March 18, 2010

Yesterday's Imbibition

The day spun spark as a lichtenstein, with glad sun high and dry and I found myself late to the gate with Hambone already in the driveway just past 4:30. He followed me into the house as we warily observed the reception of Buddy the Wonder Dog, aka Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hide, but fortunately it was Jeckyll's day. Or maybe it's just that Buddy is much more tolerant of human males than females, perhaps echoing the bigoted sentiments of 'enry 'iggins in My Fair Lady who sang, "Why can't a woman be more like a man?"

The luck of the Irish reigned when we arrived at the pub and found two open seats along the bar, close enough to the band but not too close. We ordered a couple Guinnesses, aka Guinni, and found ourselves not long afterward gifted with green beads with a small harp at the apex. A Guinness representative 'twas the gifter, who then proceeded to up the ante by buying our second Guinni which was very much appreciated. Green beer being the flavor of the day, it seemed we were the only Guinness drinkers and were thus rewarded for our loyalty.

Hambone waxed mystically about how Manhattan had gotten into his blood, how much he appreciates the 45 minute or so walk to and from his place of business there, how just walking around and soaking up the incredible architecture and people is high entertainment. He travels there often and notes the "regulars" on the plane, the same faces doing the Columbus-New York commute. He tells of "only in New York" moments like how a foot of snow buries the city and yet a woman wearing next to nothing enters a cab. No concession to the elements there.

'Bone has finished David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest, a feat akin to scaling Mount Everest in slippers. I jest, for the book is dense and does have a momentum, just not enough to get me past page 400 or so. He's still working on Joyce's Ulysses and Proust is on the radar. He mentioned how Philip K. Dick talked about C.S. Lewis more than once in one of his books.

As the night aged it grew more youthful in terms of clientele, and girls wore green-sheening tops and skirts short as doilies. The house band, the Hooligans, were a disappointment both in song selection (no "dead set"!) and in sound (only one speaker). On the bright side our vocal cords were spared by not yelling "Lunch!" when Mrs. Finnegan calls for it in Finnegan's Wake...


Suburbanbanshee said...

That is the greatest picture. Wolfhound morph. :)

Your tale of total green beer dominance saddens me. I am glad that your fidelity to Guinness was rewarded.

TS said...

Yeah it's almost like one of those Irish shapeshifter myths! :-)