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| Leprechaun Hannah saw in her neighborhood in Providence. |
OK. I know I always post this and no one but me thinks it's funny.
Maybe it's funnier if you're drunk? Not sure. Also not sure who Denis Leary is (I should google him up), but he has the Irish gift of storytelling. Let some Riverdance jig be your soundtrack. Oh, or the Pogues. Here you go again.
So I did google him up, and he's a comedian behind some show called
Rescue Me. The story is apparently originally
from New York Mag.
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.
