the first day of spring

March 21, 2015

 

first day of spring

The First Day of Spring. Left, New York [photo by Nancy Bilyeau] || Right, Austin [photo by Max Adams]

 

 

Spring, 2015, Bostom

Whoah! Joe Reiter just posted Boston. Holy crap, Boston is about to be attacked by White Walkers.


 
 

 

Because this post is just that cool. Yay! [Also I always pray to God I am spelling that man’s name right, ahhh!]

 

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 McQuigan’s Pub.

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.

9:00 A.M.
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.

9:30 A.M.
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.

10:00 A.M.
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.

10:14 A.M.
Fitzy gives Mayor Giuliani the finger. Mayor waves back. “Fuckin’ typical,” Sully says. Fitzy steals three more beers from the Italian guy.

11:05 A.M.
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.

12:02 P.M.
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.

12:06 P.M.
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.

12:17 P.M.
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.

12:22 P.M.
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.

4:27 P.M.
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 pukes.

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.

Later
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.”

Later Still
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.

 

This is for Kym & Mara

 

Dialogue Writing

:::DIALOGUE WRITING:::

 

High Concept Writing

 

:::HIGH CONCEPT WRITING:::

 

 

 

Purchase this image at http://www.stocksy.com/98878

There is a girl in the building with a White French Bulldog puppy.

He’s a really cute puppy. His name is Quiggly.

Tonight it’s really late and I go out on the balcony for a smoke and I see a woman in the corner talking to a man.

I get a little worried about that.

Okay a lot worried about that.

Not because a man is talking to a woman. Because of the hour and the place and because she is in a corner.  So —

I put on more clothes and trudge out there just to make sure that girl is okay.

She is. It is the girl who owns Quiggly. And the man she is talking to is a friend.

And I get a Quiggly kiss. Which rocks.

When I walked out there, I was not thinking that would be the outcome. I was thinking I might be walking into physical harm’s way.

Nothing was wrong. Which is the best possible outcome.

Also I have no idea how to attach tags now in the new WordPress set up. Ahhh!

 

 

 

Screen shot 2015-03-13 at 3.43.16 AM

 

There is a small green lizard on the balcony.

For a while, the small green lizard was pretty good about just being still while I was out there.

 


Times have changed.

 


Now.

The lizard’s thing is making a run across my feet and staring at me hard from [whatever I guess is] a safe lizard position.

 


I have no idea what kind of bravery is required to be a 1 ounce lizard attempting to stare down and intimidate a 100+ pound human for balcony privileges.

 

 

shoes!

March 9, 2015

birthday shoes

 

Iceland's 1975 Strike for Equal Pay for Women

 

:::FIND OUT MORE AT FEMINISTING.COM:::

#InternationalWomensDay

*Hey, it could work, dammit. The official language of Iceland is
Icelandic, which is Germanic. I speak some German already. Also
there are a lot of English speakers there. Quit laughing.

 

 

 

Dinosaur Tea Party

Dinosaur Tea Party

 

This is brilliant, and as most brilliant things are, simple.  It’s from Rockstar Dinosaur Pirate Princess.  Who has thrown me into a dizzying spin of blog name envy right there but anyway —

 

Consent: Not Actually That Complicated

~ Rockstar Dinosaur Pirate Princess

It seems a lot of people really, REALLY don’t get what ‘consent’  means. From the famous “not everybody needs to be asked prior to each insertion” to the student that (allegedly) thought he’d surprise his partner with some non consensual BDSM to that fucking song to almost every damn comment on any article by anyone that suggests that yes means yes; it seems people really have a problem understanding that before you have sex with someone, and that’s every time you have sex with them, make sure they want to have sex with you. This goes for men, women, everyone. Whoever you are initiating sexytimes with, just make sure they are actually genuinely up for it. That’s it. It’s not hard. Really.

If you’re still struggling, just imagine instead of initiating sex, you’re making them a cup of tea.

You say “hey, would you like a cup of tea?” and they go “omg fuck yes, I would fucking LOVE a cup of tea! Thank you!*” then you know they want a cup of tea.

If you say “hey, would you like a cup of tea?” and they um and ahh and say, “I’m not really sure…” then you can make them a cup of tea or not, but be aware that they might not drink it, and if they don’t drink it then – this is the important bit –  don’t make them drink it. You can’t blame them for you going to the effort of making the tea on the off-chance they wanted it; you just have to deal with them not drinking it. Just because you made it doesn’t mean you are entitled to watch them drink it.

If they say “No thank you” then don’t make them tea. At all. Don’t make them tea, don’t make them drink tea, don’t get annoyed at them for not wanting tea. They just don’t want tea, ok?

They might say “Yes please, that’s kind of you” and then when the tea arrives they actually don’t want the tea at all. Sure, that’s kind of annoying as you’ve gone to the effort of making the tea, but they remain under no obligation to drink the tea. They did want tea, now they don’t. Sometimes people change their mind in the time it takes to boil that kettle, brew the tea and add the milk. And it’s ok for people to change their mind, and you are still not entitled to watch them drink it even though you went to the trouble of making it.

If they are unconscious, don’t make them tea. Unconscious people don’t want tea and can’t answer the question “do you want tea” because they are unconscious.

Ok, maybe they were conscious when you asked them if they wanted tea, and they said yes, but in the time it took you to boil that kettle, brew the tea and add the milk they are now unconscious. You should just put the tea down, make sure the unconscious person is safe, and  – this is the important bit – don’t make them drink the tea. They said yes then, sure, but unconscious people don’t want tea.

If someone said yes to tea, started drinking it, and then passed out before they’d finished it, don’t keep on pouring it down their throat. Take the tea away and make sure they are safe.  Because unconscious people don’t want tea. Trust me on this.

If someone said “yes” to tea around your  house last saturday, that doesn’t mean that they want you to make them tea all the time. They don’t want you to come around unexpectedly to their place and make them tea and force them to drink it going “BUT YOU WANTED TEA LAST WEEK”, or to wake up to find you pouring tea down their throat going “BUT YOU WANTED TEA LAST NIGHT”.


:::READ MORE:::

 


PS: That is my official International Women’s Day post.  But wait!, you say, you want more International Women’s Day goodness. Glutton for punishment, eh?  Okay, hit these babies:

•SERIOUSLY?
•BUT WOULD YOU WANT TO FUCK HER?
•4 GOOD REASONS FOR A MAN TO HIT A WOMAN
•HERE IS SOME PRETTY NAIL POLISH, GIRLS
•NOT YOUR MOM’S SOAP BUBBLES
•THANK YOU IO9 YOU MISOGYNISTIC FUCKTARDS
•10 RAPE PREVENTION TIPS

 

 

4 days left

March 7, 2015

Four days left to register for Character Writing & Dynamic Writing at The AFW.

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