after gliding through the fall and the better part of december with weather that felt more like indian summer than a precursor to a northeastern chill out, i look out my bedroom window to see an endless array of sugar-coated wonderment. i'm in flannel pajamas and pigtails, appropriately enough. and i am excited. not excited enough to go outside to get something to eat. or drink. or for anything else, now that i think about it. but i'm excited, nonetheless.
i didn't wake up until after 12 noon because i did a gig last night at conolly's with ron sunshine's band. it was fun--the kind of place that makes me think i've been there before, usually right when i'm telling someone that i haven't. deep in the heart of midtown's theater district. there was a bar/restaurant downstairs and a bar upstairs with a nice wide hardwood floor--perfect for dressing up casually and swing dancing yourself into a nice hard sweat.
i completely forgot how good-looking irish guys can be. all of them were tall, fresh-faced twenty-somethings, in uniformed white shirts. i went downstairs to get tea for me and craig and when i asked how much it was, the irish guy in question said, "i don't know. i haven't decided whether to charge you for it or not." and then he smiled and walked off. while i was waiting for the tea, a blonde woman glimpsed me out of the corner of her eye, spun around on her barstool and gushed, "are you the singer?" she was having --surprise, surprise--the shepard's pie. i said something like, lemmie know if it's any good and she promptly demands a small plate and proceeds to dish it out to me, waving me off, saying "i couldn't eat all this!" how sweet was that? it was so hot, we couldn't even taste it. "that's a good sign," i said in mock seriousness, and then we both laughed. i saw her later on upstairs during the next set. she waved at me as she danced near the front of the stage.
hanging out in conolly's was trippy. it's like there's a portal somewhere in every irish bar in nyc that opens up somewhere in the middle of dublin. they step through its doorway and emerge in gotham, ready to tend bar. every one there was from the emerald isle itself--except, of course, the mexicans in the kitchen who were hard at work making dishes like shepard's pie. (ole!) and of course the clientele is irish and irish american, and so are the bands who play there. black 47 has a steady gig at conolly's. their posters were everywhere in the dance hall upstairs. well. at least now i have another place to go when i want some irish stew.
hey. what happened to the me that would scream and cry and foam at the mouth like an insane person if my mother didn't let me play in the snow all day? where is she?
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