I’m Shipping Up to Boston – Dropkick Murphys
Blogaruu, she’s been a while! My bad for the delay. Quite busy with vital stuff. Such as realising that I might be a fairy (apparently fairies can only handle or feel one emotion at a time. I am a full on fairy. Call me Tinker). And speaking of menstrual cycles… So back in the day, whenever a girl complained to me about cramps, I would complain back about people who complain a lot. Until I realised I actually can empathise. I too get man periods. Once a month. Every month. Rent cramps kick in. So now, I feel their pain. Similarly, whenever a girl complained about the thought of giving birth, I would shrug my shoulders and mention never having to deal with the pain of getting a kick in the fuss-balls. Until for some reason I thought about it like this: Imagine a little person exiting through the back door of your gift shop. If you know what I mean. I don’t think guys can fathom anything leaving through the front door, what with us not having one and all. But the back door seems to make it imaginable. Imagine that pain. Ripping. Tearing. Uncooperative. Sweet. Holy. Jesus. Must be ridiculous. Even thinking of it now is making my sphincter scream and squirm. So now I kind of understand the terror girls must have. Even worse, imagine if after all that, the child was to turn out like someone like the person writing this? For all that pain?! Dose. Apologies, Mum.
You Can Show Me Around...
Moving on a stage, I now think I know what it’s like to have children. Kind of. For the past week, my hosting hat has been on. Buddies visiting from Ireland. Every week I get delightful offers from people asking me to be their tour-guide in LA. Some even kindly offer me the chance. Very kind. Lucky me. All sorts of invites. Friends of friends. Friends of friends’ friends. Friends who I haven’t seen in 10 years. Friends of people who I’ve met once in a nightclub. Friends of people who I’ve never met before. Now and again, complete randomers or utter nutters. Unfortunately, a lot of the time it turns out I’m actually not even in LA when they’re going to be here. Dose. Usually I’ll be in San Fran that weekend. Pardon, you’re here for a week? Oh yeah, I meant to say I’ll be there for a week. I know. Shame. Yeah, definitely next time. Dodge. What’s your name again… And so on.
Reason for the dodge, duck, dip, dive and dodge, is not to be a prick. Nay. Just don’t have the time. Being a tour-guide sounds like fun and all, but actually it’s not really at all at all when you think about it. So I dodge on. Obviously it’s different when good buddies are in town. Less dodging. Three different buddies are in town for the next month. One after another. First arrived with a few buddies. A tall Englishman, a small Indian man, a very bald German man and an Irishman all walked into a bar. Danced on for three days. Headed home. Next day, my buddy Bob arrived. Here for 2 weeks. Now the juggle is fully on. Balance is needed between host and all the stuff I need to be doing. So far, I have oaf balance at best. Made me realise that being a host must be what it’s like to have kids. Full on juggling, all the time. Tough work. Can’t really take chunks of time off either. No-one to look after my narcissistic business of me. Dodging road-trip suggestions. Might miss something. Might not miss anything. Just never know here. Had a meeting this week that might lead to doing some TV stuff. All ifs and buts, but still a potential maybe. Meeting was only set-up two hours beforehand. If I got that call while driving through the desert on the way to Vegas… Dose.
Happy St. Patricia's Day!
Hopefully Paddy’s Day tomorrow will be mighty! Once again, expectations are high. And I’m not too sure why. Plan is exploit my main talent here. I’m Irish. Lined up to do a book reading, some stand-up and finish off with some DJigging. Me shall see. Might be a juggle too far. Two years ago, people didn’t believe me that I was Irish. Except gay guys. Girls thought I was putting on my accent. Pretending to be Irish. What a loser you are, we know you’re not Irish. What?! Nooo! Don’t take my talent away from me!!! Last year, similar story. This time because I wasn’t wearing a green t-shirt. Seriously. Seeing as if I really was Irish, I’d be wearing the greenest t-shirt in the entire club, right? Good point. People were highly unimpressed by the fact I wasn’t doused in green. As if they met a sober leprechaun in recovery, wearing casual jeans and a t-shirt. Where’s your little outfit, Timmy O’Toole?! Huge let down. Two years in a row. Apologies, America. This year, well prepared. Tshirt. Boxers. Socks. Green. Shamrocked. Smelling like whiskey. Head to toe proof that I’m Irish to the core!
Build-up and anticipation has been growing. My apartment building has been decorated with green shamrocks and leprechaun banners for two weeks. Emails. Phonecalls. People stopping me in the street. All asking if I’m excited. Yes? Big day for you, you must be thrilled. Yes? Congratulations, the one day of the year when ye Irish are in demand and seemingly cool, you must be so pumped? Yes? Wonder if something big is going to happen tomorrow. Why are all this people so pumped for me? Do they know something I don’t? Maybe tomorrow will be a life-changing day. Possibly the day that I make it.
Maybe someone is going to come along and say ‘You know what, seeing as you’re Irish and it’s St. Patty’s Day, whatever it is that you want, you can have it’. I won’t mention the fact that Paddy is short for Patrick whereas Patty is short for Patricia. They’re basically wishing me a happy St. Patricia’s Day but I’ll say nothing (just wish them a happy Mary Luther King Day next year!). Instead I will sign some sort of mega deal bumper contract they then put in front of me. Sweet Jesus! It must be! Why else so much hype? Better get some sleep. Goosed. Tiring life, being a single parent. And a full time ape. I will leave you with an old Irish m’narc saying… Happy St. Pa-Trick’s Hayes Day! Wuu! Apologies, St. Patty. Paddy on!!!
Irish Celebration – Macklemore and Ryan Lewis