glorious sunday
20 November 2007
One of the most crushing developments for me this fall was not the the Phillies quick demise in the playoffs, the death of Norman Mailer, the writers’ strike, or the passing of another summer without being shirtless at the beach (we’re at 22 and counting), but the loss of our Philadelphia Eagles bar.
[Quick note on the strike: I'm not a member of the Guild so I'm not on strike, but I still can't pitch or work because then I'd be considered a scab. I fully support the writers, obviously, and I hope the strike is resolved soon. Because I'm going to need some sort of advance to pay off the ginormous amount of money I'm going to owe the federal government in taxes in April. Here's a little lesson: TV money is taxed, and taxed very much. So if you get, say, a $10,000 deal for a show, you take home maybe $5000 and the rest goes to Uncle Sam. So I'm fine there. Book money, however, is not taxed. So if you get a $10,000 book advance, you get a $10,000 check and are expected to put aside a chunk for taxes. I misheard my accountant friends when they said, "Be sure to put some of that book money away for taxes"; I thought they said, "Spend money like you are addicted to angeldust and love rubies and sapphires." Whoops. So writers and producers, let's work this out soon so Jason can sell one of his crappy ideas. Otherwise, I have until April 15 to come up with some sort of get rich quick scheme. I don't have any ideas yet, but if I had to guess, I'm thinking it's going to involve some sort of forgery and me dressing as a woman. Just a hunch. But good lord - this is gonna get ugly. By mid-March, you'll be seeing posts with titles like, "Who wants to jerk off on my feet for $12?" So be sure to tune in.]
Last year (and for two years before that), my friends and I watched Eagles games at a bar called Red Sky. On Friday and Saturday nights, it’s a douchebag bar filled with NJ-LI types looking to crush pussy and pound Jagerbombs. But this is part of the reason it worked so well for us on those Sunday afternoons – it’s strictly a nighttime bar, so no one was in the bar except us during the day. A friend of mine was friends with a guy who worked there, and they opened the place on Sundays especially for us. So instead of cramming into the recognized NYC Eagles bar (Town Tavern) with 100+ other fans, me and twenty or so of my friends, mostly guys I went to high school with and their girlfriends and other friends, would have an entire bar to ourselves to drink, eat and watch the Birds. After the 1pm game we’d stick around for the 4pm game and by the time that was over, we’d be nice and soused and head to the Upper East Side to Doc Watson’s for some live Irish music, spilling Guinness as we danced until midnight. These football Sundays last fall were magical.
But this year, we lost our bar. The day before the first Sunday of the NFL season, we learned that Red Sky had been taken over by Redskins fans. Ugh. I talked about this before, about our disappointment, about our resentment, about our pain. Not only was the rug pulled out from under us, but we were beaten by Redskins fans. Again, ugh.
And we never recovered. We scrambled that first weekend and picked a random bar to watch the Eagles lose in embarrassing fashion to the Packers because they couldn’t field punts, and that was the last time my friends and I watched an Eagles game together. There were other reasons besides the loss of the bar – many of us have been out of town on the weekends (including yours truly) – but either way, Week One was our only get together. Those Sundays in which we drank, we cheered, and we danced were relegated to memory.
[Quick note about the Eagles 2007 season: The Eagles are 5-5 and a bad football team. We all know this. But do you realize that if they had players who could catch punts, a skill learned and honed in high school football, they'd be 6-4? And do you realize that if they didn't allow Brian Fucking Griese to turn into John Fucking Elway and drive his team 91 yards in under two minutes for a touchdown, playing basic D+ defense instead of F- defense, they'd be 7-3? No need for "what if's", but these are facts. Terrible, brutal facts.]
However, this Sunday presented the perfect opportunity to get together. Six core members of our crew from last year – me, Pat, Mike, Terrence, Brian and Fran – were all in town, and Mike had the foresight to secure us a table at Ship of Fools, a sports bar on the UES. While not ideal – it’s a crowded bar with many different sports fans – it was still a nice spot: we had our own table, four TVs showing the game, good food, and waitresses who were both hot and attentive. All things considered, not a bad setup.
And it was vintage Eagles-watching. Not vintage in the sense of the Eagles playing well – they barely beat a team (the Dolphins) filled with guys I could probably beat up if I had one month’s advance notice to start working out - but in the sense of a bunch of dudes getting very drunk, stuffing themselves with fried/bad food (including but not limited to: wings, fries, mini-tacos, and this delicious chicken ranch "burger" I had), and cheering on their favorite team. There was also, since we all went to high school together, a copious amount of sharing stories and real "man" time – none of us are handy or own a car, but there were plenty of stories of pooping, intoxicated accidents, and f’ing broads. And by "f’ing broads" I mean "drinking too much to maintain an erection and/or come even close to pleasing a woman." Seriously, between the six of us, we’ve probably been present and responsible for a total of – max – four female orgasms in our lives (and two of them occurred during a showing of Pirates of the Caribbean – hubba hubba - so they don’t really count). Just six dudes who really have no idea what’s going on under a woman’s jeans.
Our party of six grew to a party of ten, then fourteen, then twenty. The 1pm games ended and we celebrated an Eagles victory, and decided to stay to "watch" the 4pm games (at that point, it was getting a little blurry). After those, when things were really blurry, we walked over to Doc Watson’s for some Irish music (a sampling of last names of people I was with – Heenan, Nolan, O’Neill, Tracy, McCartan, Grogan, Daniels). I left around midnight, having easily broken my non-St. Patrick’s Day record for pints of Guinness consumed. Monday…Monday was not my best day.
There is no ridiculous story here; no one hurt themselves, there were no scandalous hook-ups, and aside from my buddy leaving his ATM card in a machine somewhere near the bars, Sunday was story-less. But it was one of those rare, glorious days that does not happen frequently enough: good friends, sports, lots of beer and food, and music (actually, the only thing missing that would have made this perfect would be some sort of sexual activity, but I honestly would have ejaculated Guinness; it really took over everything in my body). There are times when I get down on NYC, because it’s so expensive and my family is mostly in Philly and my friends are mostly in Boston, but then a day like Sunday comes along and really puts things in perspective. I’m tempted to close this by tying in Thanksgiving, saying something about how I realize how lucky I am and how thankful I should be and all that jazz, but my pseudo-homosexuality/maudlin sentimentality has a limit. I will only say that I hope that before the end of the season, I hope my friends and I can get together for another Sunday like that one.
(Although I’m not going to hold my breath for another Eagles’ win. Too bad we can’t play the worst team in the NFL every week.)
[Quick note on the strike: I'm not a member of the Guild so I'm not on strike, but I still can't pitch or work because then I'd be considered a scab. I fully support the writers, obviously, and I hope the strike is resolved soon. Because I'm going to need some sort of advance to pay off the ginormous amount of money I'm going to owe the federal government in taxes in April. Here's a little lesson: TV money is taxed, and taxed very much. So if you get, say, a $10,000 deal for a show, you take home maybe $5000 and the rest goes to Uncle Sam. So I'm fine there. Book money, however, is not taxed. So if you get a $10,000 book advance, you get a $10,000 check and are expected to put aside a chunk for taxes. I misheard my accountant friends when they said, "Be sure to put some of that book money away for taxes"; I thought they said, "Spend money like you are addicted to angeldust and love rubies and sapphires." Whoops. So writers and producers, let's work this out soon so Jason can sell one of his crappy ideas. Otherwise, I have until April 15 to come up with some sort of get rich quick scheme. I don't have any ideas yet, but if I had to guess, I'm thinking it's going to involve some sort of forgery and me dressing as a woman. Just a hunch. But good lord - this is gonna get ugly. By mid-March, you'll be seeing posts with titles like, "Who wants to jerk off on my feet for $12?" So be sure to tune in.]
Last year (and for two years before that), my friends and I watched Eagles games at a bar called Red Sky. On Friday and Saturday nights, it’s a douchebag bar filled with NJ-LI types looking to crush pussy and pound Jagerbombs. But this is part of the reason it worked so well for us on those Sunday afternoons – it’s strictly a nighttime bar, so no one was in the bar except us during the day. A friend of mine was friends with a guy who worked there, and they opened the place on Sundays especially for us. So instead of cramming into the recognized NYC Eagles bar (Town Tavern) with 100+ other fans, me and twenty or so of my friends, mostly guys I went to high school with and their girlfriends and other friends, would have an entire bar to ourselves to drink, eat and watch the Birds. After the 1pm game we’d stick around for the 4pm game and by the time that was over, we’d be nice and soused and head to the Upper East Side to Doc Watson’s for some live Irish music, spilling Guinness as we danced until midnight. These football Sundays last fall were magical.
But this year, we lost our bar. The day before the first Sunday of the NFL season, we learned that Red Sky had been taken over by Redskins fans. Ugh. I talked about this before, about our disappointment, about our resentment, about our pain. Not only was the rug pulled out from under us, but we were beaten by Redskins fans. Again, ugh.
And we never recovered. We scrambled that first weekend and picked a random bar to watch the Eagles lose in embarrassing fashion to the Packers because they couldn’t field punts, and that was the last time my friends and I watched an Eagles game together. There were other reasons besides the loss of the bar – many of us have been out of town on the weekends (including yours truly) – but either way, Week One was our only get together. Those Sundays in which we drank, we cheered, and we danced were relegated to memory.
[Quick note about the Eagles 2007 season: The Eagles are 5-5 and a bad football team. We all know this. But do you realize that if they had players who could catch punts, a skill learned and honed in high school football, they'd be 6-4? And do you realize that if they didn't allow Brian Fucking Griese to turn into John Fucking Elway and drive his team 91 yards in under two minutes for a touchdown, playing basic D+ defense instead of F- defense, they'd be 7-3? No need for "what if's", but these are facts. Terrible, brutal facts.]
However, this Sunday presented the perfect opportunity to get together. Six core members of our crew from last year – me, Pat, Mike, Terrence, Brian and Fran – were all in town, and Mike had the foresight to secure us a table at Ship of Fools, a sports bar on the UES. While not ideal – it’s a crowded bar with many different sports fans – it was still a nice spot: we had our own table, four TVs showing the game, good food, and waitresses who were both hot and attentive. All things considered, not a bad setup.
And it was vintage Eagles-watching. Not vintage in the sense of the Eagles playing well – they barely beat a team (the Dolphins) filled with guys I could probably beat up if I had one month’s advance notice to start working out - but in the sense of a bunch of dudes getting very drunk, stuffing themselves with fried/bad food (including but not limited to: wings, fries, mini-tacos, and this delicious chicken ranch "burger" I had), and cheering on their favorite team. There was also, since we all went to high school together, a copious amount of sharing stories and real "man" time – none of us are handy or own a car, but there were plenty of stories of pooping, intoxicated accidents, and f’ing broads. And by "f’ing broads" I mean "drinking too much to maintain an erection and/or come even close to pleasing a woman." Seriously, between the six of us, we’ve probably been present and responsible for a total of – max – four female orgasms in our lives (and two of them occurred during a showing of Pirates of the Caribbean – hubba hubba - so they don’t really count). Just six dudes who really have no idea what’s going on under a woman’s jeans.
Our party of six grew to a party of ten, then fourteen, then twenty. The 1pm games ended and we celebrated an Eagles victory, and decided to stay to "watch" the 4pm games (at that point, it was getting a little blurry). After those, when things were really blurry, we walked over to Doc Watson’s for some Irish music (a sampling of last names of people I was with – Heenan, Nolan, O’Neill, Tracy, McCartan, Grogan, Daniels). I left around midnight, having easily broken my non-St. Patrick’s Day record for pints of Guinness consumed. Monday…Monday was not my best day.
There is no ridiculous story here; no one hurt themselves, there were no scandalous hook-ups, and aside from my buddy leaving his ATM card in a machine somewhere near the bars, Sunday was story-less. But it was one of those rare, glorious days that does not happen frequently enough: good friends, sports, lots of beer and food, and music (actually, the only thing missing that would have made this perfect would be some sort of sexual activity, but I honestly would have ejaculated Guinness; it really took over everything in my body). There are times when I get down on NYC, because it’s so expensive and my family is mostly in Philly and my friends are mostly in Boston, but then a day like Sunday comes along and really puts things in perspective. I’m tempted to close this by tying in Thanksgiving, saying something about how I realize how lucky I am and how thankful I should be and all that jazz, but my pseudo-homosexuality/maudlin sentimentality has a limit. I will only say that I hope that before the end of the season, I hope my friends and I can get together for another Sunday like that one.
(Although I’m not going to hold my breath for another Eagles’ win. Too bad we can’t play the worst team in the NFL every week.)
