April 19, 2014
Back for a repeat performance because this is seriously my favorite Easter post also there is no such thing as too much The Easter Bunny Hates You. Yay!
[Happy Easter everyone.]
March 17, 2014
March 17, 2014
March 17, 2014
Also I wish I could tell you the original source for this. I can’t. I found it on Tumblr and have always loved it. If you know the original source, drop me a line. Meanwhile —
What Denis Leary Thinks About St. Patrick’s Day
First thing’s first: There are many Irish-Americans in this country who
celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in a quiet and sober manner, perhaps heading off to work with a muted-olive tie or a small emerald pin as their nod to the day’s events. There are also those who go to the 7 A.M. mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and consider the day a prayerful tribute to the patron saint of all things green. There are still others who awaken the morning of March 17 and carry on as if it were just another 24 hours — no drinking, no fighting, no puking.
I don’t know any of these people.
Therefore, this piece will be about the red-blooded, hard-boiled, hammer headed souls who patrol the St. Patrick’s Day arena as if it were life’s last call. If you consider the image of a working-class Mick named Fitzy caterwauling down Fifth Avenue wearing a kelly-green plastic derby, well oiled on whiskey and slurring his words, an offensive and demeaning stereotype, then call the Irish Anti-Defamation League (IDLE) right now. I think the number is 1-800-NO-FITZY.
I’ve spent several hundred official and unofficial St. Patrick’s Day
celebrations in New York City over the years, and the calm, bespectacled
intellectual Irishman clutching his copy of Finnegan’s Wake is a rare sight
indeed. Unless he’s passed out around 3:15 A.M. in the back booth at
No, March 17 is not for the squeamish. It’s for the thirsty masses. Those
young rebels willing to shout and scream about their Irish blood, the chosen few who will toss raw eggs into open cab windows, the banshees who only want (as House of Pain so eloquently put it) to “get off their feet and jump around.” That’s what St. Patrick’s Day is all about. Doing incredibly stupid things while under the influence of alcohol and wearing neon-green clothing.
Herewith, a guide to spending the day in the Big Apple. This is what I’ll
probably be doing this year.
Meet best friend Sully at Greek diner for traditional Irish-American
breakfast of wet toast, runny eggs, cold home fries, bitter black coffee,
three cigarettes, and the sports page. Curse the Knicks. Marvel at pat Riley’s hair.
Corner of Ninth and 39th. Ring Fitzy’s buzzer 23 times. On the
twenty-fourth try, he buzzes us up. Find him naked on the living-room floor surrounded by empty Bud Tall Boys and an open can of paint. His entire body, including his hair, is green.
Arrive at the corner of 51st and Fifth and take our places for the parade.
Sully steals three cans of Molson out of some Italian guy’s cooler. Fitzy
tosses a half-eaten green hot dog into the middle of the Staten Island
Marching Men’s Choir.
Fitzy gives Mayor Giuliani the finger. Mayor waves back. “Fuckin’ typical,”
Sully says. Fitzy steals three more beers from the Italian guy.
The Francis Mulcahy School of Irish Step Dancing pauses right in front of us and runs through a rigmarole of jigs and reels. Fitzy bops out into the street and joins them by doing a variation on the twist. Two cops promptly escort him back to the curb. Ends up one of them (Blaney) is Sully’s second cousin. All charges dropped. I steal a few more beers out of the cooler. We toast the NYPD.
The Italian guy accuses us of raiding his stash. Waves his fists in the
air. Sully punches him on the neck. Fitzy pulls out a lighter and starts to
melt the cooler. Two more cops show up. So happens, one of them (O’Keefe) is Fitzy’s dad’s old neighbor from Brooklyn. Tells the Italian guy to “Move it along, pal, this ain’t Columbus Day.” Brawl breaks out between Irish and Italian bystanders. We throw several punches, grab the cooler, and split.
Drop into St. Patrick’s Cathedral for a quick gander at the Lord. Crack
open a couple of beers. Sully and I debate the merits of a short confession. Sully’s argument — “In a half hour, at the bar at Paddy Reilly’s it’s gonna be standin’-room only” — wins out over mine, which involves Eternal Damnation. We opt for a fast Our Father, five bucks in the poor box, and a brief round of candle-lighting. Fitzy, meanwhile, steals a sip of Holy Water.
In the cab downtown, our driver, one Adjid Sakeel, expresses his opinion
that the Irish Lesbian and Gay Organization should be allowed to march in
the parade. Fitzy — his large green mug plugged right into the pay slot — begs to differ: “They awready got their own parade downtown inna Village. We don’t go down there, so why should they come uptown ta ours?” Adjid says, “Because this is America.” “No it ain’t,” counters Fitzy. “This is New York City. It’s a whole different ball game.” The argument ends with Fitzy barking like a dog and Adjid veering all over Second Avenue. We get out at 29th Street. I give Adjid a $3 tip and the cooler.
Stop in at Paddy Reilly’s for a few pops. Several rounds of green beer and
whiskey. Rogues March — a local band made up of guys who used to know
members of the Pogues — bash through a loud, boisterous show. The lead
singer — Joe Hurley — stretches his voice to the point of aneurysm. We toast the IRA. We toast the cease-fire. We toast the pope. Fitzy pukes.
Stop in at Molly Malone’s Pub for a few more pops. Eat several slices of
green pizza made by Sweeney the Bartender’s wife. She’s Italian. We drink
green champagne and vodka. Sweeney calls JFK the greatest man who ever lived. Fitzy calls Mario Cuomo a fag. Mrs. Sweeney kicks Fitzy. Sully
About a Quarter Past Eight
Over at the Emerald Inn, we drink green Guinness and recite dialogue from The Quiet Man verbatim. The Stogues — a local band made up of guys who
used to know the mother of one of the guys in the Pogues — play “Danny
Boy,” and Fitzy starts to cry, green tears streaming down his puffy green
cheeks. As Sully and I pat Fitzy on the back, the lead singer passes out.
Sometime After Ten
Head over to A Blarney Stone, where we order a drink called the Shane
MacGowan — three ounces of vodka, four ounces of gin, six ounces of Irish
whiskey, a teaspoon of something that smells like turpentine, and half a beer. You gotta down it in two slugs. Makes you spout poetic musings with a tongue so thick only Shane could understand. The Problem is — he ain’t here. Fitzy stuffs an entire green bagel in his mouth, swallows it almost whole, downs his MacGowan, and says, “Now this is the life!”
That Same Night
Stop in at Sin-é. Place holds only 75 people, 72 of whom look like they just stepped off the boat. People without green cards drinking green beer. We’re in time to see another local band (really local, since they live in the
cellar) take the stage. Call themselves the Fogues. Made up of guys who used to be friends with guys who once bought a round for the guys who used to roadie for the Stogues. During “Thousands Are Sailing,” the guitar player leaps up into the air and stays there. For what seems like a long time. His head is stuck in the ceiling; he gets a standing ovation. The lead singer asks if there’s a carpenter in the house. There is. Thirty-three of them, to be exact.
The fact that we’re in the Dublin House is news to all three of us. But it’s
printed right there on the matches. And the wall. And the back of the
bouncer’s T-shirt. As my old man used to say: “Wherever the hell you go,
there you fuckin’ are.”
The thing about painting yourself green is this: It’s a great symbolic way to show your support of the Old Country and your family tree, but it’s a terrible way to go out drinking. Mostly because your friends can’t tell when you’re about to puke. The point is, we didn’t see it coming when Fitzy leaned over an Englishman named Trevor — who was explaining his support of the peace process in Ireland — and let blow. The hot dog, the pizza, the bagel — they made a comeback even Travolta woulda been proud of. And set off a brawl the likes of which we may never see again. Seventeen Englishmen, 27 Micks, and a side order of Hispanic, African-American, and Polish guys. When the
cops show up (Carelli, Tiveiros, Jackson, etc.) none of them is related to
Fitzy or Sully, so they just pack the whole melting pot in the back of a
couple of paddy wagons (just for the sake of historical irony, I guess) and
drop us off downtown. I share a cell with Fitzy and a Puerto Rican plumber named Bob. He says the cell gives him “déja-vu” because he had the same
one after the Puerto Rican Day Parade last year.
The Next Morning
I wake up to the sound of Mickey Mantle repeatedly pounding a Louisville
Slugger across the side of my face. I make a count of my few remaining
brain cells — eight and holding. Bob’s droning on about pipe wrenches and
putty knives when they come to take us to court. Ends up the judge
(McSwiggin) is not only a fifth cousin of Fitzy’s mom but also happened to be in Dublin House last night when the hot dog hit the fan. He thinks the
Englishman, the Queen, and the United Kingdom had it coming. All charges dropped. (That should be the motto above the entrance to the Irish Embassy.) We tell the judge about Sully, and fifteen minutes later, me, Sully, Fitzy, and Bob are sitting in P.J. Clarke’s chugging Bloody Marys and discussing the merits of indoor plumbing — copper pipe vs. plastic. Fitzy says he likes plastic: “It’s more modern. And it don’t look shiny.” Sully and I make our minds. Bob turning a light shade of burnt sienna — pukes.
February 4, 2014
[This survey swiped liberally and without apology because I am just like that from Rachel.]
1. Do you like anyone? Oh yes, madly. Say what’s the polite time limit on tossing possessions an ex left at your place?
2. Do they know it? Oh hell no, no one needs that kind of power.
IN THE LAST MONTH HAVE YOU:
1. Had someone buy you something? Rumor has it birthday prezzies are in the mail. Yay!
2. Bought something? Food and rent, Baby, food and rent.
3. Gotten sick? I do not refer to it as “sick,” I refer to it as “dancing like the lights aren’t on.”
4. Been hugged? Oh you madman. It is germ season.
5. Felt stupid? Before or after espresso doubleshots?
6. Talked to an ex? Why “talk” when you can exchange passive aggressive texts?
7. Missed someone? That Fed Ex guy is so wiley.
8. Danced crazy? What about “dancing like the lights aren’t on” was not clear?
9. Gotten your hair cut? No but my color is fabulous.
10. Lied? I am sure so but it comes so naturally — oh wait, you mean to other people?
HAVE YOU EVER. . .
1. Said “I Love you” and meant it? Of course. I was not hatched from an egg.
2. Given money to a homeless person? I have given money to people on the street — I did not ask about their accommodations.
3. Waited all night for a phone call that never came? Does getting black out drunk count as “waiting”?
4. Sat and looked at the stars? Sure but those little bastards look back that is suspicious behavior if you ask me.
5. Do you swear? Exactly what the fuck do you mean by that?
6. You’re happy with your hair? In my universe, the correct question is, Is my hair happy with me?
7. Do you like to swim? This survey was written by a Golden Retriever right?
8. Call a friend when you’re bored? I blog to avoid boredom.
9. Flowers or angels? “I’ll have what the quiz writer is having.”
10. Gray or black? Gray. [That is my sassy attempt to convince the universe I am striving for harmonious balance. Did it work?]
11. Color or black and white photos? “Black and white” is gray, Cupcake.
12. Lust or love? Let’s go with lust. Big lust. Huge lust. Really amazing shocking rock hard abs slam you up against the wall sweat till you break… um, maybe we should skip this one.
13. Sunrise or sunset? Midnight, Baby, Midnight.
BONUS VALENTINE’S QUESTIONS:
1. You have a valentines planned out to have? No but I am counting on champagne and batteries coming through.
2. Do you like having a valentine? I am sorry that journal is in storage.
3. Does someone like you currently? Oh I have an ever-changing cast of stalkers….
4. Are you even worried about the upcoming holiday? Worry is for deadlines. Holidays, I celebrate.
5. What’s the best gift to receive on the day? I’m going with wall sex. Wait. It’s not my fault. You asked about love or lust! It’s subliminal suggestion. Entrapment! I was framed!
[Say, is there a special prize for the bonus questions? I missed that part. Also, my answers and Rachel's answers are so damn similar at times I am still checking for scars where an attached twin may have been surgically removed at birth.]
January 22, 2014
Where? Austin Texas
When? February 12
What Time? 12:01 AM until closing [we use the term "closing" loosely]
How should you celebrate MaxMas? Oh let us count the ways… wait, we do not want to overwhelm you, let’s do a top five:
TOP FIVE WAYS TO CELEBRATE MAXMAS:
1. Buy Max incredibly expensive shoes. This is always a favorite, and also Dolce is a serious fave, but you might require a shoe size to pull it off and only very special people know Max’s shoe size. Moving on —
2. Give Max a spiff Victoria’s Secret gift card. Of course, you probably won’t want to do that unless you are counting on actually seeing what Max uses that gift card for. Feeling lucky? Maybe not. Moving on —
3. Shower Max with Grand Marnier! Okay we are using the word “shower” metaphorically, do not under any circumstances actually douse Max with Grand Marnier. She is vengeful and also violent when it comes to cleaning bills.
4. Drop some cash on the save the wolves fund in Max’s name. Or anyone’s name. We’re good with Godzilla. Just do it. You will feel good. Max will feel good. Wolves will feel good. Even Godzilla will feel good. Yay!
5. Attend the MaxMas super super secret MaxMas underground party. [There is only one way to do this. Get the secret secret super secret party details. Be creative.]
That’s it sports fans.
Love and Kisses,
Your MaxMas Adams Girl
December 31, 2013
December 31, 2013
December 26, 2013
Know what that is? Ohyez, that is Minot North Dakota going Banksy.
I did not think we were going to get North Dakota but that baby came in at the last minute, just was we were wrapping up the Stripes count for Christmas. And you know what that means, right?
[No? You so need to get out more.*]
We got every state by Christmas. Yay yay yay!
*Don’t know what Going Banksy is? Wow where have you been hiding?
December 24, 2013
Of my life, flowers were always something someone else brought or gave to you. Mostly associated with men. And death.
Men came calling, men sent flowers.
[Not for me, pervo, I was a little kid, jeez, for adult female relatives and family friends!]
Loved ones died? People sent flowers. Which, if you ask me, is a kind of weird association.
Flowers = Death and Men?
That cannot be healthy.
Then I worked at this interior design firm.
One day one of the other girls at the interior design firm said, “Let’s go get some flowers!” She said it like that, too, with an exclamation point. We were all at lunch. But everyone rallied right then. And we all hopped into our rides and headed over to a flower place I had no idea existed and just went fucking crazy buying flowers.
We’re not talking roses. Actually the woman at the flower place was a little freaked out about the roses. If you pull flowers out of any other tub — and we are talking tubs of flowers all containing a lot of water — and get any water on the roses, even just a drop, the roses are toast.
But we were not after roses. We were after every other flower in the flower spectrum. And that day, I took peonies back to the office.
[Side Note: Dear Men: If you ever buy me peonies as a romantic flower gift? One, you have missed the point. Two, you will never see me naked in this life or the next.]
Buying those flowers was awesome. And after? The whole office was full of flowers. And we were all insanely happy. It was like those flowers lifted five levels of unhappy off everyone who saw or touched them.
After that, I bought flowers a lot.
Then things changed.
A couple rough interstate moves. Some of those days that say, “Maybe you should buy the pancake mix instead of the flowers. Some of those days when you start saying to yourself, “You don’t really need flowers.” And then get so used to saying “you don’t really need flowers” you just stop buying flowers at all.
Today I was in line at Whole Foods behind a man and his two little girls.
The little girls were probably about nine and seven.
The little girls were dressed for shit too. Those were not fancy clothes those girls were wearing. They were worn. Cheap cotton and frayed sleeves. And they had haircuts that yelled “Mom cut my bangs and she didn’t have a level.”
And their dad’s clothes? Not so much better.
But those two little girls had sparkley shoes. One of them had red sparkley shoes. And one of them had gold sparkley shoes.
And they were carrying tulips.
The girls’ dad talked to them like they were grown ups. He did not talk down to them. They were discussing things like dinner [mac and shells, they must have been East Coast, no one west of the Mason Dixon line says "shells."] And the flowers.
One of the girls, the oldest, named Charlotte, went off to get some plastic wrap for the flowers so the flowers did not drip after being pulled out of a bucket of water while she and her sister and father were all waiting in line.
I bought flowers today. White tulips.
They are my Christmas tulips.
Thank you for reminding me, Dad and the little girls with sparkley shoes, flowers matter.