The Irish Post Pt. V

The Irish PostThere are two reasons this place is still happening.

For one, it’s the peeps who find their way here and then spell my misbegotten rants with their graceful sense and their timeless sensibilities. In spite of myself, I’ve got the most articulate, spirited, talented, beautiful bloggers that WordPress has to offer. I’m not being hyperbolic, either. I don’t do hyperbole on week days, it’s against my religion. Cayman Thorn may not be a real person, but you all have managed to bring him to life, and keep him there.

The other reason I keep Drinks Well? The Irish Post, of course. It’s the Holy Day for yours truly. It’s not my reason for being, but it is my reason for being certain enough with the mystery of our existential paths. When you can square the roots of this great big universe based on the glorious milieu of familiar smiles all dressed in green, you’ve landed on the 17th.

I understand it’s been a week since ‘me Irish brogue went rogue, but that’s ‘coo. The Irish Post- like St. Patrick’s Day- doesn’t concern itself with running on time. All it has to do is show up, and it has for the last five years. This happens to be one year longer than the “Gipper’s” college career at Notre Dame and the Irish Potato Famine . . which did not happen concurrently if you’re scoring at home.

My social calendar has gone all Howard Hughes (sans the billion dollar bank account) in recent years. I have whittled my tea time gatherings with friends into monthly-ish excursions. This reset is in accordance with my preferences for peace and solitude over poker games and sports bars. It has worked to great effect because just like candy, when you miniaturize something, the flavor only gets better.

We kicked off the evening at Annie Baileys. The friendly confines have been witness to great moments in bachelor history and I wore the Ireland soccer shirt gifted me by Ms. Isla Bonita from back in the day to commemorate the occasion.

Guinness CanI ordered a Guinness for me, Coors Light for Big Papi . . two shots of Hennessy.

“Make them friendly,” I pleaded with the waitress.

No sooner had our drinks arrived than Red came over with her daughter in tow, dressed all in St Patrick and a day’s worth of party. They were on their way home while we were just getting started, but I coaxed them into prettying up our table for a spell.

My girl sat next to Big Papi while her daughter joined me, and for the space of a little while, the four of us settled the world’s business. Red’s daughter is a beautiful creature who just so happens to be more intense than a Scorcese flick. She’d never have to buy a drink if she didn’t feel like it, but it’s not Happy Hour that concerns her so much as the rest of her life and who to spend it with. And maybe I’m jaded and maybe I’m too damned old for my own sake, but I happen to think the girl should fetch those eyes and happily accept those free drinks until she meets a guy whose balls match his bank account. We talk about politics and education and her kids- she has two from a failed marriage. She’s an amazing teacher and a great mother, but then again, she had the best example going.

As the second round of happy showed up at our table, the girls bid us adieu with hugs and kisses. And then it was me and Big Papi left to our own devices, which is either the most dangerous thing in the world, or the funniest. When the place started going loud and young, we moved our two man caravan over to a kitschy little hole in the wall near his place.

The waitress knows Big Papi’s drink before he sits down, while I order another Guinness as we settle in while Elvis Costello is pumping it up from the way back of 1978. And then we’re talking on how great music used to sound and then we’re pining for the days of Dr. J and then we’re laughing at how we used to think Rambo was great cinema. We come to a gentleman’s agreement on how age is just a number; a huge, fucking slab of a number indeed . . but still, just a number.

It was a good place going as St Patrick’s Night went crazy to the wicked ideas of a simple good time and a metamorphosis occurred, wherein a number transformed itself into times and places and rock ‘n roll. And so what if we’re not as young as we used to be? It’s alright, because we’re never gonna be the kind of old we always used to fear. Not ever.

Big Papi’s kid made the scene and I bought him a Guinness. We toasted to girls dressed in green and then the conversation went simpler than that. We talked on the Philadelphia Eagles, we argued on instant replay and we laughed like hell about my 40th birthday; a party that almost never started and then almost never ended.

It was some time later when a fine young chica caught the kid’s attention, after which he sent over a drink. We wished him luck and then I drove Big Papi home and then he told me to thank Red for showing up and I told him I would. He’s always gonna be in love with her and I’m never gonna hold it against him.

I hit the road and I turn on some Elvis and I watch the dashboard clock move St. Patrick three hundred and sixty four days away from me. There’s some melancholy in the thought that another year will pass, but there’s plenty more sustenance in the good times we made happen.

It’s all you can ask.


24 thoughts on “The Irish Post Pt. V

  1. God Pilgrim what a line ” I watch the dashboard clock move St. Patrick three hundred and sixty-four days away from me.” Anyway love number five. My Colleen bought me a six-pack of Guinness, even though, the only part of me that is Irish is my degree from the Dome. It sounds like a wonderful evening.

  2. Glad to hear you still have the Irish in ya.
    I spent the night with family. It was a fabulous occasion since my kids and sister don’t come home that often. Then my son’s girlfriend knocked at the door with her step-sister just back from Liberia and her step-mom and it really became a party!

  3. How I would love to share a Guinness with you – the only beer I’ll drink. My choice is usually white wine, so the only explanation for a beer that can be chewed is the Irish in me. I was a Notre Dame wanna be – but my 18-year-old income didn’t match the tuition.
    Your writing always puts me in a peaceful state of mind – which is no easy task these days.
    Thank you Cayman – may the road rise up to meet you 🙂

    • Would you believe Guinness is actually a ‘light’ beer? Yeah, I know…but really, it is. And I loves it on the Holy Day. Actually, I love it the other three sixty four, but there’s something about tossing down an oil can on St Patrick’s Day that calls to me.

      Thank YOU Mama, and may the wind always be at your back 🙂

  4. I should have been partying on St. Patty’s Day as I’m mostly British and Scottish (no Irish that anyone will admit to) and you know how we Brits/Scots like to drink, even if the celebration has nothing to do with us. Hell, I guess the same should be said of the Irish. But I was sick and my son was sick. Sounds like you had a great time. Keep it up.

    • Hey KJ,

      Hope you’re feeling better. You know, the great thing about being Scottsh/British/Irish/Spanish/English/Whateverish… that you can file a continuation that allows for the celebration of St.Patrick’s Day at a later date. And you don’t even have to go down to the courthouse. Just break open a cold one, and pour. Boom, and boom.

      Be cool Bahstan. And no more snow….that’s an order.

  5. My Irish eyes are smiling, Soul Man.

    And Big Papi…is that what El Guapo is calling himself these days? 😉

    Which reminds me of another great Elvis song… “You can call me anything you want, but…”

  6. “…more sustenance in the good times we made happen.”

    How amazing was that! You blew my mind with that one. Definitely true and definitely something I need to remember when the universe decides to challenge my ass. And I sure am glad you had a good St. Patty’s Day I wore my special Drinks Well With Others green T-Shirt and had a laugh because it reminded me of you and was hoping you were having a good time buddy. I am always glad when you make the rounds on Word Press, I love your sense of humor, anecdotes, and lists and the very fact that you exist rocks. Hope you make it another 364 days would love to hear what happens in Part VI.

    • I hope I make it to the next St Patrick’s Day too, So Cal. Sometimes I feel way too old for this shit, and then that voice in my head comes calling and tells me to shut UP. That voice in my head? Sounds an awful lot like Charlie Sheen, so I’m dubious….

      • Yeah … stay clear. But if it’s Big Daddy Sheen or Brother Estevez pay attention 🙂 And no…you’re not too old. What are you on? You got experience and humor and that needs to be shared because I’m learning every time.

        • Some days I feel ancient. Like this morning, holy crap did I feel old this morning. I woke up last night with a migraine and basically, sleep was not happening. I ended up getting a few hours sleep and so needless to say, I felt horrible this morning. So, I bucked up and kicked some ass anyways, and that made me feel younger. Till I got home tonight, then I felt old again, lol.

  7. Catching up. Thank god for Mr. Howell up there. If he hadn’t shared this post on Twitter right about the time I happened to be checking, I wouldn’t have known you posted. Though I have you on my “speed-dial” subscriber’s list (meaning I have checked the box to get your blog delivered to my email, like friggin’ instantly), I just discovered that I haven’t gotten your last four posts. And here I was wondering what happened to you.

    Loved reading about your evening with Big Papi and Red and the “younguns.” I was home alone on St. Patrick’s Day. The husband was out of town and I was catching up on much needed down time after spending months orchestrating a writer’s retreat.

    About that getting older shit. Many people do get old. They plan all during their early years for it. Smart people know it’s a big fat lie. You live your life packing as much love, laughter, and meaning as you can cram into it no matter how many years the calendar tells you have been do it. It’s just that simple.

    Someone I grew up with just posted a recent photo of our first-grade teacher on Facebook. I recognized her immediately, and at the same time was stunned that she was still alive. Miss Sherman. As far as I know she is still a Miss. As a first grader, I thought that woman was old, like older than my grandmother old. Which would make her too old to still be living now. But there she was, and she was radiantly beautiful, not looking a whole lot different than she did all those years ago. Except better. Perception is everything, isn’t it?

    I look forward to next year’s Irish post.

  8. My fifth grade teacher was Miss Sherman. It wasn’t until I made it to Junior High that I figured out how sexy she was. I only wish she would have been my college professor, but hey, timing is everything.

    And yes, I’m looking forward to next year’s post myself. Not sure where I will be, or what I will be doing. Whatevs, should be fun…

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