In the previous post, I discussed a party I went to over the previous weekend.  Believe it or not there was more to that party.  The music may have slowed a bit, but it didn’t stop ‘til dawn.

I find myself behind the bar serving shots of Vodka, Whiskey, Scotch, and Bourbon.  There were three or four men wobbling around, smoking cigarettes, and laughing.  The atmosphere was one of a man cave.  Smoke is so thick I can barely see to pour.  And, the rolling stones are blaring through a myriad of speakers inside and outside on the deck.  All of this is going on at about 3AM.

One of the blokes holds up his glass, and says, “Here, Here”.

“What are we celebrating?”  Asks another whilst trying not to fall backwards.

“Your health”, says I.

Everyone busts into laughter, spilling expensive booze in the process.

“To America and Ireland, may they both shine brightly again(A mate that has researched his ancestors since I told him of my adventure researching mine.).”

“I’ll drink to that”, says I, whilst pouring myself a shot of Jameson.

One of the guys drunkenly spills his booze.

“Don’t worry about it.  Not even the president can do it right”, says I whilst laughing.

“So JD, is it true that European women don’t shave?”  One of them ask a bit arrogantly.  You tell one person something in confidence and then everyone knows.

“Ah come on fellas.  Go over and find out for yourselves.”  Says I, trying to change the subject.

“Was she bare, bikini waxed, or natural?”  One of them asks like a giddy school boy.

I looked around the room.  There were no women in sight, so I said something inappropriate and all of the guys laughed.  About that time I heard a shuffle behind me.  It was a good friends wife whom I immensely respect.  She didn’t say anything standing there with a handful of rubbish.   She just gave me the look of disappointment that is worse than a stabbing.

“What would you expect me to say, you know what she did?”  I pleadingly yell, trying to excuse my own ignorance.

“I’d expect you to tell them to mind their own damn business”, says she whilst going up the stairs.  She has been a good friends throughout the years.  Disappointing her is like disappointing my mother or an aunt.

“I’m proud of ya, JD”, says one of them whilst heading up the stairs to pass out.

That’s when I went and sat by the waters edge and listened to the serene rhythmic terpsichore of the water lapsing against shoreline.

Point of post:  When it comes to your women, present or past, gents, keep your mouths shut.  I know better but half drunkenly rambled on anyway.  Me running my mouth was what started our demise in the first place. 

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Wednesday afternoon I was in city centre doing a quick walkabout to stretch my legs.  As I sauntered past the white collar littered promenade at lunchtime, a crowd of suits sped past me.  One of them pushed me and my camera gear up against a brick building facade.

Normally, I would have brushed him off as an eejit and went on my way.  But, I had something eating at my gut, so this little incident sent me slightly over the edge.  I have nothing against people in suits.  I have a lot of suits.  I enjoy looking professional, but being that I’m a country boy, I am much more comfortable in denims and a t-shirt.

“What is your problem?” 

He turned around, looked at me, whispered something to a cohort, laughed, and continued on his way.

Just the mere mannerisms and holier than though attitude infuriated me further, so I bit my bottom lip and lectured, “Between me and my family, we pay over a ****** ******* dollars to this state alone every year, so as long as I’m following the laws and mores  of our wee society, I’ll walk where, when, and how I want…I’d be more careful of who I knock over, if I were you”.

“Oh Yeah?”  He enquired whilst cockily crossing his arms and snickering with his twenty something pals.

“Yeah”, I boldly stated.

“Who’s your father then, tough guy?”

““*** Davis.”

“The *** Davis?”

“The one and only”, I answered whilst sighing.

“You’re kidding me, right?”  He jokingly asked whilst destroying a piece of gum.

“No.”

“*** Davis has no son…he has three girls.  I know him.  My firm, *********, does work for him”, he laughingly hollered as a crowd gathered.

“He has six children, whether you know it or not”, I muttered while turning to walk away.

“If I were you, I’d be more careful about lying to make yourself feel big", the chump yelled whilst pushing his comrades forward.

The English lady from the coffee house that I was standing in front of patted me on the back and told me not to mind him.  I had a café noir fuelled walk and went home.

Later that night, I was sitting here at my desk fuming about what the bloke said.  As hard as it was to swallow, it was almost the truth.  I had not talked to him in months.  We had a wee bit of a falling out over a wee money issue.  I had called his phone on numerous occasions and left messages trying to rectify the situation, but to no avail.

I went to the kitchen cupboards to fetch some Earl Grey and there peering out of the dark recess was a brand new bottle of a precious beverage from Ireland.  I grabbed one of my grandfathers favourite glasses and the green bottle.  Humour flowed from a TV show I rarely miss loosely based on the FDNY as well as the bottle. 

A crack of thunder rattled the windows, as I searched the darkness for the incoming light show.  The rain had lightly been pelting against the office window all night.  While trying to grab a ciggy and a light, I stumbled a bit not realising how much I had consumed.

I stood at the back door and gazed out into the blackness of the garden.  While smoking that one ciggy, a thought popped into my bevvied head.  So, I grabbed my keys and phone and headed out the door. 

I ran from one wet street to another until I approached the main thoroughfare.  Soaked from head to toe, I stopped and gawped at the quarter moon peering through a gap in the heavy mist.  I gazed at the moon, while standing on that sidewalk, enquiring as to why things are the way they are.  Then, a suburban whizzed by covering me in road muck.

So, I decided to run to the 24hr bistro, encountering heavy raindrop laden puddles, like broken mirrors illuminated by lightning strikes along my path.  When I got to the bistro, one of the waitresses that I know offered me a towel to dry off and brought me a cup of coffee.  She asked if I was alright, and of course, I said I was fine.  She knew better because I never show up in the middle of the night.  She told me to call Red, an off and on again petite amie.

12:30AM  Ring…ring…ring…ring

“Hello”, she whispered.

“Hey”, I hollered in a half inebriated manner.

“What time is it?”  She pleaded as the ruffling of covers and feathers could be heard over the phone.

“It’s 12:30.  I’m at the bistro.  I need you to pick me up so we can talk.”

“Are you kiddin’ me?”  She enquired with a bit of disdain in her tone.

“No.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Only slightly”, I uttered whilst trying not to laugh.

Click

I reasoned that she was mad at me for waking her up, so I finished my coffee.  The kind waitress offered to call me a cab, but I benignantly refused.  I took my time walking home.  The thunderous storm had passed and a murkiness thick enough to cut through with one’s body had settled in its place. 

It was around 1:30 in the morning, when I turned onto my street.  I sneakingly walked past the other houses, hoping not to wake my ever alert grandmother that lives two houses down. 

By the time I approached my front yard, the audaciousness and silliness had wavered.  I discovered a glint of something on my front stoop.  Scared, I drew closer.  A figure came into view through the vapours.  I got closer and realised it was…

It was her.  She walked up to me shivering, her countenance filled with rage and worry.

Slap

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again”, she whispered in my ear.

I had never been prouder than at that moment.  It was not my intention to worry her or anyone else, but it was nice to know that she cares.

For Her:

Freckles is a savage word.

How about dapples of lust,

Honey sisters,

Blunders of the Sun,

Love in lace,

Damsel’s shivers,

Silent baubles,

Caramel kisses,

Blotch of arcs,

Or a serene flock?

To Pops:  Happy Fathers Day, dude!  You’ll always be my pops, and I hope to make you proud one day.  A little bit of time is all I’m asking for.

P.S.:  Drinking and smoking are not things that I condone or would suggest that anyone start.  I don’t have an addictive personality, so I can get away with the occasional drink or gasper.

P.P.S.:  Most of us have father issues in one form or another.  Our fathers are our fathers no matter what.  Tis best to love them, because we never know when we or them may not wake up one morning. 

Honour thy Father and thy Mother.

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Ladies and Gentleman, the latest episode of Kilos of Craic is ready for the taking.  In this weeks show, Jefferson Davis, Brian F., Brian Damage, Baino, and Dr. Don hash out everything from Whiskey Suicides to Communist.

Topics discussed on this weeks show:

JD’s Finest

Jameson’s Whiskey

Southern Comfort

Tibet

Crikey English

Bollywood Movies

Stupid Americans

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