Saint Pats 2006, in Pictures

Top o' the Mornin' to ya!

In the bleary-eyed aftermath of another triumphant St. Patrick's Day celebration, I thought I'd share some of my photographic plunder from our raucous afternoon and boozin' and boogyin' in the greatest city in the world! And this time, I'll keep my voluminous verbosity to an absolute minimum! "Nuff Said!"

This sad shot is the of almighty McHale's sign... attached to a boarded-up shopfront, waiting for renovation... it shall glow and beckon hungry revelers never again...

Ever since our buddy, Chris, joined the Suffolk County Police Department, we've all adopted their official St. Patrick's Day celebration as our own. So for the fifth year running, we've accompanied Chris, his co-workers, and the mysterious St. Patrick's Groupies at the Salloon, a bar on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

I know for a fact that "Everyone Loves THAT Irish Girl"... especially me!

Chris, Johnny Z, Ally, Kat, and I rendezvoused at the bar at 2:30 for a 3-hour open bar free-for-all: kilts and beer cans were flying everywhere! Outside of a fraternity mixer, you've never seen people drink with such a purpose! And I was no exception, downing around 8 beers in the next two hours. That may not seem like a lot, but when you realize the bar's maximum occupancy was probably violated by at least 200 extra revelers, fighting your way to one of the beer stations was a harrowing quest in and of itself. So accomplishing 8 rounds was nothing short of heroic for our brave little band!

Ally and Kat, showin' Manhattan how they do it back in Douglaston! DMG Represent!

St. Patrick's Day has its own strange participants that you don't usually see the other 364 days of the year. Gangs of guys with big furry hats and kilts can walk into any bar or eating establishment with no invitation, and start playing their bagpipes. And not only are they allowed to do this all over the city, but they're applauded! And somehow, even when there's not enough reason to breathe in some of these joints, entire squadrons of these guys can still somehow squeeze in and put on an impromptu performance. I'd love to see these guys try that same stunt in three months... not bloody likely!

This St. Patrick's Day was brought to you by BEER... and Lots of It! I think this is the first time I've ever seen Ally double-fisting beers before. It was awesome. I would've asked her to marry me, if I hadn't done so already!

Another specialized subspecies of St. Patrick's Day are the mysterious St. Patrick's groupies. Pale white, fair-haired, and freckled... decked out in bright green get-ups with ridiculous slogans printed across their fronts, and obnoxious Guinness pants - these Celtic gals are out in force to get their groove-on. They prey mainly on NY's finest uniformed studs - the firefighters and police officers. Some of these middle-aged minxes go after these guys with such unbridled enthusiasm, you'd think it was White People Mating Season, or something. The rest of the year, these Gaelic Gals spend their time in Irish bars, shopping at Target, and working at Pizza Hut.

Awww! I have no clever caption here... this is just a great shot of Maggie and Chris.

Later on, we were joined by Mikey G, Johnny G and his girlfriend, Hale, and Johnny Z's fiancee Vicky. We headed over to another bar in the area, called "Genesis." It was a somewhat calmer affair, though still packed and was once again visited by one of the numerous pipe bands cruising the St. Patrick's circuit that evening. By this time, I was quite in the bag... having recently quaffed a sumptuous ice-cold pint of Guinness bought for me by Chris. There had been an unforeseen mixup with my open-bar armband at the Salloon, and he felt guilty. I didn't blame him... but I wasn't going to turn down a Guinness. No way. Well, I had to see a man about a horse and made my way through the drunken throng to the nearest lavatory. I saw a door that appeared to say, "Laddies," and since this was an Irish place (wasn't every bar an "Irish place" on St. Patrick's Day?) I assumed this meant it was the men's room. But as I staggered in, I found myself looking at a woman washing her hands at the sink. "I guess the ladies room is crowded, so she came in here," I thought. I set about to do my business in the nearest stall, when, through my drunken haze, I realized that there were no urinals in the men's room. It was then, that I realized that I wasn't in the "Laddies' Room," I was in the "Ladies' Room." Of course, I figured, I was already in here, so I should finish what I started.

Simple St. Patrick's Day Math: The beer keeps flowin' and the cheeks start glowin'

Soon after my exciting trip to the little girls' room, our party agreed that we were all starving, and Johnny Z soon led us to nearby Totonno's Pizzeria. Four delicious brick oven pies and three orders of garlic knots later, and we were happily sated. Overcome with exhaustion (read: intoxication) Ally, Kat, Maggie, and I decided to call it a day and head back to Penn Station. After a quick stop in a Duane Reade for some marshmallow peeps, we jumped in a cab and were on our way. The drive back was slow, with the streets saturated with party buses and throngs of revelers, so Kat made small talk with our driver, "Amlal Mohammed" (not making this up) and kept on offering him one of her peeps. Amlal never took her up on her offer, to his loss, of course. Afterwards in Penn, we luckily avoided any belligerent drunks or obnoxious party people... and I'm happy to report that there was no praying to the porcelain goddess that evening, either. All-in-all, it was one of the best St. Patrick's I've enjoyed in quite a while!

Another awesome St. Patrick's Day at the Salloon! "Cheers!" from Ally, Johnny Z, Maggie, Chris, Kat, and the ever-present Coors Lite Can!

Feedback Question of the Day:
"How was your St. Paddy's? Good? Bad? Ridiculous?"

If There Was Ever a Time I Needed a Beer...

Guinness... you... complete... me.

Ah, 'tis a fine week indeed, as it culminates with St. Patrick's Day. March 17th, that strange day when all the world wants to be Irish. It's a strange phenomenon, that's not exactly shared with other pale ethnic groups. You don't see an aisle at Party City dedicated to the Portuguese (with all due respect to my Iberian brothers out there... but you know it's true. Portugal is sorta Spain's Canada.) I can say authoritatively that this is one odd day of the year when the majority of American popular culture wants to be Irish, instead of what it usually wants to be, which is Black. I'm just calling them as I see 'em, folks. But before you complain to your congressperson, let me elaborate by saying that the Irish appeal is in it's surprisingly enduring outsider mystique. For the average American suburban kid, it's more exciting to dress and act like Dr. Dre than Dr. Phil. But... I'd rather not get into this... the topic is already boring me. Suffice to say, being Irish is cool... even if you're just a wannabe... and the trend shows no sign of ceasing.

Wearin' the Green: Old Navy shirts notwithstanding, this was actually St. Patrick's Day 2005

This has been a particularly rough couple of weeks for me. Between struggling with my Neurology Unit at school, I've been on Weight Watchers. So I'm stressed out and I can't drown my sorrows in a few dozen extra value meals. And to top things off, the cd player in the Foxy Lady finally died. I was getting into Rob Zombie mode the other day (I get to go see him with John on March 28th! Woo-hoo!) and my car stereo starts giving me the "Error" message. I just can't catch a break. Of course, anyone who's ridden with me in the last couple of years knows that my car speakers desperately need to be put out of their misery. (The bass is all blown out... probably too many roadtrips with Rammstein on heavy rotation!) So one of my projects for my extremely anticipated Spring Break - April 13th-23rd - is a trip to a nearby Circuit City or Best Buy (Al, can you make this happen?) to have the ol' gal fitted a new system. Of course, there have been some good things to report. Despite maligning the WW, I've actually shed 10 pounds in the last month! So at least I'm on pace to get down to fighting trim in time to not be big for The Big Day.

7 Guys from Boston I Actually Don't Want to Dropkick!

Another reason this month hasn't been a total loss so far, is my getting to see my fourth favorite music act in the whole world on March 1st - The Dropkick Murphys! Brian, John, Ally, and I headed over to the Nokia theater in NYC to catch their always-rambunctious show on Ash Wednesday. We even ran into Z and Michelle Falco's fiancee, Tom (who somehow ended up backstage... even he couldn't explain how). Though the Murphys are unabashed Boston-boys, they treated us New Yorkers right and put on an awesome show. Even Ally, who admittedly never took to listening to them on my dearly-departed car stereo, had a great time. John is turning into my new concert buddy, which is great. And in less than two weeks we'll be back at the Nokia to see the almighty Rob Zombie (who happens to be my third favorite music act in the whole world) kick off his new tour in support of his new album, "Educated Horses." But speaking of Ash Wednesday... I have some bad news...

McHale's: En Pace Requiem. I will never forget you... and I'm still digesting that last burger...

McHale's is no more. It has not moved. It certainly didn't go out of business. And for a while, I was convinced it was all my fault. When the bunch of us were planning to meet in the city before the Dropkick Murphys concert, I thought of arguably the best rendezvous on Manhattan Island - McHale's. McHale's, for the unlucky uninitiated, is the best burger joint and dive bar in New York... if not the world. Well, to be honest, I can't substantiate the claim about the dive bar superiority status, but I can authoritatively state, as a young man who's consumed more than his fair share of well-done ground beef along with several tons of Heinz ketchup and steak fries, that I have never had a better burger than at McHale's. McHale's has been for over fifty years a Broadway landmark - where well-to-do patrons and common theater ushers converge for an $8 feast... a symphony of grilled beef and fried potatoes. Where else in that cosmopolitan mecca could a man enjoy a sumptous meal that would keep him satisfied for at least 24 hours on less than ten bucks? Since my introduction to that incredible eatery back in the winter of '97, when I was ushering at the Music Box Theater while Natalie Portman was evading Nazi soldiers in the" Diary of Anne Frank," I've eagerly shared the gastronomical gospel to as many friends as would listen... and more than a few of my chums have waddled out of there since then. However, on March 1st, I made the unfortunate choice to suggest McHale's on Ash Wednesday. To us Catholics, Ash Wednesday is meatless. And you can sure-as-hell assume I wasn't going to order spaghetti there. Well, when John called me that day to say that McHale's was boarded-up I thought for sure that God had smote the bar for my effrontery. It was only later, upon some internet research, that I found out that the building's owner decided to sell the building to condo developers. Somehow, though, I liked the "God Smiting" theory better. It was just more dramatic and meaningful. Having a wonderful joint like McHale's wiped away for nothing more than greed... is just sad, y'know? To quote a food critic in describing the dining experience there -

"To Eat at McHale's is to See Richard Simmons Die."

Yeah BoYEEE! It's obvious to me why 20 women would gouge, claw, and devour each other alive for the affections of this guy.

Why did I stay up late, the night before my Neurology Exam, to watch the 90 minute season finale of VH1's "Flavor of Love"? Even my sister, Mary, asked that, incredulously. Truth be told, I don't really know. I'm a well-documented hater of all things reality - TV or otherwise. And when Ally wrests the controller from me, and we end up watching "Real Road Rule World Room Raiders Who Date My Mom"... I just end up yelling at the TV and making derisive comments. It must be tremendously annoying listening to me gripe about the characters on these shows. What bothers me the most is the utter lack of sincerity demonstrated. The romance reality shows are competitions... which guy or girl can successfully seduce whomever the most. The Real World-type shows are filled with air-head bimbo 20-somethings (and some shameful 30-somethings) wallowing in a grossly bloated arrested adolescence. The Real World's title become somewhat misleading when they began only casting people with less than 5% body fat, and comparable IQs to match. The bottom line was, though, that all these people wanted to do was get on TV and jumpstart their inevitably bleak career in show business. Which brings us to VH1's "Flavor of Love."

Ice Queen Cometh: Finalist Tiffany "New York" Patterson

Following the continuing adventures of Flavor Flav, the "Hype Man" (you know, the "big clock" guy?) of reknowned rap group, "Public Enemy," from his pop culture quasi-resurrection on "Surreal Life," to his odd couple relationship with Bridgitte Nielsen in "Strange Love," the newly single Flav has his pick of 20 ladies who live together in his wacky mansion and compete for his affections. Like all of these new reality shows, just about every one of these women were actresses or looking to break into show business. Don't believe me? Check this list out: Flavor of Love Girls And yes, all the girls were given wacky nicknames, like "Pumkin," "Hottie," and "Red Oyster." The few that appeared genuinely interested in Flavor Flav were downright scary. And the worst of them all was "New York." Just so you don't have any misconceptions, I am absolutely convinced that the above photo was doctored in some way. This chica was either scowling or haughtily dismissing the other contestants every time she was on camera. The only time she wasn't acting like a hateful shrew was when she was talking to Flavor Flav. Upon checking around the internet, I found a couple of things out. 1. New York had her share of fans, despite the atrocious way she conducted herself, spoke of others, and her enormously overinflated ego. 2. There is a rumor that the producers of the show hired her specifically to behave the way she did and shake things up. This was actually something I suspected, myself. She seemed to go out of her way to take shots at the other girls, and she was fixated on Flavor Flav to such a overly-dramatic, quasi-spooky way that it almost appeared that she was merely playing a role. She belittled one particant to such a significant degree that the girl actually spat in her face after being eliminated. Check it out, here: Punkin Hocks a Loogie. Finally, check out her myspace page. For some reason, I'm not convinced it's really her at all, but someone posing as her, using widely available promotional pictures on it. New York's MySpace. You be the judge.

Nikki "Hoopz" Alexander, also known as, "The Not-Satanic Finalist"

And then we have "Hoopz," who compared to New York's behavior, was practically Mother Theresa. She exuded a sporty, girl-next-door tomboy-ish quality that contrasted sharply to New York's Alpha-Female Prom Queen from Hell demeanor. Funny thing is, Hoopz isn't quite a choirgirl, either. Apparently she's Maxim Magazine-type and calendar model who has a website set up (which apparently is not as R-rated as it used to be) "My Darling Nikki" can be seen here, but it's certainly racier fare than I usually link to, so be forewarned. Of course, this all continues to prove that these "reality" shows attract and feature only a certain type of person - shameless attractive and semi-attractive people that want to break into showbiz. The finale of Flavor of Love was pretty silly, as it tried to fake you out by editing it so it made New York look like the good one, for once, and casting Hoopz in a negative light. Somehow, they even had both finalists end up wearing identical dresses! A little too coincidental, I think. Finally, while the two girls were waiting for Flav to show up, New York commences to try to psyche Hoopz out, revealing how she's already slept with him, that they "made music together," that this final contest "was a battle between good and evil." In my opinion, if New York was genuinely as obsessed about Flavor Flav (which she never exactly explained in the first place, too) she would have reacted a bit more outrageously when he ultimately picked Hoopz instead of her. She sorta cried in the departing limo interview... but it wasn't exactly convincing.

In the end, if you've actually read through all of this, you're probably wondering why I'd devote so much time to such an absurd show. And now that I've written this all out... I happen to agree. Sheesh, I'm losing it.

Have a Happy St. Pats!

You Were the Man Then, DAWG.

Simpler Days: With Dawgs Hat proudly on head, Tom rejoices on the last day of Chaminade in '97, with Pimp Daddy Craine, Not Impressed Grant, Bishop, Gordo, Wayniac and Lyncho.

To truly appreciate the saga of the Dawgs Hat, you have to mentally transport yourself to the teenage atmosphere of Long Island in the late '90's. Back then, before creatively-bereft fashion designers were raiding the back closets of the 1970's, when popular fashion was slowly emerging from the grunge movement, and a million niche styles exploded onto the scene. That crazy time when the "skater" look was only worn by... well, skaters. And for the rest of us mere mortals, we employed a sort of weird amalgam style of Tommy Hilfiger, Gap, and Pacific Sunwear. Yes, that was also before everyone started abbreviating things and we actually had the endurance to say, "Pacific Sunwear," as opposed to "PacSun." We were hardy, like that. As for what girls wore back then... I'm not exactly sure, as I didn't know any. But I'm 75% positive that they didn't wear Ugg boots.

Wayne, the Dawgs Hat, and I chilling out in '98 after the Infamous Mount Washington Hike, along with the single can of beer that Wayne smuggled in and that we both got drunk on.

So what was the significance of the Dawgs Hat? Well, have you transported yourself back to the couture wasteland of the late '90's, yet? Back then, throughout the eastern seaboard of the US, if not the entire country, the must-have cabeza accessory for guys was the "college bar hat," for want of a better term. Popularized by the New English white guy lacrosse chic, these caps usually had either the name of a college or the mascot emblazoned across the front, framed on the top and bottom with two lines, or "bars". These things were pervasive throughout the period. Unless you were in a coma in the late '90's, then you know exactly what I'm talking about. Chances are, you probably owned two or three of 'em.

The Dawgs Hat: Good for wearing, not for eating.

Well, my brother Mike was certainly more fashion conscious than I back then, as well as the more consummate athlete, so he cycled through those bar hats faster than his pairs of expensive, trendy sneakers. (The same sneakers have since enjoyed a lengthy second life with my dad... who is now the coolest sexuagenarian in cardiac rehab, wearing his adopted red Air Jordan kicks.) Around this time, I decided to finally jump on the hat bandwagon, and wheeled my bike up to the local Modell's store and bought what I thought was the coolest hat I could find: South Carolina Fighting Gamecocks. It was a bright new white cap with "COCKS" printed across the front in bold letters, with "University of South Carolina" printed in smaller letters on the bottom, just to clear up any potentially embarrassing misconceptions about what I was interested in.

The Dawgs Hat finds a small improvement in the dust and filth of Woodstock '99 - a red Metallica ninja star sticker that fit perfectly on its bill. Check out Matt's "X-Men"bar hat!

Well, my brilliant purchase had a major achilles heel. Usually when teenagers buy shocking apparel to demonstrate their commercially-purchased individuality, they usually have the balls to actually wear it. Not me. Whenever I had the nerve to take it out of my house, it spent more time hastily stuffed in my pocket than on my noggin'. When I refereed 3C Week games at Chaminade, I had absolutely no intention of wearing my bright white "COCKS" hat in front of the brothers. Most likely, that hat would remain an embarrassing artifact of my hopelessly non-cool teenage lifestyle, but fate would ultimately intervene. Somehow, my brother lost or wore out his recent bar cap and needed another one in time for his sleep-away lacrosse camp. I lent him my ridiculous hat, happy to see it go. And as luck would have it, I never saw that stupid hat ever again.

Few could pull off the Hawaiian shirt and black Dawgs Hat combo and still look cool. This is yet another example.

My brother returned from camp, with no COCKS hat. He had forgotten it on the plane. I feigned outrage, mainly because he was my brother, and it was my job. But it did the trick, and he figured he'd give me his new cap as repayment - a black Georgia Lacrosse Bulldogs bar cap... "The Dawgs Hat" had arrived.

Why are we as a species compelled to put big hats on small heads? I don't know, but it's damn cute. Here you can see grizzled masking tape I had on the back of the Dawgs Hat.

What made the Dawgs Hat awesome was its semi-uniqueness. Most bar caps of the era were white. Plus, Georgia University Lacrosse was not a typical pick for Long Island kids. Usually you had the mooks with their UMASS hats, sometimes with the "M" covered up or scratched off, thus making character judgements on all who read its altered message. That clever device sorta wore thin after the fifth one I saw at the mall. And finally, my new hat said "DAWGS" on it... which is just cool. The misspelling coolness factor is diametrically opposed to the misspelling "DOGGS." That would just have been lame. From that point on, from my senior year of high school, the Dawgs Hat became my constant companion; accompanying me to Senior Night, last day festivities, graduation parties, softball games, roadtrips, beach days, and hikes. Strangely, the only place I didn't bring it to, was Ireland. But it was waiting for me when I got back...

As awesome as I looked in the Dawgs Hat, Ally just looked better. She looks better than me in all my stuff. Strangely, I don't look good in her stuff.

In the summer of '99, the Dawgs Hat and I were happily reunited, just in time for the 3-day dirty, dusty disaster of Woodstock '99. There I found a red Metallica ninja star car decal. It was just big enough to fit on the bill, and that hat somehow became even cooler. The sticker stayed there, faithfully, for a couple of months, and then sort of withered off. That autumn, Ally and I went on our first weekend trip as a couple - whitewater rafting in Kittatinny. After various trips, service projects, school retreats, beach runs, and a particularly interesting day with Habitat for Humanity, my beloved Dawgs Hat was lost. I had forgotten it on the charter bus that took us to our senior college retreat. Despite frantic phonecalls to the bus company, and their lies-upon-lies, promising me they'd check the bus as soon as it arrived at the depot, the Dawgs Hat was never seen again.

Probably the coolest picture of me, ever.

Years have passed, and I've tried to fill the void left by the Dawgs Hat with other, lesser caps. My factory-error St. John's "Gopher" hat, while a semi-interesting conversation starter, never attained the same legendary status of its predecessor. And my pre-faded Yankees cap, while inherently awesome, obviously lacks the Dawgs Hat originality... since the Yankees probably are the most widely-produced ball caps in the world. Lately, in my moments of leisure, limited though they may be, I've trolled around a little bit on Ebay and the internet, searching in vain for a black "dawgs" hat... to no avail. While replicas of the white dawgs hat is still produced and sold, the same cannot be said of the black model. And while I fervently hope for someone to post the legendary headwear on ebay, and I faithfully check for it on a daily basis, I believe that if any such hat still exists, it's probably in some bargain bin in some long-neglected corner of a sporting goods store. So I implore you all:

If you ever find a black "DAWGS Georgia Lacrosse" bar hat, identical to the one in these pictures, please buy it for me, and I will happily reimburse you!

Remember: Ally's unadorned head needs your support! Much like the rest of her body needs the support of Geraldine and me.

Feedback Question of the Day:
"Have you ever lost a prized possession? Did you ever find it again?"