It being a fine soft day out of doors, Miss Mia O’Sopaipilla just celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with an extended rúla búla up to 90 around the shebeen so. Now she wants a fry.
It being St. Paddy’s Day, we probably should have a spot of music — in this case, a Dublin concert marking the 40th anniversary of the fabled 1977 album by Andy Irvine and Paul Brady, who had both been members of the legendary Irish group Planxty. Joining them in this concert (and on the album) were Dónal Lunny, another Planxty vet, and Kevin Burke.
I saw Irvine and Brady perform at a small venue in Corvallis, Oregon, when I worked for the newspaper there. It goes without saying that I have that album (both vinyl and digital) as well as Planxty out the wazoo. The neighbors are getting an earful as we speak.
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You got any soda bread to go with that fry up?
I haven’t had a go at soda bread in ages, Paddy me lad. I am a hopelessly incompetent baker. Biscuits become hockey pucks and tortillas coasters.
Oh, Happy St. Paddy’s Day from one Paddy to another! Sláinte!
Back at ye. May ye be in Heaven a half hour before the Devil knows yeer dead.
Happy St. Catty’s Day and yes please, I’ll have more A’mouse con pollo.
A pint lift to you, herself and Ms. Mia from us.
And to you as well. May the road rise to meet you, but in a good way.
Holy smokes. Its the 17th already? Well, happy St. Patrick’s Day, folks! Tomorrow woulda been my mom’s 95th, had she hung around for it!
How time flies, hey? Didn’t we just do this last year?
I did my level best to get in the spirit. Wore green jeans and shirt, picked up a growler of fresh stout from the neighborhood brewery. And finally, corned beef and cabbage which was far better than expected. And throughout the day signed me messages O’Herb.
It was an unexpectedly fine day here in the Mitten State with plenty o sun and 61 degrees. Quite the contrast to a legendary St. Paddy’s day many years ago here. I went into a tavern about noon and staggered out of there at 7 PM and twas greeted with 17 inches of wet snow. Couldn’t find me car and just walked home which proved to be a grand idea since I was stinking drunk and had no business driving anything short of the infamous porcelain bus.
Well, ye auld spalpeen, ye done yeer best. I’ve spent a few St. Paddy’s Days in the manner you describe.
I recall many a night at the Irish Pub in Pueblo, Colo., a vile tavern built by a Jewish gent and owned by an Italian to serve the Mexican-Americans, Slavs, and hillbillies of the Steel City. Failed philosophy majors from the University of Southern Colorado worked the bar.
And come St. Paddy’s, there was a conga line of tosspots, tipplers, soaks, and winos that snaked through the front door, past the bar, out the rear door and then back around to the front door. The trick was to grab a Guinness and a Jameson every trip through.
Ahh, the Melting Pot!
Pi Day, St Paddy’s, then the first day of Spring, bam bam bam. Days are getting longer, and it’s still in the distance but I can almost make out Normalcy coming around the bend.
May your neighbors respect you, trouble neglect you, the angels protect you, and heaven accept you.
A bit late for this party, but still …