basically, what happened this column is that the weekend was a blur, what with the alcohol and the general mayhem of the Mets coming to the Bronx. I am going to try and pay more attention out there, both to get some more worthy names into the columns, and so I do not waste all my time pissing people off with my drunken antics. My drunken Tom Tom dances on the bench didnt go so well - insults and debris were flying due to first-timers and Mutt fans, but that is the point of playing the heel I guess.
Until next time, make merry and break stuff and God Bless us all, everyone.
Mutts come to the Bronx 2000 style!
Well, the weekend has passed like a kidney stone and I guess we survived. Of course, the weather took a turn that only Noah and Bing Crosby could love, and looking back on things only one of my weekend scorecards survived, so again I am doing this on memory alone. And considering my love affair with the beer bottle, this may not get us far.
Friday started off with cops polluting our park. Setting up park benches to accomadate all of the scalpers and imbibers they were planning to nab. The horses were even out, pooping all over the place. I simply retreated to the bleacher catacombs where i was joined by a drunken DUI James. He was very proud, he was booted out of cooking school earlier in the day. He claims for "showing up drunk" but I think it was cause he burned the truffle or souffle and staining his "Kiss the Cook" apron.
We were pretty waylaid by the time we walked, or I should say "stumbled" in. Met fans were being ragged of course. The Puerto Rican flags made an early appearance, prompting a tepid USA! USA! chant. It took Gang Bang Steve to note that Puerto Rico is actually a PART of the USA, so the chant was a bit sorta awry.
For the second week in a row punches flew in the bleachers. Of all things, the chicks were fighting. I guess the best thing I can say about that is that they were not swinging at me for once. The worst thing I can say is no clothes came off. The hoopla and hootenanny started with a Piazza jersey making the rounds, where unfortunatly someone trying to add mustard to thier hot dog slipped up along the line and "accidentally on purpose" deposited yellow spew on the 1 of his 31. Of course the victim turns around in time to see some skirt innocuously flinging water out of a straw at everyone, which causes his ugly girlfriend to start screaming like girls are prone to do. Punches then flew, eveyone cheered, laughed and patted one another on the back, and next thing we know me and some girls were sitting in Twins Fast Food, sheltered from the last 4 innings of the game. Then Loud Lucy comes stalking in, she also threw a punch and was rewarded for her gallant efforts.
Because of that we missed history being made as Bald Vinny passed a kidney stone in the bathroom while having a conversation with Kwik, who had no idea what was going on in that stall. The original idea for Vinny to give it out as some kind of award did not come to fruition, nor did my idea to play Bleacher Creature Survivor at Jeremy's Ale House, where we were going to vote one of our own not only off the table, but completely out of the bar.
Friday night ended as it always does, with people sprawled all over my apartment floor in a sea of beer cans, fried chicken, and cole slaw (God Damn that Palace Fried Chicken place) Even Junior ended up over somehow, and continued his streak of not saying anything but simply nodding and shaking his head a lot. I remember waking up at 5AM, tv on, Junior sitting in front intently watching, as Matlock played out on screen. MATLOCK.
Saturday started out more of the same, with the old drunken trek to the Stadium complete with dripping egg sandwiches and plenty of moaning and cursing, and a group outing to play pool at a nearby locale which shall remain nameless. Gang Bang Steve pretty much cleaned up on Big Tone Capone, but Anthony pretty much cleaned up on the beer. Needless to say, I was deep into my cups. It was during the Saturday affair that I noticed the Caliente Nacho Booth for the first time, as Steve sarcastically said the fact that they replaced our beloved beer stand with a nacho booth was "Fan-fu*king-tastic."
My brother Dave managed to make some friends next door in the box seats using that old Brown family charm, who felt bad we could not partake in the merriment of alcohol. So some dude threw him over a bottle, and it cleared the space between seating areas fine, but tipped off of Dave's hand and ended up rolling into the mentally handicapped section in front of the bleachers. So thanks to Dave, not only did those folks have the best seats in the house (well, the ones not in wheelchairs, actually) but they got to have a nip of Rum on the box seat morons with bad aim.
I was a good boy that night. The good news is I went to sleep real early, the bad news is I did it in the bar sometime around 6. By the time I woke up around the witching hour the party was generally coming to a halt....anyone know how I got home?
Of course all day Sunday rain was in the air, but like funny lines from Walkman John, it did not appear. Until game time, of course. I will never get our suicidal nature when it comes to the rain. Everyone just stands there shirt off, hooting and hollering like a nursing home bingo game gone mad. And then the daredevil activities that have us known far and wide commence.
Angry Teddy, usually known more for his dour nature than the flair for the dramatic, brazenly announced "hey, look at me!" and took off with a running start, doing a perfect swan dive onto the wet benches where he continued to slide for like 25 feet, splashing water like a sprinkler. Of course I can not stand around while someone else decides to put on a show, so I make an attempt. Like 5 times. And like 5 times, rather then sliding effortlessly like Teddy, I plopped down on the benches like a guy falling off a roof and crashing onto concrete. My black and blues have black and blues. At least once I ended up between the benches, on the wet ground. The only thing that area is usually good for is escaping punches when you are attacked by a gang.
Then, in one of the more surreal things I have ever seen around Section 39, a chipper officer of the law, impressed how well we physically hide our alcohol stash and mysteriously still get drunk, started busting on me how bad my diving was. He said I looked like a guy plopping out of a wheelchair when the attendant is playing a joke and stops short. So I was like, "lets see what YOU got, Car 54 where are you guy". Fully expecting the cuffs to come out, instead he stepped back, did the old running start Teddy made so famous, and slid across the benches. Next time a cop busts me for open container or pissing in a public forum, I will not be able to look at that uniform the same.
That was a Hell of a lot of fun, although it should go into the "lawsuit about to happen" category.
Basically, what happened this column is that the weekend was a blur, what with the alcohol and the general mayhem of the Mets coming to the Bronx. I am going to try and pay more attention out there, both to get some more worthy names into the columns, and so I do not waste all my time pissing people off with my drunken antics. My drunken Tom Tom dances on the bench didnt go so well - insults and debris were flying due to first-timers and Mutt fans, but that is the point of playing the heel I guess.
Until next time, make merry and break stuff and God Bless us all, everyone.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Monday, April 2nd, 2001
Opening Day dawned cold and bleak. I tripped over all 4 guys sprawled out on my floor, making my way to the shower, with a stop beforehand to grab a beer from the fridge. The clock read 7:30AM.
By 9AM we were pounding beer and peeing in corners, huddled by a grill to combat the cold and smell the hot sausages on Blue Lou's grill. "Hey, I got some hot sausage for ya" basically every guy who sauntered by used as his way of saying good morning. Soon enough a drunken stickball game was underway, and all the ghosts from the past appeared once more on the top deck of the Stadium parking garage.
The barbecue continued on. DUI James was very drunk, wearing pants soaked with a bottles worth of beer, which in leiu of a woman he decided to take to bed with him the night before. His day started with a fruitless search around the Stadium "for a pair of pants." He stumbled around like the "Walk this Way" guy from Young Frankenstein. Meanwhile, Bald Ray was dropping fly balls on the tarmac and hearing it from his teammates, all playing with one hand, beers gripped tightly in the other.
It was all beautiful inside the Stadium. Apparently. We would not know, the stickball game on the roof was in extra innings. I was not even playing, but I was drawn to the action on the blacktop, and the 4 pints of beer still left in my bag. And at precisely the moment the World Championship flag went up, the culmination of the Yankee's proud efforts last year, the burial of the putrid Mutts, the messy climax on the heaving chest of the baseball world, where were we? Well, Gang Bang Steve was ducking a beanball from Knoblauch, dropping the bat, and heading for the mound. The benches cleared, and inside the Stadium they cheered.
We did make it inside though for that silly eagles 88th run from the roof, despite the best intentions of our cohorts to distract him from his route with the old "bird whistle from the bleachers" gag.
The Royals had the intimidating Jeff Suppan opening up their season, causing one fan to say they would have been better off with Dan Quisenberry's baseball card on the mound. We had Roger Clemens, who despite not being accepted by a ton of the David Wells groupies, was on his way that day to overtaking Big Train Johnson for the AL all-time strikeout mark. As for the bleacher all-time strikeout mark, that would be Mo Love Milton the Cowbell Man.
"Way to play left field!" people hooted at the pinstriped Chuck Knoblauch, as he jogged out to the newfangled fence out there with the little windows that make it look like a betting window at the track. We warned our own Knoblauch, who the night before dropped $40 in a one on one board game of SORRY to Capone, not to venture over there with his ragged luck.
Gang Bang, not as visibly intoxicated as the rest of us, was the first to notice the tombstone gray color now hosting the retired numbers. "Hey, look. They changed the color of that wall." he said to no one in particular, shaking his head in either wonder or disgust.
"It's easier on the eyes" Carletti stated, a perfect softball for me which I hit out of the park by countering "I wish you were."
I saw the Security guy who doppleganged for Rudy Guiliani ambling about, contrary to rumors that he had left to take the job of making sure people who board the Merry Ferry at Adventureland were at least 4 feet tall, so I took time from my tasks of hitting on chicks to run down and say hello. "Hey, I thought you were gone." I said in greeting, to which he looked at me, raised an eyebrow, snapped "You're drunk." and turned on his heel and left.
There were not too many jokes put on the scorecard cause we were all too busy gladhanding and rehashing old friendships. The first Tom Drum kicked off in the bottom of the 2nd, and I teeter tottered for a second before hitting it in fine fashion, gyrating on my bench. I was a bit out of practice, doing that on a bed on top of a lucky woman is not as good a practice for doing it standing on a bench as you would think.
Of course I missed the 2nd and 3rd Tom drums, once while taking a pee (and yes, the guys in the bathroom started pointing towards the downstairs ramp and the mens room and chanting Tom) and the other time flirting with some girl in the runway who was trying to trade her bra for my Sheriffs badge. Figuring I would end up with the bra anyway, or my floor would, and figuring wrong, I demurred.
"Nice marijauna hat, you stoner!" Gang Bang yelled as some retro hippie walked around smelling the flowers. We then began talking about Gaylord Perry for some reason.
For some reason Donahuge was in a bad mood, probably cause he left Blue Lou's barbecue before the ribs were on the grill, and he and I even engaged in a spat over a seat which actually did not belong to either one of us. Mo Love the Cowbell Man, bored of being booed for his incessant clanging early on, got involved as well, so we had our first portence of drama. Of course by the next batter and the next pass of a bottle it was all forgotten.
The game itself was more than predictable with the pitching matchup, and disparities in budget and heart alike. The Yankees won, yada yada yada. Then it was on to the bodega.
For some reason I made the mistake of picking a fight there....with Vegas Dennis' 8 year old son Theo. Basically I lost, that had to be the shots I garnered from Big Don that kept me off balance, and took a kick to the balls as I lay on the sidewalk in Rock at Wrestlemania fashion. What is it about me that causes little kids, and women for that matter, to want to hit me?
Somehow through this I made it home in time to drink even more beer and watch Raw with DUI James, now wearing ridiculous striped pants, and Grover. On to the next Stadium venture...
GAME 2 - WEDNESDAY, APRIL 4
Our first visit to Yancey Park across from the Stadium, and a chance for the tokers to hit Rocky Mountain High and get reacquanted. I tell you, the bleachers are the only baseball spot where the answer to the baseball question "what is high and outside" is "a bunch of the Creatures at 6PM before a night game." High, and outside.
Anyway, I made like a magician by making 4 pints dissapear in under an hour. I was a heat magnet, getting booed and hooted down for leaving the park 10 minutes early (Hell, I had no beer left anyway, what was I there for - the conversation??) to say hello to some lady friends of mine outside of that fine culinary establishment, Twins Fat Food. And keeping with the theme of the week, I did not get none from them either.
Before this all took place Tone Capone had parked his car, and was accosted by a finely dressed individual representing the Homeless Coalition, asking for a donation. Capone handed him a dollar, and the man offered him 2 stickers for his generosity, one a predictable American Flag (which is now on a post in the park to piss off the soccer players) and one that says "Don't Be A Dick"
I just find it funny that the same homeless guys that play beautiful melodies like the Godfather theme with an oboe inside the N train can also hand out stickers with the word Dick on them. I am happy they did, though, cause Capone ended up walking around with "Dick" on the back of his jacket all night, unbeknowenst to him.
Inside the Royals were greeted pleasantly with such friendly comments as "we'll see you in July when you are 30 games under .500!" and "nice team, jerkoffs!" For some reason people started piling thier jackets and coats in front of a consternated Diggety Dan, who exclaimed "How did I end up being the coat check?"
The first Tom dance that night was even more calamatous than the first one of the year, as I was on the loose seat that has harkened many a fall. I call it the Rowboat seat, cause dancing on it is like dancing on a rowboat. I was having fun, calling birthday boy Midget Mike "a figurine" and going face to face with Little Anthony in a fierce bump of chests, in a battle of supremacy. There are those little kids attacking me again....
The game started off in goofy fashion, with Soriano lining a ball down the left field line which would have scored Chuck Knoblauch, but the ball hit the ballboy of all things. I mean, Jesus Christ. Can you get out of the way? Then, in something even more odd, Queen Bee Tina came up with a joke. Fresh off of walking up the ramp with Sean she asked, "Did you guys see that? It was Jackie Gleason and Lucille Ball." We couldn't have said it better ourselves.
Our own Knoblauch was drunk, and frankly annoying, as he was looking all over for his "missing cell phone." "I just had it" he muttered, as the cell phone dangled for all to see but him right from the inside of his jersey. "Someone must have taken it." He started calling people out over that, but that was met with rolling eyes. The cell phone continued to hang a mere 6 inches from his eyes. Lucy had what must have been climactic pleasure in being the party pooper who alerted him to his staggering lack of comprehension.
A new bleacher friend, - code name Laura - came by to bemoan the fact that her boyfriend, while being a swell chum, was "a Met fan." Well, she said, at least he bought her to see Paul O'Neill at some art show. "Yeah" countered I, "but I could bring you to see God." Hey, they don't call me Humplestilsken just cause it sounds funny.
I asked Lucy to autograph my scorecard cause she gave me a Godiva Chocolate Covered Strawberry for me to fantasize about. Of course she signed right over the pitcher boxes on my scorecard, so Pettitte's impressive hurling line is basically superimposed for posterity by a melange of looping letters in an oh so feminine hand.
I have to call the strawberrry my best gift of the 2 games, just beating out Big D's volcanic mix, Bald Rays, um, Ginger Ale, a countless flurry of kisses, (too many confined to the cheek unfortunatly - but I would be remiss if I did not thank Rachel in particular...) and a picture of Gary Coleman riding a bike some kid gave me "cause he thought I would find it funny."
The crowd was up to their usual antics. Some schmoe in the box seats was tossed for throwing peanuts at us right in front of security. Jermaine Dye and Carlos Febles came together in a violent collision that prompted a "hey look, it's Tom and Mia" from Capone. Gene Monahan ran onto the field in ridiculous white pants, causing everyone to start yelling for a snow cone or a bomb pop.
Mo Love the Cowbell Man, who I shared many a laugh over the rail this week, sauntered up with a coffee, causing a disgusted Gang Bang to grab his crotch and howl, "Hey, you need some milk for that?"
In keeping with this frivolity, Bald Vinny was more animated than usual - I thought marijuana was supposed to make one mellow - causing Rudy to shout up at him, "Hey motormouth! Sit down!" I exchanged pleasantries with Rudy again, which seemingly consists of me saying "hello" and his reply being "you're drunk" Ah, some things never change...
When this game finally shot its load, I was able to score a ride home with Vegas Dennis, thus missing the first postgame 4 train party - (remember, folks, the last car), and as I drank my milk and ate my pork rinds and watched my porno I was happy. Cause I was back where I, and where we all belong. Greatest team in baseball history, the greatest fans, some friends I will take with me to my grave (don't worry - I am not considering killing anyone) and some real cuties with the booties. All hail Section 39.
See you over the weekend. I will be the drunk guy with the badge. If you are a woman, I would like your number, if you are a guy I would like your beer.
And remember - it is better to be pissed off than pissed on.
Sheriff Tom
It Doesn't Get Any Better Then This
Thursday, March 17, 2011
St Pats Day Brouhaha!
Well, on this St Patricks Day, while I am safely enconsed at work, lets go back into my archives for a St Patricks Day brouhaha! Reprinted without permission.
I am one of those few fabled drinkers that gets calls from long-lost buddies on St Pats, wishing me a good one, like people get on their birthdays or on Christmas morn. My friend Dave just called me after many a month, and after we blew the dust off things he recanted a favorite Sheriff Tom St Pats memory, the time I was roughed up by a female cop who I had just happened to have attended high school with on that storied day.
I was quite the Irish rover that day. Green beer, a shot here and there and Hell, I think at one point I even took my beer soaked shirt and stuck a bit in my mouth to suck off the excess foam for a while. I sang Irish ditties, and danced a jig. I told every Irish joke I knew, loudly. With each drink i found the bagpipe more and more amazing. By the time I left the last bar, not by choice mind you, I decided I wanted to put aside the harmonica I had at home and forget about my allusions to playing the violin or viola and learn the bagpipe. But those thoughts were quashed by a more pressing issue....an altercation inside your friendly neighborhood West 4th Street Subway Station.
I approached the ticket booth cause these were the arcane pre-Metrocard days, and was chagrined to find a line. Its one thing to wait in line to buy Yankee tickets or pee on the grave of an enemy, but not to buy a token to give you the means to pass out on the C train and ride back and forth from the Bronx to Queens all night. I decided to move things along, by saying real loud, "um, can we move along please?" Just like that. Only a little slurrier. And with more urgency. Oh, and curse words too.
You see, heres why we had this line in the first place. Cause it was St Pats you had a lot of people that decided to take their alcoholism to the streets and not out of their cupboard at home or hidden desk drawer at work for a change, and you had people in the city for the first time solely to buy a plasic green leprachaun hat or a "Kiss Me, I'm Irish!" balloon. While I hated the idea of the line in front of me, I will admit it was a pretty line, with all the green colors decorating the people going nowhere in it.
Amazingly enough I made it to the front of the line without having to flash dukes or even tell anyone that was too curious to face eyes front, but I could not leave it well enough alone once I came face to face with your resident token clerk. She was almost as unhappy enough to be working the booth that day as I was to have to stand in that line while already having to pee. We ended up in a verbal altercation, and I am not too sure what precipitated it. She may have simply said "Top of the morning to you!" for all I know. Still grumpy about the turtles engaging in foreplay speed of the line, I had a few cracks for her, which I spiced up with an epitaph or two. All in a brogue tinged with as much cadence as rancor.
And then it happened. The schmoe behind me put thier hand on my shoulder. I cant have that, I dont like to be touched there except during the tender act of lovemaking. I sort of shrugged it off, as by now I was pointing at the lickspittle in the booth and telling her where to go, and exactly how to get there. It was to Hell, via way of suc*ing my *@()@ or some such thing.
By now my shoulder was being tugged and I was being led away. At this point I already had my token so I really did not need the booth anymore anyway. But as I turned I decided to shove whoever decided to take me for a waltz. I mean why not? I am a man, not a bag of chips to rustle your hands through.
It was only after I made my contact that I noticed the police uniform. Not just any police uniform, these duds just screamed Double-XL. It was a woman, or a reasonable facsimile of such, big enough to crush dreams as she walked. And she was not happy with me. But how many women were back then?
You ever see footage from the 1880s of little girls in dresses smacking a hoop in front of them on some prairie grass as they run? Well, she was that little girl and I was that hoop. And the cement was that prairie grass. I ended up on the cold subway surface, after having taken a right turn at the corner of "upside down" and a quick stop at "on my head."
I knew I was in trouble now. For one thing, I still had to pee. For another, I had a cop standing over me, cursing, and there were kids around. And they were laughing. I envied them and their balloons. They had the whole night in front of them, and I had this female cop that looked like Kathy Bates and was snarling down from an Andre the Giant frame.
I started to get up but she must have been tired and chose to use me for a footstool. Hey, I like a little foot fetish here and there, who doesnt want a boot on the back of thier head now and then? This, though, was not my idea of that fantasy evening. She was quite the tease too, that firebrand, telling me to get up as she grinded a heel on the head. I think that is where I got my bald spot, from her boot.
To make a long story even longer, she picked me up, with help from her stereotypical cop buddy, as I was listless and drunk. I was led out of the subway station to the applause of those I regaled with my improv performance at the ticket booth. "Please tip your waitresses! Try the veal!" I remember saying to the guffawing minions. "Keep walking, motherf***er" my new friends in badges snarled in response to my one-man show.
I was put in the back of a van, which already had a couple of sullen sods, one wearing a Hawaiin Lei for some reason. I wish I could give you more details of the denizens in the cramped van (or at least make some good ones up) but my mind was in, "oh, s**t. This is going to take some explaining" mode. I still had to pee but I think asking to stop at the Wendy's on the way was a bad idea. Didnt stop me from asking...I could have used a Frosty too. Obviously the trip continued sans Frosty.
The behemoth, now in the passenger seat with a s**t-eating grin on her face (in place of the usual cake frosting usually on there) then hit me with the most sobering statement of the day (at least since one of the bagpipers told me, "no, the Chinese dont play the bagpipes as far as I know") when she said, "I can't believe we went to high school together."
My heart dropped and I burped and it tasted like beer. Normally I would try to burp again to taste more beer, but for now I had to put these words together in my cloudy and already prematurely balding head. High school together??? Oh, crap, I realized. It was {name deleted to protect the guilty). My only memory of her was a comic one, sitting on her shoulders in a pool only 5 or so years before, playing chicken at a party at a mutual friends house. She was obviously pretty big even then if I was on her shoulders. She and I sure did have quite the relationship, huh? First I ride on her shoulders and then she sticks her boot on the nape of my neck.
I honestly dont remember much after that, outside of sitting in a cell almost as small as the bathroom in my apartment in Long Island City (although the cell was much cleaner). One of those cops that masquerades as a tough guy behind the other side of the bars from those he accosts came to visit and threaten to "beat me up" for HITTING A COP. I "hit a cop" now??? All i had done was shoo my arm away from her. If all the hot dogs she ate had the same idea maybe she would have never gotten that fat.
In sumnation, the charges were dropped. NOTHING came of it. I was left to stew overnight in a vain effort to scare me (I dont scare easily, I once lived in a roach-filled apartment in Albany) and I think I visited a judge, but I am not sure. (I have seen so many they kind of all blend in together)
The moral of this story? There is none, cept maybe turn around to take a peek at who you may or may not shove in the future when they grab at your shoulder. And do your own research on bagpipes and who invented them and plays them before you ask a bagpiper that is not in the mood to answer any questions.
I am one of those few fabled drinkers that gets calls from long-lost buddies on St Pats, wishing me a good one, like people get on their birthdays or on Christmas morn. My friend Dave just called me after many a month, and after we blew the dust off things he recanted a favorite Sheriff Tom St Pats memory, the time I was roughed up by a female cop who I had just happened to have attended high school with on that storied day.
I was quite the Irish rover that day. Green beer, a shot here and there and Hell, I think at one point I even took my beer soaked shirt and stuck a bit in my mouth to suck off the excess foam for a while. I sang Irish ditties, and danced a jig. I told every Irish joke I knew, loudly. With each drink i found the bagpipe more and more amazing. By the time I left the last bar, not by choice mind you, I decided I wanted to put aside the harmonica I had at home and forget about my allusions to playing the violin or viola and learn the bagpipe. But those thoughts were quashed by a more pressing issue....an altercation inside your friendly neighborhood West 4th Street Subway Station.
I approached the ticket booth cause these were the arcane pre-Metrocard days, and was chagrined to find a line. Its one thing to wait in line to buy Yankee tickets or pee on the grave of an enemy, but not to buy a token to give you the means to pass out on the C train and ride back and forth from the Bronx to Queens all night. I decided to move things along, by saying real loud, "um, can we move along please?" Just like that. Only a little slurrier. And with more urgency. Oh, and curse words too.
You see, heres why we had this line in the first place. Cause it was St Pats you had a lot of people that decided to take their alcoholism to the streets and not out of their cupboard at home or hidden desk drawer at work for a change, and you had people in the city for the first time solely to buy a plasic green leprachaun hat or a "Kiss Me, I'm Irish!" balloon. While I hated the idea of the line in front of me, I will admit it was a pretty line, with all the green colors decorating the people going nowhere in it.
Amazingly enough I made it to the front of the line without having to flash dukes or even tell anyone that was too curious to face eyes front, but I could not leave it well enough alone once I came face to face with your resident token clerk. She was almost as unhappy enough to be working the booth that day as I was to have to stand in that line while already having to pee. We ended up in a verbal altercation, and I am not too sure what precipitated it. She may have simply said "Top of the morning to you!" for all I know. Still grumpy about the turtles engaging in foreplay speed of the line, I had a few cracks for her, which I spiced up with an epitaph or two. All in a brogue tinged with as much cadence as rancor.
And then it happened. The schmoe behind me put thier hand on my shoulder. I cant have that, I dont like to be touched there except during the tender act of lovemaking. I sort of shrugged it off, as by now I was pointing at the lickspittle in the booth and telling her where to go, and exactly how to get there. It was to Hell, via way of suc*ing my *@()@ or some such thing.
By now my shoulder was being tugged and I was being led away. At this point I already had my token so I really did not need the booth anymore anyway. But as I turned I decided to shove whoever decided to take me for a waltz. I mean why not? I am a man, not a bag of chips to rustle your hands through.
It was only after I made my contact that I noticed the police uniform. Not just any police uniform, these duds just screamed Double-XL. It was a woman, or a reasonable facsimile of such, big enough to crush dreams as she walked. And she was not happy with me. But how many women were back then?
You ever see footage from the 1880s of little girls in dresses smacking a hoop in front of them on some prairie grass as they run? Well, she was that little girl and I was that hoop. And the cement was that prairie grass. I ended up on the cold subway surface, after having taken a right turn at the corner of "upside down" and a quick stop at "on my head."
I knew I was in trouble now. For one thing, I still had to pee. For another, I had a cop standing over me, cursing, and there were kids around. And they were laughing. I envied them and their balloons. They had the whole night in front of them, and I had this female cop that looked like Kathy Bates and was snarling down from an Andre the Giant frame.
I started to get up but she must have been tired and chose to use me for a footstool. Hey, I like a little foot fetish here and there, who doesnt want a boot on the back of thier head now and then? This, though, was not my idea of that fantasy evening. She was quite the tease too, that firebrand, telling me to get up as she grinded a heel on the head. I think that is where I got my bald spot, from her boot.
To make a long story even longer, she picked me up, with help from her stereotypical cop buddy, as I was listless and drunk. I was led out of the subway station to the applause of those I regaled with my improv performance at the ticket booth. "Please tip your waitresses! Try the veal!" I remember saying to the guffawing minions. "Keep walking, motherf***er" my new friends in badges snarled in response to my one-man show.
I was put in the back of a van, which already had a couple of sullen sods, one wearing a Hawaiin Lei for some reason. I wish I could give you more details of the denizens in the cramped van (or at least make some good ones up) but my mind was in, "oh, s**t. This is going to take some explaining" mode. I still had to pee but I think asking to stop at the Wendy's on the way was a bad idea. Didnt stop me from asking...I could have used a Frosty too. Obviously the trip continued sans Frosty.
The behemoth, now in the passenger seat with a s**t-eating grin on her face (in place of the usual cake frosting usually on there) then hit me with the most sobering statement of the day (at least since one of the bagpipers told me, "no, the Chinese dont play the bagpipes as far as I know") when she said, "I can't believe we went to high school together."
My heart dropped and I burped and it tasted like beer. Normally I would try to burp again to taste more beer, but for now I had to put these words together in my cloudy and already prematurely balding head. High school together??? Oh, crap, I realized. It was {name deleted to protect the guilty). My only memory of her was a comic one, sitting on her shoulders in a pool only 5 or so years before, playing chicken at a party at a mutual friends house. She was obviously pretty big even then if I was on her shoulders. She and I sure did have quite the relationship, huh? First I ride on her shoulders and then she sticks her boot on the nape of my neck.
I honestly dont remember much after that, outside of sitting in a cell almost as small as the bathroom in my apartment in Long Island City (although the cell was much cleaner). One of those cops that masquerades as a tough guy behind the other side of the bars from those he accosts came to visit and threaten to "beat me up" for HITTING A COP. I "hit a cop" now??? All i had done was shoo my arm away from her. If all the hot dogs she ate had the same idea maybe she would have never gotten that fat.
In sumnation, the charges were dropped. NOTHING came of it. I was left to stew overnight in a vain effort to scare me (I dont scare easily, I once lived in a roach-filled apartment in Albany) and I think I visited a judge, but I am not sure. (I have seen so many they kind of all blend in together)
The moral of this story? There is none, cept maybe turn around to take a peek at who you may or may not shove in the future when they grab at your shoulder. And do your own research on bagpipes and who invented them and plays them before you ask a bagpiper that is not in the mood to answer any questions.
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