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College Green
Kissena, near Queens College campus
Flushing
Queens
The telephone number for the nearest car service is 718-358-1111; you'll need it if you find yourself in this Queens student bar that, amusingly enough, has the feel of The Local College Bar, as seen in numerous movies requiring such a scene. Drinks are reasonably priced, and The Police are, appropriately enough, on the box. [Once, twice, three's the charm...J***, the biologist with the heart of a poet, who remembers me from the last time I was there, L*****, the official mascot of the bar, contemplating the efficacy of tying his loosened tie around his head, stretched supine across the bar, helping himself to the cooler upsidedown, and the generous tender D*****...the Green is by and large a regular's bar and therefore a heavy drinker's bar, to its credit. In fact, kittlings, in retrospect, the Green is one of the wildest, friendliest spots in The City.] [I love Caller ID when a payphone is IDed: the car service knew exactly where I was (cf. Ship's Mast): the College Green, which still serves a spectrum of more or less hard-drinking Queens College students, as well as others from the hood and its environs, is one of those  bar bars, at least visually, with darts, televisions, jukebox, the one outdated video game: these common bar items in the Green create a surprisingly cozy and fun atmosphere.] [(What happened to D***** the tender? ...the usual suspects playing darts and drinking bad beer.) All the members of the panel  The Prison, Incarceration and Literature arrive at the Green to toast themselves silly, for the stress pays off, ultimately. But three/four rounds in, another escape is made, to Siberia, as if the evening were fated to repeat the panel's themes. Solzhenitsyn, anyone?] [I stayed for a few shots and talked literature, the past and the passé simple, revolution, Columbia (the country), whatever. J*** ****** and I disagreed on the authorship of "So What" but agreed on the song as a soundtrack for reading philosophy...chorus chimes in when you turn the page. It was a slightly chilly evening threatening rain, and the few patrons sipping away the start of a Memorial Day weekend seemed to be in on a conspiracy that involved coughing outside and having their car keys taken away, before 9 o'clock. I offered an enormous box of leftover brownies to the bartender. A joke about their secret ingredient was funny once but continued to make its rounds, even as I packed up and left, intoxicated more by the bar's domesticity than from the Jim Beam.]

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