Fuck o' the Irish

Every St. Patrick's Day people ask me if I'm Irish. Even though I'm more Irish than anything else (Each of my parents is about half Irish, so I guess that makes me half Irish too, right? If you think I suck at boxing- and you should- you should see me with fractions), I guess that my haggard face and supple body look too affected to be good ol' affable, drunk, warlike Irish. But I am. And I love St. Patrick's Day. Love, love, love it. I mean, it's a celebration of green (my favorite color) and drinking (my favorite fulltime job). So it rocks. I was going to write an entry about my A#1 favorite thing about St. Patrick's Day, but I have two and I can't choose.



MOLLY'S IRISH PUB- 3rd Avenue, between 22nd and 23rd Streets, Manhattan.
I first walked into Molly's with Joe and Mike (both truly beloved friends of this blog) on a Wedesday night/Thursday morning at about 1:30am. None of us had been there before, but we all immediately melted for it. 1) There was sawdust. Everywhere. 2) There are all of five people there, all seated at the bar, nodding off while laughing and discussing the matters of the day. 3) The air was (and still is) made out of this kind of weary, beleaguered optimism. The whole vibe of Molly's says, "Ay, life's a cunt, boy-o, but I'll be bringin' ye a pint, and we'll all get tru it together." It's really a very sweet place, and I've fallen deeply in love with one of the waitresses, a darling woman named Joanne. Oh, I adore her. I've spent many boozy, memorable nights there. Musty antiquity? LOVE IT! If you're a pub fan, you owe it to yourself to go. Try to get a booth where you can ogle the brick-a-brack.

Next...



THE QUIET MAN- Movie.
Maureen O'Hara > Most things on earth.
As a young'n, and this is still more or less true to this date, I had a notorious aversion to any movie made before 1968. Cinema lover though I am, I think old movies (pre-'68) are boring, lame, stilted, and joyless. The first ye olde movie whose sensibility I was truly bewitched by was The Quiet Man. If it's not the simplest premise to a movie ever, it must be one of them: A disgraced American boxer (John Wayne) moves to Ireland, where he falls for a spirited young local (Maureen O'Hara) whose brother (Victor McLaglen), himself a notorious local fighter, tries to keep them apart. It may sound lame, but it's truly special and awesome and beautiful. The scenery is insaaaaaaaane. Usually when I think of bountiful Irish hills, I think of my rack, but sometimes, in moments of introspection, I think of my beloved Quiet Man. Did I mention that Maureen O'Hara is THE SHIT? She is so god damn badass. She would drink any person I have ever met under the table. I just know it.

Bottom line: St. Patrick's Day and Irish things in general both rule, with bonus points for employing Maureen O'Hara and/or sawdust.

Next holiday up- Easter. BOO!

Kevin.