When In Rome

Every couple of weeks, Jay#1 and I meet up on a Sunday night for a nice platonic man-date. We catch up with each other, we drink beers, and we watch football... it's nice.

It might surprise you to learn that we don't always drink at my favorite bar, Harvest Moon, where we're both regulars. In fact, more often than not, we go to Old Bay, which has cheaper and more exotic beer on Sunday nights. There are some things in life that transcend bar-loyalty (although certainly not Karaoke-loyalty), and the opportunity to try new beers at minimal cost is one of them.

Old Bay has been closed for renovation, though, so Jay and I met at Harvest Moon, only to find ourselves in the middle of the 3rd Annual Jimmy D's Memorial. Since Jimmy D was a firefighter who died in the line of duty, this meant that the place was packed with firefighters. I'll tell you what, it felt like I was stuck in an episode of Rescue Me, but with less fire. When the Fife and Drum Corp took over, I was pretty much ready to leave - while Jay enjoys the bagpipes, my musical tastes exclude tortured cats and headaches.

We ran into some friends, ordered food to go, and enjoyed some Jimmy D's Firehouse Red, a beer that had been named in Jimmy D's honor... not my favorite beer, but eh, when in Rome... The Giants game was on, though, and we could barely hear each other talk over the firefighters, so it was time to leave.

Old Bay turned out to be open. Jay and I sat at its bar, and as we ate our dinners, sampled unusual beers, and shot the breeze, the bar got more and more packed with Giants fans. The game's drama sucked us in, and we found ourselves cheering, booing, and swearing with the crowd. When in Rome, right?

As you hopefully saw, or at least read about the next day, the Giants kicker missed two game-winning field goals. The crowd, and thus Jay and I, were incensed. Outraged. Beside ourselves with bloodlust.

Now, I've been told that my sense of humor is a little too dry. Certainly the written format, for want of tone, has confused even my close friends. Still, when it comes to sarcastic replies to earnest statements, I rather enjoy playing with condescending ambiguity. Someday I'm going to get my ass kicked, but so far so good.

After the second missed field goal, there were a few minutes to kill before the start of overtime. The guy behind us - let's call him Frank - turned to me and Jay and said, "we've got to kill Tynes [the Giants kicker], then burn his house down and kill his family".

Nice to meet you too, Frank.

Jay just sort of chuckled, because Jay knows better than to run with scissors. Me, I looked Frank in the eye and deadpanned, "No. We let Tynes live, kill his parents, and feed them to him."

No, I didn't plagiarize that South Park episode. I plagiarized Shakespeare, which is way classier.

Somehow, this didn't phase Frank much at all. He did pause for a beat, but he came right back with "Yeah, either he eats his parents or we kill his daughter." I'm not making this up, people, and Jay will back me up here.

Now that Frank had devised the ultimate in blackmailing leverage, we moved on to finer details. How best to prepare the parents, for example. Sushi or well-done? What would be the best marinade?

Thankfully, as soon as Frank announced that Mama Tynes would be basted in teriyaki and Papa Tynes would've wanted to be served in steak sauce, it was time for the coin toss. Long story short: the Giants won on a Tynes field goal, Frank high-fived us, it was agreed that all members of the Tynes clan would be spared, and we got the hell out of there.

"When in Rome" is fine, until you realize that you can leave.