(to the tune of “Finnegan’s Wake”)
Plastic Paddy lived on Linden Street,
A mutt with a tinge of Irish blood.
His North Shore accent wicked sweet
and in his life, smoked too much bud.
So he had a sort of a tipplin’ way
With a love for jäger bombs he was born.
And to help him get to class each day:
Sambuca in his Dunkies ev’ry morn.
Chug, Chug, Chug, bro, let’s do shots
’til you hit the floor and your stomach aches.
Dudebro, it’s a rager here
At Plastic Paddy’s wake and bake!
One night he shotgunned too much beer.
His head felt heavy, which made him shake.
He fell from the second floor balcony
And they gathered around to help him wake.
They moved him to the futon
where they slapped him twice upside the head.
Someone panicked, “Call the cops!”
when they felt for sure that he was dead.
His friends assembled in the living room
And Dave O’Reilly called for shots.
Whiskey, cream, and Guinness chugged,
then finished with a rip of pot.
Maggie McDonald flipped her shit:
“I’m so fucked up, but seriously
we should probably call the cops.”
“Yo, that bitch is tweakin’!” yelled Al Giovanni.
Then Suzy Kaplan spoke up with haste:
“You’re killing the buzz, so there’s the door.”
Maggie then gave her a slap in the face
And left her sprawling on the floor.
Then the war did soon engage;
‘Twas woman to woman and man to man.
The kegger war broke out in rage
and a violent riot soon began.
Then Teddy Davis ducked his head
when someone threw a can of Natty.
It burst beside the futon bed
and the beer exploded all over Paddy.
Paddy revives, see how he rises!
Paddy risin’ from the futon!
Says, “Whoa. Shit. I’m good now, bro.
Let’s do car bombs! Party on!”
Posted in other, poetry
Tagged alcohol, allston, beer, boston, boston college, brodudes, car bombs, college, dudebro, finnegan's wake, Irish, irish car bombs, jager bombs, keg party, natty ice, party, plastic paddy, rager, shots, st. patrick's day
Why fear the zombie? Zombie – uniquely American contribution
to the Movie Monster Canon. Zombie is whatever we’re secretly
afraid of at any given time. Reverse colonization. Cold War. Terrorism.
Biological weapons. Loss of autonomy. Loved ones turning on you.
Having the entire infrastructure upon which you rely cease to function.
Who’s going to come fix your dishwasher now? Not the zombie.
Or perhaps zombie scares us because we know that deep inside,
we are zombie. We either have it already within us, or could turn
on a dime if we’re exposed. We look upon our friends and family
with dead, blank eyes. They are no longer the ones with whom
we play Cards Against Humanity, the ones whose birthdays we
remember at the last minute, prompting us to quickly fire off an
email with an Amazon gift card. They cannot push our buttons
because they installed them. Unless they’re taking a pick-axe
to our skulls, they cannot hurt us. They are food: gristle and
sinew to be masticated and never digested, because zombies
don’t digest. Zombies don’t surf. Zombies don’t shout over
cubicle walls about what happened on last night’s “Scandal,”
nor is there that one zombie who will always whine, “Um…SPOILERS?!”
This is frightening.
There’s only so much you can teach a kid,
even though his or her capacity
to learn is near infinite, because not
every lesson is instinctually
important until the retrospective
thoughts begin, when you go from player to
coach, sponge to ocean (at least in your own
estimation, when really we are not
even waves, but dripping faucets, maybe),
and the soaking days seem to be over.
Wisdom is a catchy phrase in the back
of a composition notebook, almost
always scrawled hastily so that we don’t
forget, as if those lessons could leave us.
The mid-March weather was crisp and cool, but the sun was shining strong enough that you could get away with a light jacket, so I put on my favorite armor, a grey Dickies Eisenhower that I got back in my punk rock days, before I sold out and became a poorly paid private investigator. I had dressed it up with patches of all the founding fathers — Black Flag, Minor Threat, Op Ivy, Aus-Rotten though I never even listened to that shit, DK, and of course the presidential crest of Johnny, Joey, DeeDee, and Tommy. It was a nice reminder of where I’d come from — maybe how far I’d come since then — and also made me look tough when I was working a case.
The changing seasons also did a number on my bad knee, so I grabbed the shillelagh that I used for a walking stick. It was my da’s from his time with the Irish Guard. He’d tried to train me in bataireacht when I was younger, but when you’re twelve years old there are few things sound as lame as ancient Irish stick fighting. I realized that he would’ve retired this year if he were still alive. I wondered how that worked for the Good People on account of they didn’t really age.
The air outside smelled like shit and sodium and made me strangely nostalgic for The Short Bus, the old tour van that we had when I was playing in The Invisibles. It was actually a converted Type A school bus, so the name was still accurate, if terribly offensive. That old clunker ran on diesel, but for just a few hundred bucks, we made it work with old recycled cooking oil that we got from Chinese restaurants. That’s how I knew Yan, the guy who owned the building where my office and ran the restaurant downstairs. Apparently waste disposal costs a lot of money when you’re frying up that much pickled dog meat or whatever, so we did him a favor and took it off his hands for free. We were kind of a Lifetime-esque hardcore time, and of course we were all vegans at the time. We thought we were stickin’ it to the man and fighting back against oil corporations. Of course, none of us seemed to mind that we were using animal fat to run our van. Or that we were making fun of kids with special needs.
Looking back, that was a very dark time in my life.
I headed east up Essex Street towards the Common, past the cracking roads and crumbling buildings that stood adjacent to the luxury condos that had spread like a virus through the heart of downtown Boston. Gentrification was a weird and wicked beast. I saw Eunice at the intersection of Chauncy and Harrison and waved. She responded with a tiny nod. “Eunice” was just the name I’d given to the little Korean lady with the shopping cart full of empties that she pushed around the city. Her and I had established a kind of repartee over the years, so I felt like she deserved a name. After all, I was one of her biggest donors, and she seemed to recognize me every time I found her scrounging through the recycling bin outside my apartment at four in the fucking morning. Our friendship never developed any further than these subtle acknowledgements, but I was okay with that.
with the kitchen
and see if
for them to bring
me a brick
of lard and a
salt lick. Because
would make me feel
any worse than I do now.
I had a dream last night, so that’s where this
poem’s going in case you’d like to get
off now. I was reading a book in a
bar with Italian football fans, drinking
a Moretti, trying to finish the
final chapter wherein Female Hero
Whatever Her Dream Name Was needed to
get back to her tree house before the gods
unmade the world, and everywhere she went
the gods were feeling angry, and the gods
were in the woods, and the gods were in the
water, and the gods were shooting footage
for their website as they shattered the world,
and I trembled at the last of pages.