A Wonderful St. Patrick’s Day Was Had By All

A long time ago in a galaxy all too close to home, some former colleagues and I decided to get together for some drinks as it was the season. The “St. Patrick’s Day” season that is. This season is famous for these kinds of gatherings and they tend to build up well in advance of the actual day.

In Pittsburgh, the actual day is seldom the actual day. The peak of the drunken revelry here is the day of the parade which is always held on the Saturday before the actual day. On the actual day, a reprise is made to try and reach the drunken revelry of the past Saturday. This usually fails to live up as most people have to go to work the next actual day.

This doesn't stop the “True Irish” who, of course don’t have jobs because they are lazy, shiftless, drunkards. Being of much Irish descent, I was told that this was my birthright. But it turns out my heritage is “Orange” Irish, so I’m told I must get piss drunk and still show up for work anyway. Turns out I get paid the same so I don’t have a problem with this.

If you are a fan of parades, the St. Patrick’s Day parade in Pittsburgh is a good one to bring the kiddies to, even if it is overloaded with politicos and local TV and radio “personalities”. (How come I never have a sack of rotting tomatoes when I need one?) If they are throwing candy, then I don’t mind. If they aren’t, well, then where the hell are those tomatoes?

But after the parade is over it is best to get the kiddies the hell out of Dodge. The town is taken over by alcoholism, debauchery, and fighting. Which is fine if you are a young, over-sexed, alcoholic. Not so fine for the kiddies. (“Daddy. Why is that man’s wiener hanging out of his pants?”)

So my friends and I picked an Irish pub at random and met a few days in advance of the whole Sodom and Gosh-and-Gomorrah scene. It turns out that the pub’s house band was holding a mock wake. This is an event they had been doing for some years past and continue to do today. It was great fun and the band was fantastic. Not a banjo in site.

The band was led by a kid who sounded like he was fresh off the potatoe boat from the old sod. He double-clutched bottles of whiskey as he bellowed out the Irish blues. Between sets, he would stagger from table to table and act as if he was the oldest and dearest and certainly the most piss-drunk friend you ever had. (In my case, he would be wrong.) I’m sure this was done partly for the entertainment of the crowd as much as it was for the drinks everyone bought him just to see if he really could drink any more.

My friends and I were so entertained that we made it a regular event to meet here for the “wake” every year. But after five years or so, the lead singer was no longer with the band. We just figured his liver exploded or at least got a restraining order against him. The event was still entertaining enough but just not the same anymore.

A few years later the band added a fiddle player. This was a nice touch for some songs but the play list took a noticeable turn towards traditional bar band fare. I mean, how “Irish” is “Sweet Home Alabama”? This venue was no longer Skynnard-safe. And when they let the fiddle player sing, it reminded me of a wildebeest with dry heaves.

So this year we gave the wake a miss. We picked another Irish pub at random but we dared fate by arranging to meet there the day of the parade. We figured we ought to be safe since we were separated from the parade by about 5 hours and one river. Not so good thinking. The place was packed. And it didn’t help having bagpipers blocking the path to the toilet playing yet another rendition of “Scotland the Brave”. At least they didn’t have “Sweet Home Alabama” in their repertoire.

We eventually got a table and looked over a menu offering such Irish cuisine as the “Irish” Buffalo wings, and “Irish” Philly cheese steak. I’m not making this up.

The real entertainment began a few hours later when I made a repeat visit to the men’s room. The line there had been remarkably reasonable earlier – when not blocked by bagpipers, but now it was almost out the door. The sinks were looking inviting but I bided my time. For some reason, the guy at the head of the line just let everyone go past him. I just figured he was waiting for a stall because he had to do something nastier than pass a few pints.

And speaking of stalls, how come the handicap stall wasn’t having any turnover? I could have taken a major dump and solved a Saturday New York Times crossword puzzle in the time I spent in line, yet the poor soul in there never came out. One of the guys in line was a waiter and as a company representative, he felt obliged or at least empowered enough to peek over the top to see if everything was okay in there.

I guessed there was no bloody corpse to be seen or the expression on his face wouldn’t have been a mix of “Oh my god” and stifled laughter. I didn’t feel empowered enough to look over the top of the stall but I was curious enough to look around at ankle level. I saw a pair of ankles that were leaning forward so I figured the poor sot was driving the porcelain bus, as it were. It was the thrusting movements that made me wonder. This guy either had some serious wildebeest heaving to do, or…

And then another foot touched down and picked itself back up rather quickly. Okay, if this guy was heaving, he was heaving on someone in the way. Or maybe he was... Nah. A pisser opened up and I took advantage and got the hell out.

By the time I got back to the table, a look back showed that a crowd was gathering outside the men’s room door. Either I was lucky to get there before the rush or something was going on. A cop made his way through the crowd and went in. Gun not drawn, I should add. If he had really needed to pee, I’m sure he would have drawn the gun. I know I would have if I had one earlier.

A few minutes later, he escorted a man and another person who was in the wrong restroom entirely. That is to say, a woman. The crowd was delighted. I would not have been so understanding. These idiots were taking up valuable and desperately needed pissing real-estate. If they had tossed some candy or otherwise performed some kind of entertainment for the crowd, I might not have minded so much. Where are those damn tomatoes when you need them anyway?

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