5.09.2007
5.03.2007
5.01.2007
4.25.2007
i will never b done in time
Two weeks today. My back hurts, my knees hurt, I am covered with white paint and I have only kind of finished two bedrooms. Well, OK, one bath also. And the floor of the other bath. One of the other baths. And there are a LOT of leaks. And no floor downstairs. And no heating system. And no C of O. And a lot of site work to do. And zero help. And rain predicted for the next week. And tenants arriving in two months.
Should I have a beer or just kill myself?
Should I have a beer or just kill myself?
4.21.2007
4.20.2007
4.17.2007
living in one room
Why I can't stop: I have to hide out in the only warm space until it stops snowing.
4.16.2007
4.15.2007
the morning before
The only trace of jet lag I have is that I want to eat dinner at breakfast time. Today I had steak for breakfast.
Why I can't stop jonesing: It's Sunday, so no beer with breakfast.
Why I can't stop jonesing: It's Sunday, so no beer with breakfast.
4.13.2007
my new best friend
Harley Motorcycle Mama Betsy
Why I can't stop: She's headed up to Everest with Biff!
4.10.2007
farewell party
When you have the kind of party where everyone winds up sleeping over—someone on the couch, on the areobed, in the guest room and even in my bed—you know it's not really the time for moderation.
Why I can't stop: It's almost always that kind of party
Why I can't stop: It's almost always that kind of party
4.08.2007
4.07.2007
4.05.2007
the schedule
Mammogram, gyn exam, dentist. I know, more than you need to know. But isn't it enough to drive one to some form of substance abuse? Especially with jet lag?
4.04.2007
3.18.2007
3.17.2007
to abuse or not to abuse
I'm actually not sure whether this photograph supports why I can't stop or why I MUST stop.
3.12.2007
2.21.2007
dinner for three
One described the other, memorably if inelegantly, as behaving like "a motheaten elk in rut." Oh brother. Pass me another Molsen. It's cold up here in single moose country.
2.15.2007
a toast to pepito
"He was the last of the old timers," said Jimmy, when he called to tell me.
Pepito taught Jimmy, and all the other kids in Makaweli Valley how to hunt. They would saddle up their horses and mules (with plenty of Budweiser in the saddlebags), pick up their rifles and skinning knives, whistle to the two-score pig dogs, the trackers and the grabbers, and hele off "up the volcano, into the interior." There they would track the feral pigs and goats, packing out the meat several days later to smoke and eat and make luau. It was not an easy matter to kill an angry boar. One door of Pepito's shack has boar jaws nailed all over it, the tusks long and sharp.
Pepito lived in a shack in the middle of taro fields. You had to cross the Waimea River to get there, thread the dirt paths and make it through the pack of snarling, mangy, dogs and flies. "Get back here," Pepito would shout. "Cut that out." His shack was small, without electricity or running water, and it squatted over thousands of Louis L'Amour and other paperback westerns and war stories. Pepito sat in a lawn chair in the open, a cooler or three filled with ice and meat and beer nearby. He was a wild man in his youth, who once rode his mule into the local bar and ordered him a beer. By the time I was working in the bar, in the 70s, he had been barred.
But he settled down as the years passed. He graciously took me, my husband and in-laws on a pig hunt for Life magazine, mounting us and guiding us and instructing us for free. By the time I saw him for what I suspected would be the last time, three years ago, he had reluctantly given up the cigarettes and beer and was not hunting regularly any more. He tended the irrigation ditches in the taro fields, fed his bored hunting dogs, read his novels and entertained his frequent visitors with tolerance and grace.
Pepito was an ali'i, a chief, and a wise man. Mahalo for your counsel, Pepito. And much aloha for the aloha you shared with us.
Why I can't stop: I have to drink a Bud for Pepite.
Pepito taught Jimmy, and all the other kids in Makaweli Valley how to hunt. They would saddle up their horses and mules (with plenty of Budweiser in the saddlebags), pick up their rifles and skinning knives, whistle to the two-score pig dogs, the trackers and the grabbers, and hele off "up the volcano, into the interior." There they would track the feral pigs and goats, packing out the meat several days later to smoke and eat and make luau. It was not an easy matter to kill an angry boar. One door of Pepito's shack has boar jaws nailed all over it, the tusks long and sharp.
Pepito lived in a shack in the middle of taro fields. You had to cross the Waimea River to get there, thread the dirt paths and make it through the pack of snarling, mangy, dogs and flies. "Get back here," Pepito would shout. "Cut that out." His shack was small, without electricity or running water, and it squatted over thousands of Louis L'Amour and other paperback westerns and war stories. Pepito sat in a lawn chair in the open, a cooler or three filled with ice and meat and beer nearby. He was a wild man in his youth, who once rode his mule into the local bar and ordered him a beer. By the time I was working in the bar, in the 70s, he had been barred.
But he settled down as the years passed. He graciously took me, my husband and in-laws on a pig hunt for Life magazine, mounting us and guiding us and instructing us for free. By the time I saw him for what I suspected would be the last time, three years ago, he had reluctantly given up the cigarettes and beer and was not hunting regularly any more. He tended the irrigation ditches in the taro fields, fed his bored hunting dogs, read his novels and entertained his frequent visitors with tolerance and grace.
Pepito was an ali'i, a chief, and a wise man. Mahalo for your counsel, Pepito. And much aloha for the aloha you shared with us.
Why I can't stop: I have to drink a Bud for Pepite.
2.14.2007
problem of the day
Last night I dreamt that I was smoking. Cigarettes. Which I actually haven't in like a year and a half. Except in my dreams. So this morning when I woke up, I felt like having a martini. Or a sixer. Or smoking a pack of cigarettes. Or something. The sleet and hail and other forms of hard snow, driven by 30 mph winds, were rattling the windows. I rolled over and closed my eyes again so I could listen to it better. And when I finally got up, I settled for coffee.
Why I can't stop: The yen never goes away.
Why I can't stop: The yen never goes away.
1.20.2007
warning
This page to be reactivated soon. Or else possibly whatismyfuckingproblem. Frankly, I'm tiring of the PG thing. Life is way more interesting than that.
8.13.2006
hmm
Actually, this was a very good site. I should probably come back to it at some point when I'm a trifle saner.
5.16.2006
fyi
I probably won't be maintaining this site for a while. i haven't much to fuss about except building, and that's appearing on the other site. Later.
5.12.2006
5.09.2006
5.05.2006
5.04.2006
5.03.2006
the nice town department
PITTSBURGH (April 26) - Police found a dead dog dressed in blue jeans, a T-shirt, socks, tennis shoes and a baseball cap on the rear porch of a home on Monday in the Stanton Heights neighborhood. Police Lt. Kevin Kraus said the dog, apparently a boxer-pit bull mixed breed that neighbors said was named Pimpin', was dressed after it had been killed.
Police on Tuesday were trying to interview a woman who lived at the house where the dog was found. The dog's killer could face animal cruelty and drug charges.
Kraus found the dog, which he first thought was a person, while investigating an argument between two motorists nearby.
The Allegheny County Medical Examiner's office X-rayed the dog's body and determined that it had been bludgeoned and stabbed to death days earlier.
Why I can't stop: I have friends in that town.
Police on Tuesday were trying to interview a woman who lived at the house where the dog was found. The dog's killer could face animal cruelty and drug charges.
Kraus found the dog, which he first thought was a person, while investigating an argument between two motorists nearby.
The Allegheny County Medical Examiner's office X-rayed the dog's body and determined that it had been bludgeoned and stabbed to death days earlier.
Why I can't stop: I have friends in that town.
5.02.2006
5.01.2006
4.29.2006
4.28.2006
4.27.2006
ship of fools
This is the boat that carries the workmen who need the supplies to build the house that's planned for this site if the stuff gets loaded onto the boat that carries supplies not to mention the cranes and the trucks and the brains, the mail and the money that goes in the bank, the gas at $80 the tank to carry the stuff from the boat to the site. . .Why I can't stop drinking: my house of cards is built on ferry schedules.
4.26.2006
memento mori
Why I can't stop: This is all that's left of Tristam Dodge's house, built about where mine is going.
4.25.2006
4.24.2006
4.21.2006
4.20.2006
more guests
"Why are there two bottles of vodka?" The houseguest's daughter asked when she saw this picture. "Wait, she said, "Don't tll me. Mom bought the $5 bottle and Claudia had the Stoli in the freezer."
Bingo.
Why I can't stop drinking: I would be such a bad hostess.
4.19.2006
a change of reasons
So this blog has been getting a little drab lately, and I have considered just dropping it altogether. Firstly, I haven't been feeling that cranky and secondly I did quit smoking like six months or so ago. The heart had gone out of it.
I have addictions and to spare, however, so I thought maybe I'd try revisiting a different one. Especially since my brother(and all these other workmen) are showing up, and I can't set a bad example for them. I am so not paying them to get crocked and fuzzy and cut off their fingers accidentally.
Anyway, my brother quit drinking like a decade ago.
Why I can't stop drinking: Soon I will have to knock off the brewskie.
I have addictions and to spare, however, so I thought maybe I'd try revisiting a different one. Especially since my brother(and all these other workmen) are showing up, and I can't set a bad example for them. I am so not paying them to get crocked and fuzzy and cut off their fingers accidentally.
Anyway, my brother quit drinking like a decade ago.
Why I can't stop drinking: Soon I will have to knock off the brewskie.
4.17.2006
sweet into salt
This body of water, since I saw it last fall, has cut through the bluff and spilled into the sea.
Why I can't stop: My pond spillith over
4.14.2006
4.12.2006
4.11.2006
the new me
This is the secret blog, right? The one where I can vent? Do not be forwarding this to your friends and relations, as I still have hopes of erecting a building next month. But the fact is, I don't play nicely with authority figures. I am down to my last one, one who will pretty much control my life for the next six months.
"Just reassure him that you know he's the boss," my sister said.
"I'm not real good at subservience," I said.
"None of us are," she said, "but you must."
And so I wait, to see if my most recent attempt at obsequiousness was enough.
Why I can't stop: You are so big and strong, so smart and knowledgeable, so. . .manly
"Just reassure him that you know he's the boss," my sister said.
"I'm not real good at subservience," I said.
"None of us are," she said, "but you must."
And so I wait, to see if my most recent attempt at obsequiousness was enough.
Why I can't stop: You are so big and strong, so smart and knowledgeable, so. . .manly
4.10.2006
4.07.2006
4.05.2006
google this
Hello? Can you read the amount on this check? This is the amount I received from Google for the ads on both of my blogs for more a year. I'm trying to figure out how many microentavos that is a word or how many pixels per dollar, but I give up. Clearly I'm not in it for the money.
So the question on the floor is:
Has this blog run its course? Shall I bag the blog?
4.04.2006
4.03.2006
3.31.2006
3.30.2006
the guys
My life is very full of guys. This is one of the good ones, above. As you can see by his stance, he's a guy's guy. He's got a guy driving the backhoe, another guy who owns the backhoe, a guy fixing the pump in my backyard. More guys are imminant: Two carpenters, who will be living with me, and two masons, who may be living with me as well. We gonna scratch and fart and burp. We gonna eat meat and potatoes. We gonna get up at 5:00 and drink three pots of coffee and fall into bed and start snoring at 9:00.
Why I can't stop: I am paying all of these guys for their waking hours.
3.27.2006
everything
Today my last permit application was thrown in my face, my septic tank alarm started going off at 3 am, and the mason and CRMC enforcers were nowhere to be found. Ah well.
Why I can't stop: Bureaucracy
Why I can't stop: Bureaucracy
3.24.2006
3.23.2006
details
Guess it's time for more complaining. the photonovella thing didn't seem to go over.
Why I can't stop waking up with my heart racing: Don't start with me. Not today.
Why I can't stop waking up with my heart racing: Don't start with me. Not today.
3.22.2006
3.21.2006
3.20.2006
danger
And upon that deserted shore, a strange sigil was writ upon the sand.
Why I can't stop worrying: What's it all about?
3.17.2006
kiss me
Taking a little break from the photo novella that no one will help me out with, I received the following seasonal e-mail. Maybe you did too. Sounds a few years old (Giuliani?) I thought it was quite funny, incrementally. OK, some of you might find it sad. Sucks for you.
Here's "Green Day" by Denis Leary:
First things first: There are many Irish-Americans in this country who celebrate St. Patrick's Day in a quiet and sober manner, perhaps heading off to work with a muted-olive tie or a small emerald pin as their nod to the day's events. There are also those who go to the 7 a.m. mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral and consider the day a prayerful tribute to the patron saint of all things green. There are still others who awaken the morning of March 17 and carry on as if it were just another 24 hours— no drinking, no fighting, no puking.
I don't know any of these people.
Therefore, this piece will be about the red-blooded, hard-boiled, hammerheaded souls who patrol the St. Patrick's Day arena as if it were life's last call.
If you consider the image of a working-class Mick named Fitzy caterwauling down Fifth Avenue wearing a kelly-green plastic derby, well oiled on whiskey and slurring his words, an offensive and demeaning stereotype, then call the Irish Anti-Defamation League (IDLE) right now. I think the number is 1-800-NO-FITZY.
I've spent several hundred official and unofficial St. Patrick's Day celebrations in New York City over the years, and the calm, bespectacled intellectual Irishman clutching his copy of Finnegan's Wake is a rare sight indeed. Unless he's passed out around 3:15 a.m. in the back booth at McQuigan's Pub.
No, March 17 is not for the squeamish. It's for the thirsty masses. Those young rebels willing to shout and scream about their Irish blood, the chosen few who will toss raw eggs into open cab windows, the banshees who only want (as House of Pain so eloquently put it) to "get off their feet and jump around." That's what St. Patrick's Day is all about. Doing incredibly stupid things while under the influence of alcohol and wearing neon-green clothing.
Herewith, a guide to spending the day in the Big Apple. This is what I'll probably be doing this year.
9:00 a.m.
Meet best friend Sully at Greek diner for traditional Irish-American breakfast of wet toast, runny eggs, cold home fries, bitter black coffee, three cigarettes, and the sports page. Curse the Knicks. Marvel at Pat Riley's hair.
9:30 a.m.
Corner of Ninth and 39th. Ring Fitzy's buzzer 23 times. On the twenty-fourth try, he buzzes us up. Find him naked on the living-room floor surrounded by empty Bud Tall Boys and an open can of paint. His entire body, including his hair, is green.
10:00 a.m.
Arrive at the corner of 51st and Fifth and take our places for the parade. Sully steals three cans of Molson out of some Italian guy's cooler. Fitzy tosses a half-eaten green hot dog into the middle of the Staten Island Marching Men's Choir.
10:14 a.m.
Fitzy gives Mayor Giuliani the finger. Mayor waves back. "****in' typical," Sully says. Fitzy steals three more beers from the Italian guy.
11:05 a.m.
The Francis Mulcahy School of Irish Step Dancing pauses right in front of us and runs through a rigamarole of jigs and reels. Fitzy bops out into the street and joins them by doing a variation on the twist. Two cops promptly escort him back to the curb. Ends up one of them (Blaney) is Sully's second cousin. All charges dropped. I steal a few more beers out of the cooler. We toast the NYPD.
12:02 p.m.
The Italian guy accuses us of raiding his stash. Waves his fists in the air. Sully punches him on the neck. Fitzy pulls out a lighter and starts to melt the cooler. Two more cops show up. So happens, one of them (O'Keefe) is Fitzy's dad's old neighbor from Brooklyn. Tells the Italian guy to "Move it along, pal, this ain't Columbus Day." Brawl breaks out between Irish and Italian bystanders. We throw several punches, grab the cooler, and split.
12:06 p.m.
Drop into St. Patrick's Cathedral for a quick gander at the Lord. Crack
open a couple of beers. Sully and I debate the merits of a short confession. Sully's argument -- "In a half hour, at the bar at Paddy Reilly's it's gonna be standin'-room only" -- wins out over mine, which involves Eternal Damnation. We opt for a fast Our Father, five bucks in the poor box, and a brief round of candle-lighting. Fitzy, meanwhile, steals a sip of Holy Water.
12:17 p.m.
In the cab downtown, our driver, one Adjid Sakeel, expresses his opinion that the Irish Lesbian and Gay Organization should be allowed to march in the parade. Fitzy -- his large green mug plugged right into the pay slot -- begs to differ: "They awready got their own parade downtown inna Village. We don't go down there, so why should they come uptown ta ours?" Adjid says, "Because this is America."
"No it ain't," counters Fitzy. "This is New York City. It's a whole different ball game." The argument ends with Fitzy barking like a dog and Adjid veering all over Second Avenue. We get out at 29th Street. I give Adjid a $3 tip and the cooler.
12:22 p.m.
Stop in at Paddy Reilly's for a few pops. Several rounds of green beer and whiskey. Rogues March -- a local band made up of guys who used to know members of the Pogues -- bash through a loud, boisterous show. The lead singer -- Joe Hurley -- stretches his voice to the point of aneurysm. We toast the IRA. We toast the cease-fire. We toast the pope. Fitzy pukes.
4:27 p.m.
Stop in at Molly Malone's Pub for a few more pops. Eat several slices of green pizza made by Sweeney the bartender's wife. She's Italian. We drink green champagne and vodka. Sweeney calls JFK the greatest man who ever lived. Fitzy calls Mario Cuomo a fag. Mrs. Sweeney kicks Fitzy. Sully pukes.
About a Quarter Past Eight
Over at the Emerald Inn, we drink green Guinness and recite dialogue from The Quiet Man verbatim. The Stogues -- a local band made up of guys who used to know the mother of one of the guys in the Pogues -- play "Danny Boy," and Fitzy starts to cry, green tears streaming down his puffy green cheeks. As Sully and I pat Fitzy on the back, the lead singer passes out.
Sometime After Ten
Head over to a Blarney Stone, where we order a drink called the Shane
MacGowan -- three ounces of vodka, four ounces of gin, six ounces of Irish whiskey, a teaspoon of something that smells like turpentine, and half a beer. You gotta down it in two slugs. Makes you spout poetic musings with a tongue so thick only Shane could understand. The problem is -- he ain't here. Fitzy stuffs an entire green bagel in his mouth, swallows it almost whole, downs his MacGowan, and says, "Now this is the life!"
That Same Night
Stop in at Siné. Place holds only 75 people, 72 of whom look like they just stepped off the boat. People without green cards drinking green beer. We're in time to see another local band (really local, since they live in the cellar) take the stage. Call themselves the Fogues. Made up of guys who used to be friends with guys who once bought a round for the guys who used to roadie for the Stogues. During "Thousands Are Sailing," the guitar player leaps up into the air and stays there. For what seems like a long time. His head is stuck in the ceiling; he gets a standing ovation. The lead singer asks if there's a carpenter in the house. There is. Thirty-three of them, to be exact.
Later
The fact that we're in the Dublin House is news to all three of us. But it's printed right there on the matches. And the wall. And the back of the bouncer's T-shirt. As my old man used to say: "Wherever the hell you go, there you ****in' are."
Later Still
The thing about painting yourself green is this: It's a great symbolic way to show your support of the Old Country and your family tree, but it's a terrible way to go out drinking. Mostly because your friends can't tell when you're about to puke. The point is, we didn't see it coming when Fitzy leaned over an Englishman named Trevor -- who was explaining his support of the peace process in Ireland -- and let blow. The hot dog, the pizza, the bagel -- they made a comeback even Travolta woulda been proud of. And set off a brawl the likes of which we may never see again. Seventeen Englishmen, 27 Micks, and a side order of Hispanic, African-American, and Polish guys. When the cops show up (Carelli, Tiveiros, Jackson, etc.) none of them is related to Fitzy or Sully, so they just pack the whole melting pot in the back of a couple of paddy wagons (just for the sake of historical irony, I guess) and drop us off downtown. I share a cell with Fitzy and a Puerto Rican plumber named Bob
. He says the cell gives him "déjà-vu" because he had the same one after the Puerto Rican Day Parade last year.
The Next Morning
I wake up to the sound of Mickey Mantle repeatedly pounding a Louisville Slugger across the side of my face. I make a count of my few remaining brain cells -- eight and holding. Bob's droning on about pipe wrenches and putty knives when they come to take us to court. Ends up the judge (McSwiggin) is not only a fifth cousin of Fitzy's mom but also happened to be in Dublin House last night when the hot dog hit the fan. He thinks the Englishman, the queen, and the United Kingdom had it coming. All charges dropped. (That should be the motto above the entrance to the Irish Embassy.) We tell the judge about Sully, and fifteen minutes later, me, Sully, Fitzy, and Bob are sitting in P.J. Clarke's chugging Bloody Marys and discussing the merits of indoor plumbing -- copper pipe vs. plastic. Fitzy says he likes plastic: "It's more modern. And it don't look shiny." Sully and I make up our minds. Bob -- turning a light shade of burnt sienna -- pukes.
Why I can't stop drinking: I'm just a piker
Here's "Green Day" by Denis Leary:
First things first: There are many Irish-Americans in this country who celebrate St. Patrick's Day in a quiet and sober manner, perhaps heading off to work with a muted-olive tie or a small emerald pin as their nod to the day's events. There are also those who go to the 7 a.m. mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral and consider the day a prayerful tribute to the patron saint of all things green. There are still others who awaken the morning of March 17 and carry on as if it were just another 24 hours— no drinking, no fighting, no puking.
I don't know any of these people.
Therefore, this piece will be about the red-blooded, hard-boiled, hammerheaded souls who patrol the St. Patrick's Day arena as if it were life's last call.
If you consider the image of a working-class Mick named Fitzy caterwauling down Fifth Avenue wearing a kelly-green plastic derby, well oiled on whiskey and slurring his words, an offensive and demeaning stereotype, then call the Irish Anti-Defamation League (IDLE) right now. I think the number is 1-800-NO-FITZY.
I've spent several hundred official and unofficial St. Patrick's Day celebrations in New York City over the years, and the calm, bespectacled intellectual Irishman clutching his copy of Finnegan's Wake is a rare sight indeed. Unless he's passed out around 3:15 a.m. in the back booth at McQuigan's Pub.
No, March 17 is not for the squeamish. It's for the thirsty masses. Those young rebels willing to shout and scream about their Irish blood, the chosen few who will toss raw eggs into open cab windows, the banshees who only want (as House of Pain so eloquently put it) to "get off their feet and jump around." That's what St. Patrick's Day is all about. Doing incredibly stupid things while under the influence of alcohol and wearing neon-green clothing.
Herewith, a guide to spending the day in the Big Apple. This is what I'll probably be doing this year.
9:00 a.m.
Meet best friend Sully at Greek diner for traditional Irish-American breakfast of wet toast, runny eggs, cold home fries, bitter black coffee, three cigarettes, and the sports page. Curse the Knicks. Marvel at Pat Riley's hair.
9:30 a.m.
Corner of Ninth and 39th. Ring Fitzy's buzzer 23 times. On the twenty-fourth try, he buzzes us up. Find him naked on the living-room floor surrounded by empty Bud Tall Boys and an open can of paint. His entire body, including his hair, is green.
10:00 a.m.
Arrive at the corner of 51st and Fifth and take our places for the parade. Sully steals three cans of Molson out of some Italian guy's cooler. Fitzy tosses a half-eaten green hot dog into the middle of the Staten Island Marching Men's Choir.
10:14 a.m.
Fitzy gives Mayor Giuliani the finger. Mayor waves back. "****in' typical," Sully says. Fitzy steals three more beers from the Italian guy.
11:05 a.m.
The Francis Mulcahy School of Irish Step Dancing pauses right in front of us and runs through a rigamarole of jigs and reels. Fitzy bops out into the street and joins them by doing a variation on the twist. Two cops promptly escort him back to the curb. Ends up one of them (Blaney) is Sully's second cousin. All charges dropped. I steal a few more beers out of the cooler. We toast the NYPD.
12:02 p.m.
The Italian guy accuses us of raiding his stash. Waves his fists in the air. Sully punches him on the neck. Fitzy pulls out a lighter and starts to melt the cooler. Two more cops show up. So happens, one of them (O'Keefe) is Fitzy's dad's old neighbor from Brooklyn. Tells the Italian guy to "Move it along, pal, this ain't Columbus Day." Brawl breaks out between Irish and Italian bystanders. We throw several punches, grab the cooler, and split.
12:06 p.m.
Drop into St. Patrick's Cathedral for a quick gander at the Lord. Crack
open a couple of beers. Sully and I debate the merits of a short confession. Sully's argument -- "In a half hour, at the bar at Paddy Reilly's it's gonna be standin'-room only" -- wins out over mine, which involves Eternal Damnation. We opt for a fast Our Father, five bucks in the poor box, and a brief round of candle-lighting. Fitzy, meanwhile, steals a sip of Holy Water.
12:17 p.m.
In the cab downtown, our driver, one Adjid Sakeel, expresses his opinion that the Irish Lesbian and Gay Organization should be allowed to march in the parade. Fitzy -- his large green mug plugged right into the pay slot -- begs to differ: "They awready got their own parade downtown inna Village. We don't go down there, so why should they come uptown ta ours?" Adjid says, "Because this is America."
"No it ain't," counters Fitzy. "This is New York City. It's a whole different ball game." The argument ends with Fitzy barking like a dog and Adjid veering all over Second Avenue. We get out at 29th Street. I give Adjid a $3 tip and the cooler.
12:22 p.m.
Stop in at Paddy Reilly's for a few pops. Several rounds of green beer and whiskey. Rogues March -- a local band made up of guys who used to know members of the Pogues -- bash through a loud, boisterous show. The lead singer -- Joe Hurley -- stretches his voice to the point of aneurysm. We toast the IRA. We toast the cease-fire. We toast the pope. Fitzy pukes.
4:27 p.m.
Stop in at Molly Malone's Pub for a few more pops. Eat several slices of green pizza made by Sweeney the bartender's wife. She's Italian. We drink green champagne and vodka. Sweeney calls JFK the greatest man who ever lived. Fitzy calls Mario Cuomo a fag. Mrs. Sweeney kicks Fitzy. Sully pukes.
About a Quarter Past Eight
Over at the Emerald Inn, we drink green Guinness and recite dialogue from The Quiet Man verbatim. The Stogues -- a local band made up of guys who used to know the mother of one of the guys in the Pogues -- play "Danny Boy," and Fitzy starts to cry, green tears streaming down his puffy green cheeks. As Sully and I pat Fitzy on the back, the lead singer passes out.
Sometime After Ten
Head over to a Blarney Stone, where we order a drink called the Shane
MacGowan -- three ounces of vodka, four ounces of gin, six ounces of Irish whiskey, a teaspoon of something that smells like turpentine, and half a beer. You gotta down it in two slugs. Makes you spout poetic musings with a tongue so thick only Shane could understand. The problem is -- he ain't here. Fitzy stuffs an entire green bagel in his mouth, swallows it almost whole, downs his MacGowan, and says, "Now this is the life!"
That Same Night
Stop in at Siné. Place holds only 75 people, 72 of whom look like they just stepped off the boat. People without green cards drinking green beer. We're in time to see another local band (really local, since they live in the cellar) take the stage. Call themselves the Fogues. Made up of guys who used to be friends with guys who once bought a round for the guys who used to roadie for the Stogues. During "Thousands Are Sailing," the guitar player leaps up into the air and stays there. For what seems like a long time. His head is stuck in the ceiling; he gets a standing ovation. The lead singer asks if there's a carpenter in the house. There is. Thirty-three of them, to be exact.
Later
The fact that we're in the Dublin House is news to all three of us. But it's printed right there on the matches. And the wall. And the back of the bouncer's T-shirt. As my old man used to say: "Wherever the hell you go, there you ****in' are."
Later Still
The thing about painting yourself green is this: It's a great symbolic way to show your support of the Old Country and your family tree, but it's a terrible way to go out drinking. Mostly because your friends can't tell when you're about to puke. The point is, we didn't see it coming when Fitzy leaned over an Englishman named Trevor -- who was explaining his support of the peace process in Ireland -- and let blow. The hot dog, the pizza, the bagel -- they made a comeback even Travolta woulda been proud of. And set off a brawl the likes of which we may never see again. Seventeen Englishmen, 27 Micks, and a side order of Hispanic, African-American, and Polish guys. When the cops show up (Carelli, Tiveiros, Jackson, etc.) none of them is related to Fitzy or Sully, so they just pack the whole melting pot in the back of a couple of paddy wagons (just for the sake of historical irony, I guess) and drop us off downtown. I share a cell with Fitzy and a Puerto Rican plumber named Bob
. He says the cell gives him "déjà-vu" because he had the same one after the Puerto Rican Day Parade last year.
The Next Morning
I wake up to the sound of Mickey Mantle repeatedly pounding a Louisville Slugger across the side of my face. I make a count of my few remaining brain cells -- eight and holding. Bob's droning on about pipe wrenches and putty knives when they come to take us to court. Ends up the judge (McSwiggin) is not only a fifth cousin of Fitzy's mom but also happened to be in Dublin House last night when the hot dog hit the fan. He thinks the Englishman, the queen, and the United Kingdom had it coming. All charges dropped. (That should be the motto above the entrance to the Irish Embassy.) We tell the judge about Sully, and fifteen minutes later, me, Sully, Fitzy, and Bob are sitting in P.J. Clarke's chugging Bloody Marys and discussing the merits of indoor plumbing -- copper pipe vs. plastic. Fitzy says he likes plastic: "It's more modern. And it don't look shiny." Sully and I make up our minds. Bob -- turning a light shade of burnt sienna -- pukes.
Why I can't stop drinking: I'm just a piker
3.16.2006
desert isle
Why I can't stop: Why are they bring taken here, to a place with nothing but rocks and coral and a small white strand?
3.15.2006
3.14.2006
lemon tree, very pretty
Why I can't stop: Well, are you guys going to pick up the story line or what?
3.10.2006
3.09.2006
prove yourselves
"Hello, kids! I will be your guide for the next portion of this adventure," said the Burning Man. "But first, you must identify three objects."
The heroine picked up the first, a heavy piece of twisted stone.
"I have no idea," she said.
"It is a whale's ear bone," said the hero.
"That is correct," said Burning Man. "Next?"
The hero hefted a glossy black rock, scalloped with channels. "This is a piece of obsidian used to make knives."
"Correct,' said the Flaming Man. "And?"
"A pot," said the heroine.
"A fake," said the hero.
"The hero is right again," said Burning Man.
"Well," said the heroine. "He DID grow up on an archeological dig in Alaska."
3.08.2006
gone with the hula-hula girl
North, past the hidden beach where sea turtles breed and condo owners likewise, past the disused bull ring and the sorgum fields, the roadside attractions. peering through the viewfinder, trying to find—what? Another signpost.
Why I can't stop: F-stops
3.07.2006
follow your star
Their landlord had died, impaled on a tree when his Harley left the road unexpectedly. They sought clues at his wake. But none of the mourners seemed to have any notion of the why and wherefore of his death, of the meaning of life, of the stacked rocks, of anything. Some suggested going in one direction, some another.
But the number of the stones—seven—suggested a constellation in the North, the Pleiades.
Why I can't stop: The Seven Sisters, for chrissake.
3.06.2006
rock pile
This is a sign? Of what? Balance, a rock band, too much time on somebody's hands, an international message of solidity if not solidarity? What?
Our hero and heroine, despite their backgrounds in anthropology and archeology, are stumped.
What do you think this symbol means?
Why I can't stop: I feel as thick as a brick.
3.04.2006
enter, mysterious stranger
Just as our heros were about to give up the search for the night, a Mysterious Minerva appeared. "Follow the signs," she intoned. "Follow the signs."
Why I can't stop: Like, road signs, or what?
3.01.2006
interlude
A fruitless day of driving from nowhere to nowhere led nowhere but to Playa des Tortugas. Sunburned, discouraged and frustrated, the Adventurer and Adventuress took a break for some mariscos.
Why I can't stop: Were the oysters okay?
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