I haven't finished telling you about my first date with April in the park and I just took a 4 day train trip across the country to a fat farm where I'm gonna fast and get colonics for a week for reasons I'm sure you can figure out based on my last little story. I'm a fat fucking cunt. My brain is already shutting down and it's only day one of the fast, so I'll tell you all about those adventures in a couple weeks. For now, a little history which you need and will want anyway. This is the perfect time to reveal since I need any remaining brainpower for gambling AS FOOTBALL SEASON STARTS TONIGHT PRAISE GOD! I know you understand. Unlike my last girlfriend, Liza. Not because she got fed up with the "never - allowed - to - see - me - on - Sundays - and - can - only - talk - for - a - quick - second - in - between - the - last - game - and - the - first - Sports - Center - around - midnight" rule, no, for something far worse. The gambling addiction she thought I had.

Before I get into that, let me just clear up why Sundays are out. The headline is, because it's my day. My day to just lie on the couch and go Neanderthal. I wake up at eleven so there won't be any chance of being bored until football starts. I turn on the pre-game shows and finish up solidifying my picks for the day. I already started the process on the previous Monday, allowing the various betting possibilities to percolate. The Jets -5 at Oakland. The Giants +3 at New England. Maybe a two-team six-point teaser. Maybe a parlay? No, too scary. I'm fond of 6 team 6 point teasers known as sucker's bets. They're just more fun because you have action on many games and the payouts are bigger than a straight bet because of the odds. So, I watch the pre-game shows for two hours finding out any last minute injuries that might impact the games and peruse my pre-picks just to see if I still have the same vibe I had on Tuesday or Wednesday. Around twelve, I order my scrambled tofu and oatmeal waffles with stewed apples and cinnamon, toast and extra miso spread. That's brunch. I also order a kale walnut salad with carrots and currents, no dressing, so that if I'm winning money and feeling good, I'll have enough self esteem to make a big salad with that as the staple, adding my own cucumbers, apples and homemade humus balsamic vinaigrette, garnished with sunflower seeds. But if I've lost and feel like shit, the kale walnut salad stays in the fridge and I order a bacon cheeseburger deluxe as comfort food.

Feeling secure with my picks, I call them into my guy who acts as a middleman for an off shore gaming site so I don't have to use the Internet. He's not technically a "bookie" since I get paid from Costa Rica so it's legal, well, as legal as anyone's decided offshore internet sports gaming is. It's a little sketchy. Once, in my infinite paranoia brought on by 20 hours spent in jail for felony bribery (a red light ticket, I'll tell you another day after the fast) I Googled the legality of computer gambling. I found that The Wire Act was as far as congress ever really got, using it in the early nineties to try and prosecute a guy who ran an off shore gambling site and it wasn't very successful.

But with my "Schaeffer's Law" theory, which makes Murphy seem downright lucky, I needed some further investigation. My friend Donny tried to convince me that even if they could prosecute, they would never go after small recreational gamblers like me but only the purveyors of the sites. Even so, I didn't want to be the first one, you know, they made an example out of. I couldn't find out online just what the law was. It seemed very ambiguous. None of my lawyer friends knew either. So after calling information to get the number, I picked up the phone and dialed. A mean sounding woman picked up. "District attorney of New York," she said coldly. I suddenly realized, "what are you doing you idiot! They can trace the call!" I hung up fast, knowing from TV that it hadn't nearly been long enough for the trace to hold. Or had it? It was a long time since I saw Colombo and with technology what it was ... well, they didn't know why I was calling so they probably wouldn't investigate. At worst they would note my file. I went to the payphone on the corner of 79th and Amsterdam. Though I lived on 110th and Broadway, I figured they could triangulate the signal or something if I used a payphone in my neighborhood and get me so I hopped a quick cab far enough away so I felt safe from their espionage capabilities.

"District Attorney's office," the same awful woman said. I disguised my voice just in case, making it higher and a bit effeminate, my racing heart and butterfly stomach probably making it even higher.

"Hi, is it illegal to gamble on sports on the Internet?" I was sure swat teams would simultaneously drop out of the sky and emerge from the manholes and have me prone on the hard, cold cement in a five-point restraint instantly! But so far so good.

"Excuse me?" She was incredulous.

"Is it illegal to gamble on sports on the Internet?"

"I can't give you that information."

"Why not?" Was it illegal just to ask the question? God, I'm such a fucking pussy.

"Because we don't supply that kind of information."

"But you're the highest court in the land or whatever. If you don't know the laws, who does?" I was proud of my gumption. Maybe I'm not such a pussy after all.

"I don't know, sir. Maybe a lawyer can help you." And she hung up.

Wow. Now what? Fuck it. I'll just continue to live dangerously and take my chances with my middleman. He lets me make unsecured bets. I don't have to leave money in some bank account with the off shore site as collateral for losses which removes wire transfers, credit card charges, you know, a paper trail. No money ever exchanges hands between he and I on American soil. That I settle up, via check, with the off shore people. I'm willing to pay taxes on winnings, which I have to do if paid by check, rather than risk IRS problems. I'm the only gambler who won't accept cash.

So, I call in my bets and eat my scrambled tofu. It's now noon. Occasionally there's a rare Knicks Sunday day game that starts before football. Once they had a "Knicks For Kids" charity auction during the game, which was the undoing of my previous relationship six years ago.

Throughout the game, they auctioned off different items. Whoever was the highest bidder when the final buzzer sounded was the winner. Autographed balls and courtside seats were big draws but I was after the grand prize. A one on one game against Walt Clyde Frazier on the Madison Square Garden Court. I mean... get... the fuck... outta here! Walt was my childhood hero.
In a frenzied flurry of phone calls, bidding against unseen opponents, I was last in at halftime at $16,500. I was so excited. I mean SO EXCITED. I was so excited my heart was flooded with love and I wanted to share it with my girlfriend Liza. Oh my God! It was Sunday. Football was about to start in three minutes and I wanted to leave, get in a cab, go to my girlfriend's house twenty blocks away and share the excitement with her?! I would miss the first half at least and I didn't care. This was serious. I had been praying for this kind of sign for two years. Should I marry her or not? If I was willing to give up the first half of football for any reason to share something with her? My heart raced even more, maybe I would ask her to marry me right there on the spot. I rushed out of the cab, up the five flights of her walk up and found her leaning in her half opened door jam, looking more beautiful than she ever had, a quizzical smile on her blonde face.

"What's going on?"

to be continued...

Posted by Eric Schaeffer at 1:19 PM

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