Tuesday, February 5, 2008

Giants Ticker-Tape Parade: Running Blog

Since I've never attended a ticker-tape championship parade in my life (the ill-fated existence of a devout Knicks/Mets fan), I forced myself to trudge out into the great confetti abyss that was the Giants big ol' Broadway bash.

Arrogance, public drunkeness, violence, racial slurs, half naked underage Jersey girls, chain-smoking directly into the faces of infants strapped onto irresponsible drunken parents trying to stay balance on top of a public phone... God I almost forgot how much I love being a New Yorker...

9:21am: Being the dumbfuck that I am, I underestimate the number of people willing to show up at the crack of dawn just to stand for hours and catch merely a glimpse of their sports heroes. I'm also disappointed to find that access to the actual ceremony at City Hall Plaza is closed off to special people with tickets, VIPs, and people who know someone who knows someone. Shit, I knew I shouldn't have stopped for that free Snapple energy drink on West Broadway.

9:29am: I dart past a barrier on Murray Street and move through a throng of Eli Manning jersey clad fans. Apparently the bar opened extra earlier for the Giants faithful. Someone in a 1990 Superbowl Champion jacket vomits right onto the sidewalk, then proceeds to polish off the rest of his beer. Dozens of cops are literally within striking distance, but don't budge. Public intoxication isn't illegal, its's just a suggestion.

9:45am: After struggling to find any semblance of headway down towards Battery Park, I settle into a corner on Murray and Broadway. With a nice glass bank window to lean on and a friendly looking New York Ledger street merchant nursing a C&C Champagne flavored Cola next to me, it's as close to a jackpot as I'll find at this hour.

10:02am: Irritation seems to have set in.

"Let's Go Giants!" has devolved into "Boston Sucks!" ; "Pats Can Suck It!" and my personal favorite, "Tiki Who? Tiki Fuck You!"


10:12am: The massive group of bodies that surround me suddenly boo, hiss, and flip the bird collectively towards my direction. I look up as my eyes finally make out a pair of female Pats fans in Brady Jerseys in a second story window carrying a "Brady's Still My Baby" sign.

A heavy-set man wearing the same Lawrence Taylor jersey as me shares his idea that "someone should fuckin' fuck those fuckers the fuck up, you know?" The immediate crowd laughs in agreement. Long pause and- "Like rape 'em or sumthin'" Awkward silence.

10:20am: The crowd has become tightly packed, much to the chagrin of a quartet of people forcing their way in.

"I have to get to work, please."
"You need to get to work, I need to get a job; what a coincidence!"

"Excuse me, I work in this building!"
"Shit, I didn't know Citibank allowed its employees to wear sneakers and jerseys for dresses!"

"Please, please move. Excuse me!"
"Hey lady, I work here too, just so happens I can't move eitha. Life's a bitch, eh?"
"I'm serious, I need to get through-"
"I'm serious too, but my wife just don't seem to see it that way."

10:30am: A defeated disgruntled Jamaican woman returns after attempting to force her way to the front.

"Goddamn disgrace dis is! And dey wonder why dey call dem niggas."

The Italian-Irish contigent of Giants fans that surround me are dumbfounded by her outburst. When she leaves, the Frankie Valli-lookalike chimes in, "That's N-I-G-G-"

His son cuts him off, "No, Dad, it's not cool."

"What? She's da one dat said it. Cides, she said it with an 'a,' not an 'er'."

"No, Dad."

"I'm just sayin' what she sayin'."

"We're not allowed to."

"What, I'm a grown man and I'm not allowed to say whatever the fuck I wanna say?"

"Not that Dad."

At this point father strikes son. Awkward silence. Several buses roll by. "WHOOOOOOO!"

10:41am: A priest is seen on the jumbo screens burning incense and waving a sign.

"Look Bobby, it's the freakin' Pope or sumthin'."

10:45am: 15 minutes till this parade officially fucking starts. A short Radha Mitchell-lookalike nudges her way next to me, followed by an older gentleman I would learn to be her boss.

(In a thick British accent) "What's the big deal? It's not like it's the World Cup or anything."

The Italian-Irish contingent glare. If she wasn't so cute, I would too, but I smile. God I'm a pussy.

11:04am: Finally some player floats come running through. Running back Brandon Jacobs in one big boy. A BIG BIG boy.

11:10am: The employees inside the bank I'm leaning onto appear to be trapped inside. Several Asian men seem to be yelling and pointing at the crowd trapping them inside. Hilariously, the accountants and bank tellers are standing on their chairs and cubicles ambling to catch a glimpse of the floats while their bosses continue to argue.

11:15am: A drunken trio of Jersey kids attempt to sit atop a Verizon public phone. A group nearby chant "Show Your Tits! Show Your Tits!" The Shockey jersey clad blonde appears to contemplate this momentarily, then suddenly flashes her gelatinous behemoths. Mothers shield their children's eyes. Fathers and sons cheer. People curse Eliot Spitzer cruising by.

11:22am: Amani Toomer and other receivers float by. A bystanding tourist makes an astute observation:

"They're all wearing sweatshirts and t-shirts, and...hell, I can't tell who are players and who are just random people. What's the point if you can't tell who you're supposed to be cheering?"

My Italian-Irish friend speak for all of us. "Hey...shut the fuck up will you?"

11:30am: On the giant digital screens erected adjacent to City Hall Plaza, Tom Coughlin's image is seen moving from bus to float.

"Tommy C! Tommy C! I fucking love you Tommy C! Shit, I fucking love you Tommy C!"

What a difference five weeks makes.

11:41am: A long lull in the parade continues. Several Obama/Hillary campaign supporters in the crowd spur conversation.

"Hey mack...isn't today some voting thing or sumthin'?"

"Yeah, yeah, Super Tuesday or some shit."

"I thought that was in November."

"Nah, I dunno maybe they changed it. I don't really care, man. A Muslim guy and a dyke? Shit, as long as that war hero guy wins we'll be okay."

"I'll drink to that. (He raises his Budweiser can and chugs.) Wait, there's a Muslim guy? I thought he was one of em Mulattos."

12:06pm: Finally the float arrives. The voices of grown, grizzled drunken men heighten. I see a man to my left actually break into tears upon seeing the trophy. Never had I ever thought the sight of Eli Manning and Strahan would elicit such collective joy. Fathers carry daughters and sons on their shoulders to glimpse greatness. Women swoon. Drunken underage girls swoon harder.

Amid the flurry of camera flashes and cheers, several gentlemen and ladies are overheard.

"BOOOO! Bloomberg get the fuck off there! You didn't win that! BOOOOO! Get ya hands off the trophy, Bloom, you freakin' bum! BOOOO!"


"Eli for President! Eli for President! Ya brotha's a fag, but you the man! Eli for President!"

"Eli I love you! Eli! Eliiii! I would totally blow you, Eliiiiii!"

12:15pm: Another float carrying defensive stalwart Justin Tuck rolls by. Many around me can't seem to identify him.


"You know, I just realized...it's kinda hard to know everyone without their jerseys and everything."

12:24pm: The crowd around me begins to disperse. Some are content to watch the ceremony on the newly erected big screens, while others like myself reconvene to neighboring watering holes. After eyeing the television screen and befriending several eager Brooklynites who casually buy me Jager, minutes/hours/drinks begin to blur...

strahan stomp

...Strahan was stomping...or stomping someone...eitherway I remember him jumping higher than anyone could possibly fathom a man of his size to be capable of. The odd appearance of Whoopi Goldberg elicited a "whut da fuck?" throughout the bar.


...It is universally agreed upon "dat cleaning dat shit up would be a freakin' bitch." I stumble around awkwardly somewhere...north, I think...

5:45pm:...I wake up in the darkness of the Film Forum, with "Don't Look Back" playing. Joan Baez was actually pretty freakin' cute.

I just said "freakin'." Fuck.

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