Erin Go Bragh

I grew up in working class Long Island, and probably until junior high school though everyone was either Jewish or Catholic.  I guess I had one friend, Lee Ann, who was Episcopalian, a religion I found hilarious because its name contained the word "piss."

My closest early friends were either Eastern European Jews, or Italian, or Irish.  Actually, one friend, Mark, had an Italian mother and Swedish Dad, though Grace, the Italian, was the dominant social force in the family.  Her husband Bob was only made fun of for how taciturn he was -- when the kids grew up and moved away, Grace divorced Bob -- who moved to St. Louis.

But the Irish culture was a big deal.  My earliest friend was named Monahan, and his Dad was a fireman in Brooklyn.  My father wasn't a drinker, but Bobby Monahan sure was.  I remember being 8 or 9, and invited to stay for dinner, which I loved because Mrs. M was Italian, and thus a wonderful cook.  But Michael and I had to walk down to the Pin Up Bar, or P.U.B, and fetch Mr. M.

It was a smoky place -- half of it was for NYC cops, and the other half for fireman.  I learned early that the two, though a mutual bullwark against chaos, didn't like each other much.  We'd find Mr. M, and the fellow firemen would tussle Mike and my hair, and Mr. M would say "Did here is Dave -- my boy's Jew friend."  The guys would laugh, and ask if my Dad was a doctor or lawyer.  Nah, I'd answer -- just a salesman.

It's funny, but I never felt their talk was at all anti semitic.  It was just busing balls -- the Italian guys were WOPS or Guineas -- the Irish were "thick Micks."  I was always comfortable with political incorrectness.

More -- I was attracted to the culture of the bar.  I adored my Dad, but that wasn't his milieu.  He was happier alone, reading a book.  Hanging in a bar, busting balls with your buddies -- well, it attracted me early and still does.

And today is St. Patrick's Day -- a holiday I always like to celebrate, at least a little.  My favorite one was about 15 years ago. I was in NYC for work, and stayed at the Plaza.  The huge parade was right in front, on 5th Avenue -- an endless sea of NYC firemen and cops, all ruddy faced in the cold mist of a typically cloudy March NY day.  I had time to kill, and watched them march by -- lots of bagpipes.

A LI cop was next to me, and said something I think about today: bagpipes sound cool for about 15 minutes, and then you want to strangle the piper to make him stop.  I loved that line.  I went into a bar off 5th and had a terrific time -- after the parade, I took a taxi back to LGA.  I guess the day brought back memories of my childhood, and Mr. Monahan -- long since dead.

Today Wifey and I were supposed to go see Judy Collins, the long post menopausal folk singer Wifey likes because she sings Joni Mitchell songs.  The show was set for last month, but the 78 year old Collins hurt her wrist, or something. It was rescheduled for tonight -- down in Homestead.  I figured we'd get some Mexican food, see the show, and maybe stop off at Mike's --- he's hosting a party.

Not so fast.  Wifey got a bug and is recovering from it.  I had her give away the tickets -- no way I wanted to go without her.  Maureen and Dave jumped at the chance -- being of the appropriate age to enjoy Judy Collins and all.

I may head over to Mike's for a drink or two -- he probably has some St. Paddy's Day stuff to offer.

No green beer, though.  That's just an outrage...