On the list of disasters in my life, waiting 6 hours for a taxi stuck inside an Irish bar, the Claddagh Cottage (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Claddagh), with a seeming inexhaustible supply of Guinness for patrons' unquenchable thirst ranks among the turned out OK variety: made it home safely, no stitches nor side trips to the emergency room only to fall asleep in my humble hovel with dreams of bar maidens bearing beers dancing through my brain.
The evening started innocently enough, getting a ride at 4 pm from a neighbor who declined to accompany me inside, "The last thing you want in a bar is a violent drunk." Point taken.
Oh the best laid plans, just have a shepherds' pie and 3 pints of Guinness stout, the elixir of goodness and God's grace.
Just enough to have a good time and get out and home by dark because taxis come easier the earlier you call.
That assumption failed to hold true this year as actually waited 6 hours for a cab.
Of course waited in style, a nice guy named Joe with a Packers cap gave me his seat at the veritable corner of the main bar, affording me a view of the doors and gateway to the bar warriors who kept the crowd lubricated--Scotty who talked funny compared to kissed the blarney stone dulcet tones of the Irish lasses working there: Heidi and the cute red headed girl who actually talked to me this year but forgot to ask her name this year as ever I do--just to hear her say, "You have noomber 5 tab." Let's just remember her as Deidre until next year.
The obvious tactical high ground of my bar stool per chance afforded a chance to talk to all the lasses looking for libations: Linda from union shop Cessna, Teri, and also Celeste from Scotland who apparently venerates St. Patrick but drinks Stella Artois.
Dang, what a time without my pocket notebook.
Nevertheless, as the hours waned until midnight, my common sense and survival mode mixed in enough to hourly ask for the pub to call for a taxi again as well as quaff my pints slower and slower.
Without the price of the pie but dead reckoning for the pints, I figure I had 7 in around 7 hours.
Kids, don't try this at home.
What a glorious night and with a not too rough morning, just a frothy foam of a slightly blurred vision and no headache--altogether not a bad outcome in a world with Tsunamis and wars and horrors beyond belief brought to me on my nightly news on my magic glowing box that normally diverts me from paying attention..
Altogether a more enjoyable evening than last year, downing a bottle of Jameson's ensconced in my hovel, cut off from humanity by my choice, Der Steppenwolf of the Happiest Place on Earth.
This year, the Steppenwolf strolled with humans and found them fun. Fancy that.
So consider St. Patrick added to my personal pantheon of saints: Occam, Jude, and H. L. Mencken.
Quibble if you will, but these work well for me.
See you next year at the Cottage.