Me, St. Paddy, Black Bart, & The Magical Karate-Chopping White Rapper

Author’s Note:

Some mild misfortune…I rediscovered this a little while ago. Unfortunately, St. Patrick’s Day was a few weeks ago, but I enjoyed reading it again, so I don’t care. I’m reposting it now. And yes, I’ll probably repost it again on 3/17/2014.

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Some backstory before you continue reading:

Like many people, I’ve had some exceptionally-weird shit happen to me during St. Paddy’s past. I’ve gotten in fights, like every good Irish kid should at least once in their lifetime. I’ve also awoken at 5 or 6:00am the next day, not knowing how I arrived at that current location. Shirt, socks, shoes. But no pants. Or underwear. Or memory of arrival. Which explains why I don’t get “blackout drunk” anymore.

The occasion of 17 March 2010 was a peculiar one. For starters, I wasn’t excessively drunk. I was in no position to go “power-drinking,” since St. Paddy’s fell on the day before payday. Kudos to Brandon Knoll for being awesome enough to loan me twenty dollars, unsolicited. I didn’t have much ammo, but I was hell-bent on making the most of it. Imagine, one guy committing to battle against the 82nd Airborne, armed with just a pistol and strong words.

Anyway, weird shit ensued. Afterward, I chose to document the occasion on Facebook. I enjoyed posting it. Everyone else seemed to enjoy reading it. Why let good words go to waste, when they can be read and enjoyed again. Fuck it. It worked for Will Shakespeare.

Anyway, that’s my fucktardian excuse for reposting half-drunken dribble from three years ago. I hope you enjoy it.

-Mike Gagliano

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Originally posted 17 March 2010, about 11:45pm

1. Got out of work over an hour later than expected. Shocking, I know.

2. Driving home. Saw a black guy in full cowboy regalia on horseback (yes, a real live horse!), on Wyoming Avenue just south of 9-Mile. Not an area known for its ranchin’ & wranglin’. Couldn’t help but wonder: Is this the new “Hey kids, I’ve got CANDYYYYY!”?

3. Arrived at Palazzo d’Gags, scarfed down some of Grandma G’s ass-kickingest-best meatballs ever. Opened today’s beer #2. Beer #1 was 8:30am. Don’t go judgin’.

4. Showered. Got about as purdy as I was gonna get on 3/17. I smelled FANTASTIC. A detail lost on 99% of the people I ran into this evening, since they could barely remember their own names. Fucking amateurs.

5. No word from Gerry on when he’ll be joining me. I suspect that the possibility has arisen that he may, in fact, have been nabbed by two goumbas from Teaneck, New Jersey. I opt to wait.

6. Thirty minutes go by. I say “Fuck Gerry,” and start walking.

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7. I’m approaching Livernois & 9-Mile. Some white kid with headphones jumps in front of me, waving his hands like magical rappin’ karate-chops or something while breaking off rhymes. After overcoming the shock of this kid jumping in my path, I begin to think that his rapping is actually quite brilliant. Until it annoys me. Then I dismiss the kid as a fucktard who’s never kissed a girl. I proceed.

8. I strategically plan to spread my $20 around as much as possible between establishments that I frequent. Rosie’s has a mob outside the door. Pass.

9. First stop: Danny’s Irish Pub on Woodward Avenue. Home of the $4.50 pint of Boddington’s draught. Also the home of many past $80-$100 bar tabs. Boddy’s is notorious for having a considerably higher alcohol content than they claim, a fact on clear display by several of Danny’s patrons this evening. Nothing makes drop-dead gorgeous women look less attractive than drinking beyond their capability to manage their drunkenness. Lightweights.

10. Next stop: The Post Bar. Cheap drinks, friendly bartenders. Unfortunately, they are also uncharacteristically elbow-to-asshole packed tonight. Pass.

11. Howe’s Bayou. An absolute gem on Woodward Avenue. Creole/Acadian (“Cajun,” if you ever wondered the origin of the word) with a very homey feel. Great staff, great drinks, and the food is smack-yo-mama good. Even my kids love this place. “Your usual, Mike?” Yes, please. Pint. Slainte! Slam. Have a good night.

12. Walking south on Woodward, and I notice that a large number of street-side parking spaces are not taken. On St. Patrick’s Day. At 9:00pm. Sorry, but that’s just fucking weird. (Also, there were no street-side spaces on 9-Mile available. Is Nine now hipper than Woodward?)

13. Dino’s Lounge. My second home. And YOU thought my second home was my office? For shame. While the beer selection has scaled down considerably, it’s still great drinkin’ & fantastic eatin’ here. Best waitstaff in Fernywood. Oh, and there is ALWAYS eye-candy present. Pint of Detroit Brewing Company “Dwarf” Dark Lager. Place is very crowded, but not overbearingly so. Karaoke. Guy sings a very respectable version of “Don’t Stop Believing.” One of the regulars recognizes me, offering me some of his hummous and pita wedges. I feel guilty, because I can never remember the guy’s name, and I realize that I’m a jaded prick.

14. Walking home after my “economy-drinking” excursion. Phone’s blowing up. I’m making plans with everybody & their mother. I think this will be a good spring & summer.

15. Another pub-crawling limo full of amateurs. Again, hot chick who can’t handle her liquor. “JASON! JASON! WE’RE GOING TO FUCKING HUNGRY HOWIE’S! GET THE FUCK IN THE FUCKING LIMO!”

Hungry Howie’s…in a limo?

“JASON! WHY ARE YOU WALKING AWAY FROM ME, GODDAMMIT?!? (Starts crying) YOU ACT LIKE YOU’RE FUCKING ASHAMED TO FUCKING BE AROUND ME!”

Kodak moment. I keep walking. Faster.

16. Home, Jeeves! At this point, Gerry has chewed through the straps & is minutes away. I throw on some water to boil mostaccioli, throw my leftover Sicilian gravy in the saucepan, Gerry arrives with some cold Sam Adams Noble Pils. Beer, food, XBox. An excellent St. Patrick’s Day evening for this son of Clan Rooney. I only wish I’d seen a fight, though. (If you’re not Irish, I don’t expect you to understand.) Otherwise, life is good.

Slainte!

-Mike

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