18 March 2002
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We got to Flannagan's around 3 in the afternoon. (The Cincinnati/UCLA game had gone into double overtime, pushing our schedule back. Lord. Who knew?) Our first stop once we were inside the giant tent was the beer truck, where we got green beer bones right away. Mo, Amy and I were astounded at the number of cute guys there, even if some of them really should've rethought their shoe choices. We wandered around for a little while as we waited for our limo bus to arrive. Some guy came over and gave us 'Kiss me, I'm Irish' pins. (Well, 'gave' as in sold us.) For some reason he couldn't understand why we didn't want the ones that said 'F... me, I'm Irish.' Brett said those were probably big sellers with Italian guys. There is something about St. Patrick's Day that makes the trash factor in people escalate. I commented on this phenomenon while we were standing in line for the bathroom. I'd just spotted a woman with two strategically placed glowing green buttons. "Today is going to be a prime Five Bucks day," Mo said. The bus got there and we clamored on around 3:30. There were about 15 of us, and the others were well stocked with Jell-O shots and mix CDs. (Later in the night this guy Eric kept trying to get me to do more Jell-O shots. "I've had 17!" he kept telling me. Then he changed tactics: "They're full of protein!" So I asked: "What, did you make them with wheatgerm?" Needless to say, he ran with that.) We drove over to the east side to Murph's, a dive bar that came complete with some guy who'd sing "Danny Boy" a capella on request. I have to admit I got a little misty toward the end of his rendition. The bartender loaded us up with fake tattoos, shamrock stickers and beads. My trash factor escalated as I put the MGD Irish-flag colored shamrocks on my chest. Loaded with pizza and "Who's Counting? Happy 50th" napkins and plates (and the cardboard cutout of the Killian's Miss St. Patrick's Day chick) we got back on the bus and drove downtown to the Arena District and O'Shaughnessey's. The place was packed with Miami people and I ran into a girl I was actually friends with, as well as a guy who played football with The Guy From My Favorite College Story. He mentioned, twice, that he was friends with some guy who plays for the Arizona Diamondbacks. I didn't talk to him long. Although he was really tall. But I'm pretty much over my Hot & Dumb phase. (Pretty much.) Sitting near the door were three old guys wearing old guy hats. They looked as if the bar paid them to sit there to give the place a more authentic Irish feel. One of them, Fudge, "bumped" into me. He later admitted that it was just a scheme they worked out to get pretty girls to talk to them. "So, are you?" Fudge asked me, pointing at my pin. "Enough so that it's true," I told him. They asked me if I'd been getting lots of kisses and were surprised when I said no. So I gave Owen a kiss on the cheek, after all he is Irish, and he said he'd never wash his face again. Their sons and nephews were sitting in a corner behind them. "Quite an operation you've got here," I told one of the youngers. Owen corrected me, "Oh, we only send the ugly ones back to them. Everyone deserves a good time, you know." Around 8:30, (but who knows, really) we loaded back onto the bus and drove to Byrne's in Grandview. It wasn't as crowded as I'd expected, but there was still quite a turnout. I remember running into Mo's cousin, and thinking that her friend was cute. "Freddy?!" Mo exclaimed. "I've known him since he was like, FIVE." We lost some people by this point. I don't know if they went home, or elected to stay at Byrne's or what, but the bus ride back over to Flannagan's was emptier. And quieter. But we got there, in quite a roundabout way, at least. (Maybe the bus driver was stealing Jell-O shots from the cooler.) We squished into the building and danced our way up in front of the band. I have no idea what we danced to, but I know that it was all '80s stuff. The Reaganomics were playing, after all. We got sweaty and some married guy kept trying to rub up against Mo during "Come on Eileen." We went back out to the tent and drank a lot of water so that Mo would be okay to drive us back home. The gravel ground was soupy and mushy by then, after an afternoon of getting beer from big green bones poured onto it, and my boots were disgusting. The tattoo on Mo's face was peeling off and I'd dropped the glowing Guinness sticker that I'd stolen from Brett somewhere along the way. It was time to go home. We'd had to park pretty far away, and as we were making our way across a apartment complex yard, the inevitable happened: Mo fell down. "Now I'm never going to be able to take these pants back!" she yelled. "And they're too short!!" I was laughing so hard that I fell off my boots and, you guessed it, onto the ground. I tried to comfort Mo with my sympathy fall, but she didn't want to hear it. "Where's your grass stain?" she kept asking. "Dammit," Mo said as she started the car. "We're stopping at White Castle now." "And Brett," she said turning around, "You better have some Clorox 2." We stopped at the Castle near Brett's apartment and pulled through the drive-thru. The guy working the window kept flirting with Mo. He called her drink "a Diet Cokey." We got onion chips and jalepeno burgers and we took it all backto Brett's place, where we wouldn't let him have any. He gave up late-night food for Lent. "But I just gave up french fries!" he kept yelling. Merely a technicality. Once I got home, sometime after midnight, I fell into bed. Tattooed chest and all. It's rough being Irish. Even if it's just for the day. The notify wants you. And the forum wants you too, fool.
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