Subject: St. Paddy's Fest
Date: Thu, 22 Mar 2001 06:15:55 -0500

Alright, it's been a few days and everyone's probably wondering if I've sobered up from St. Paddy's day yet.  I have, now, finally.  I even had all day Monday off to recover, but still felt the affects all day Tuesday, which brought out some hearty laughter from my Irish co-workers over breakfast, and still more hearty laughter at lunch.  Friday night I met up with an Australian at one of the pubs I frequent, and the I've learned over the years to never decline an invitation to drink with an Aussie.  Friday turned into full throttle Guinness & Murphy's bliss instead of the 'light' (in Irish terms) warm-up I had thought it would be.  We met up again on Saturday, and drove out to the Blarney Castle to surround ourselves with the typical Americans you'd expect to see locking lips with the Blarney Stone on St. Paddy's Day.  Among the impersonations that won rave reviews later among the coworkers was my impression of this fat Texan wearing a Texas sweater and a Sheriff's baseball cap looking at his camera, closely surrounded by three other typical Midwestern tourists (white sneakers, bright sweaters, a glimmer of owning the place in their eyes) And yelling, "Now, what the HE-LL does that S mean???"  After scurrying away from the castle, it was almost noon and we hadn't had a drink yet.  We walked through Blarney a bit, but grudgingly settled on a pub offering Irish music almost across the street from the castle.  While not running into our overbearing friend from Texas, we were greeted with a version of 'American Pie' being performed at full volume. So much for Irish music.  I ate some chicken and enjoyed a Guinness as the musicians segued into a version of Monty Python's 'Look on the Bright Side of Life'.  Not exactly Irish in any stretch of the imagination, but the song captures the spirit of being Irish anyway, so it sounded better than hearing about 'Driving your Chevy to the Levy''

When our empty glasses hit the table we were off, to two Blarney pubs I've visited before, Aunties and the Huntsman.  Two traditional, downhome pubs complete with roaring fires that just make drinking a heavenly task.  We started at Aunties, moved across the road to the Huntsman for a couple more, and that's where I met Bill, a drop dead look alike for Anthony Hopkins who already had two bottles of whiskey down.  He was shocked and somewhat pleased to find himself sitting next to an American and an Aussie, and started unleashing his sarcastic wit and loads of stories on his unsuspecting new friends.  If you hear about the tragic death of one man's daughter once, you hear about it ten thousand times, along with the subsequent trip to Medjura, Bosnia to be healed and find peace.  Luckily, some of Bill's friends joined the conversation and once I found my spot, I started talking to another guy, and this lead me to a beautiful blonde woman, who started asking me questions about Jerry Springer.  I did all I could to hold on at this point - beautiful blue eyes, totally fresh face, a sweet smile, and a killer Irish accent.  We were talking for a little bit, and she brought up true love and how she finally found it.  The devastation that registered on my face when I heard Gina say, "seven weeks until I get married" must have been enormous.

Moving along, I was standing close to a group of late-twentysomethings who were in a circle when one of them started singing.  The mood turned reverent and tales of repression by tyrannical forces were sung with care.  A couple American civil war tunes dropped some Southern sympathy into the mix, and a few tales of countrymen landing in Boston also filled the air.  I was asked to join in with a song, but could not think of the complete lyrics to any song besides the Star Spangled Banner.  In my inebriated state, I jotted down the lyrics just in case.  They would prove useful later on when I finally arrived in Cork, but for now, I had them tucked in my shirt pocket, just in case...

The search to find the opening lyrics to Tom Jones' Green Green Grass of Home spun me wildly throughout the bar, asking locals to come up with the opening line.  Frustration filled the air, and even the great memories of these drunken Irishmen (and women) were tested, but noone could come up with them.  I met a German guy married to an Irish woman on my quest for lyrics and I think I completely offended him when I asked him why Germans never cross the road unless the crosswalk light tells them to.  I know I've completely obsessed with this negative German character trait for 3 years now, but until I get a straight answer, I'll continue searching.  All I got that night was a shrug of the shoulders.

Most of us made our way back to Aunties at this point to catch a glimpse of the setting sun.  A few more Guinness, and it was time to seriously consider food again.  After running into Eammon Brown, a co-worker whose wife I tried to convince to let the two of us fly to England to watch a Liverpoolsoccer match (Eammon only gets to attend two games each year, and he introduces me to people as 'He watches football matches at home!' (with equal parts shock and pride) and sharing a lateafternoon-cap, it was time for Damien and I to head to Cork on the bus and fill up on drunk food.

And there is no more heavenly a solution for food while drinking in Cork than Hillbilly's Chicken, a true Southern Fried Fast Food Shack selling some of the most mouth watering sandwiches, wings and fires in somewhat American surroundings.  The only colors to accent the grease covered white walls are blue and red, and the Hillbilly's Chicken mascot is an overall clad chicken with a big smile on his face.  The food is beyond compare really, edible when sober, a rare find among most fast food stops (Hot N Now anyone?).  I would rank Hillbilly's above Checkers, far, far, above Checkers.  Another plus is the fact no meat is sold there, meaning you can chomp on foot and mouth & mad cow free food all you want!

After devouring the Breast in a Bun, Damien and I did some old fashioned skirt chasing - literally - stumbling through Cork's festive streets following women in skirts that caught our eye.  Most of them lead to the trendiest clubs, packed to the gills and overflowing with St. Paddy's cheer, making for an all too tight atmosphere to really enjoy.  After popping in and out of a couple of the packed houses (and enjoying Jameson whiskey straight at this hour) we saw a beautifully executed walking vomit – no backsplash, not a loss step, just some lost cookies.  After a walk around the block, we settled in to the pub where we saw this act, I think the name is An Brog, next to the Hairy Lemon, which had a hip, youthful exuberance (re: decadent debauchery) to the slightly run down surroundings.  Music to Watch Women By (the original version)was blaring through the loudspeakers, and the soundtrack provided that night was straight out of my record collection - Tom Jones, Neil Diamond, Elvis, all the classics from the 50's - mid 70's.  Light blue tops clashed gingerly with bright red skirts, gas attendent shirts and thrift store finds were proudly worn all around, and the Guinness flowed just as easily here as everywhere else.  It was here I realized I had a piece of paper in my pocket, and I pulled it out to find the Star Spangled Banner written in chicken scratch (and wet with Guinness spilled from Bill's stumble at Aunties).  At the bottom of the paper I had written, 'Francis Scott Key, 1812, Baltimore, USA' to almost prove at the time I still had my wits about me.  Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots were Made for Walking' started up, and I did an impromptu spoken word/sung rendition of America's National Anthem.  When I told this story at work, there was the common belief I renounced my citizenship.  So it goes. 

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