Quick Drink Note on a Dreary Day

The weather outside resembles the underneath of a bog and the larger concern regarding the idiocy of North Carolinians are weighing heavy on my mind. I have something coming up tomorrow for that, but until then I have a recipe to share and hopefully cheer everyone up a bit:

The Rhode Islander

-2 Parts Vodka
-1 Part Whole Milk
-Squeeze Autocrat Coffee Syrup into cup. If you miss the glass it tastes awful.

To the right you'll notice our Cold War era Microwave. It was an Allston Christmas gift and sounds as if each revolution of the plate may be its last.

It's definitely a drink you should make to taste. Think of it as a poor man's White Russian. Really poor. Like, eating-ice-cubes-to-hold-off-hunger-pains poor. If you're above that, this drink may not be for you. Then again, if you're above that, I have no idea why you're reading my blog.

The St. Patrick's Day Parade is Decadent and Depraved

Saint Patrick’s day 2012 and I was leaning over a porch in South Boston watching the parade. To me the parade was always an excuse for an odd onslaught of suburbanites to get drunk on Broadway. I watched them as beasts at a zoo. They rarely have the strength or fortitude to meander beyond Broadway, L, or Dorchester st. There’s almost something comforting in that fact.

As we were grilling in our niche of civility, I heard a loud speaker crashing thought. I, being a slave to my curiosity, climbed up the porch to inspect the parade route for irregularity. I saw a vehicle flying a rainbow flag and someone shouting. It was at that moment I had a profound realization: I don’t get it.

I’ve been ostracized for looking different before, so I get that whole bit of human idiocy. Christ, I even get when people dislike me for my political, social, and religious views. I’d never really thought about the concept of human sexuality as a point of contention. I was always taught that consensual anything between adults is ok.

But now I’m just skirting the problem. So, I just don’t get it. I have gay friends and it just never occurs to me that they’re gay. I feel I have better things to think about. The ice caps are melting! When is there going to be another season of American Horror Story!

So there came that float down Broadway, and the sad truth hit: If I were there, I’d have done nothing. That was the single worst feeling in my life to date. I, or the perpetual righteous bruiser I once was, would not have done a thing. I’d have walked right by. I’m still upset about that and it’s all because I don’t get it.

It’s not that asinine concept of a lack of experience in existence, but rather a sense of absolute confusion. In my mind it’s the same as an interracial couple. I think: “Jesus, my dad would be pissed if I did that.” It’s never a point of contention and I can’t for the life of me, figure out why it is for anyone else.

So to reiterate, it’s not that I don’t get it, but rather that I don't fucking get it! Why in God’s name does it matter? Feel how you’d like about whatever you’d like, but I've yet to understand why they can’t march in the St. Patrick’s day parade. I’m assuming their float will be no less gay than all the other stupid floats already slugging along Broadway.

Oscar Wilde wrote “Picture of Dorian Gray”, which I contend is the greatest horror story ever. His side job was as a Victorian Pimp. In case you have a hard time understanding where I'm going, there's this: Probably not safe for work.

Eavan Boland is an amazing poet. Her words: “He came home tight” still send shivers down my spine. That poem is called "In His own Image". I couldn't find a link.

Brendan Behan, former IRA man and my favorite Irish playwright, wrote “The Quare Fellow”.

After years of physical and mental abuse, we should remove the Catholic church from being Irish. Here’s the problem: In Boston, we are the leftovers. We exist with a heritage that landed and stalled 150 years ago. The Irish don’t care about this situation. It’s an Irish-American concern.

I’ll say it right now, with pride, I renounce my confirmation and my place in a church that would condemn anyone I consider a friend to anything but an afterlife filled with ice cream and receiving oral sex. Not always at the same time, but only sometimes at the same time.

And Boston? Seriously? We’re so gay sometimes it’s honestly impressive. I was drunk one morning, traveling from Wentworth to West 7th, and rode a giant yellow bike, with a big wire frame basket, right through the gay pride parade on Tremont. There were no cops blocking the streets, just floats, a crowd cheering, and a very confused Pat. We can take a step forward and be the liberal city we know we are.

Next time I’ll take a shot at the Planned Parenthood protestors. My idea for a sign: “Thanks to Planned parenthood, I didn’t give your daughter Syphilis.”

Those donkeys.

Where Do We Go From Here?

Frankly, I've no idea. I'm starting to work again and mostly spent the past two months drinking. Not an understatement. Merriment was had by all through the holiday, but now it's back to work. I've got a couple of posts I should have done by the end of the weekend. So expect something on Monday. I know I often say this and don't follow through. Actually that's a kind statement. You'll just have to take me on my word. To prepare you for the wackiness that's on its way:
1.) Pete and Pete exists in an alternate reality where everyone is actually dead.
2.) Interviewed in a rape den: terror at two stories.
3.) Oliver and Company's protagonist is a Meth addict.





CHEERS!

Pat's Off the Dole and Thoroughly Confused

I've jumped back into the work force after an unfortunate 3 months of unemployment (One of which was actually on Unemployment.)
I would like to say that the time I spent not working was spent writing, but it was very much not. There is very little inspiration to be found at the conclusion of Mario Brothers 3 or Jaws.



Nope. No startling revelations there.

However I will be adding on a few soon. Fear not, my employment only means that I am able to soon eat without the assistance of the Commonwealth. I'll be working on something new as soon as I can.

Cheers,

Employed Pat

Happy New Year!

I had spent the majority of my day drinking. It wasn’t anything new, but it involved more walking than I was expecting. Keith and I were returning from a trip downtown. We were near Babcock Street when I spotted a jogger. She was wearing those amazing yoga pants, the ones that mean I don’t have to work to hard to imagine things. She grabbed a pamphlet for a yoga place. Her butt looked like two Pringles hugging. I realized I need to become an adult.
I'm using this outfit to deter women from talking to me at parties. The censor bar was Robyn's idea:


It’s been fun. I’ve basically been drunk for over a decade and, in that time, gained a college degree, saw all 4 teams that matter win the respective championships, and I saw Jeff Bridges a few months ago. That’s pretty impressive. Seeing that jogger so close to New Years sparked something in me. The only exercise I get now is Chin stretches.



I have plans this year. I plan to start taking yoga when my unemployment checks roll in ( I’m hopeful, not dumb). I am done with my baileywho. No more tomfoolery.

My hangover is crippling. I mean that in a physical, mental, and emotional way. Like, I’m having trouble getting up and I think I may vomit. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a predicament.

I’ve grown over the last year. My last New Years blog post was very anxty. I feel like a twat for writing it. Like, annoyed I even penned (Does that phrase still fly?) such whiny, pubescent, excrimentitious filth. So this is basically my apology. Sorry to anyone that read that. That was 16 year old Pat. 26 year old Pat has learned to revel in the rubble of a beautiful hangover and enjoy the little things. Like Yoga pants and their ability to change the world.

Video Games, Writing, and the Holidays

It’s been a while, so I’m throwing up this one as well. I play video games, like, all the time when I write. It’s mostly about a short distraction that won’t make my roommates shriek if they pass my room.
While writing a paper for a friend, I played Jeopardy for NES and made a friend. This is Marty and he will haunt your dreams.



Marty is the computer’s answer to you having no friends.
“Wow. No one likes you? Quckly, get the closest thing to a Grimm Fairytale we’ve got!"



His hideous, monochromatic smile, makes him gracious in defeat, but have no doubt that he lies in wait.



Such a smug penis I am.

Marty is even happier than you are to have a friend. He’s just lost 600$, which is the 1990 equivelant of losing, just, a bunch of coke. And he is pumped.



Marty is planning to break your legs Misery style. Have fun outrunning that jaundiced, sweater wearing, thought-rapist. If his upper body is any indicator, you’ve been in trouble.

Roger Rabbit taught me that if violence doesn’t solve the problem, it feels really good. In case you lived under a rock in 1990 or you’re under twenty-four (call me?), Roger Rabbit was a detective style game based on the popular film at the time. You were Detective Valiant (See what they did there?) and you had to find four pieces of a lost will to clear Roger’s name. It was amazingly complicated. You would search every piece of furniture in six room apartment buildings for hours and get nothing. That was only when the Weasels didn’t catch you and you had to start the whole damn thing from the beginning. This thing had a 1- 800 number to call for a specific hint, if you knew to give Jessica Rabbit a rose. The number does not work. I tried it Thursday at 2 A.M.

So you were frustrated. You can’t punch your siblings, because they’re bigger than you. Can’t start shooting squirrels with a slingshot or Ma will send you back to that special kind of talking doctor. You’re even too small to reach the decent liquor and, even as a child, you realize that bad beer is just bad. Start punching strangers in the game!

Before Grand Theft Auto invented Bang/murdering hookers, Roger Rabbit let you punch the shit out of some dude because you didn’t like his opinion.



Wonder where this is going?



BAM! He was asking for it.


I’ll take a minute to thank all of my friends out there. You guys have helped me out in more ways than I can ever repay, and I thank you for that. Your faith keeps me going. Well, that and women.
For the first time in my life I’m actually speechless. I am dumbfounded. Thank you all for everything, have a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Crazy Kwanza, and Glorious Festivus.
Allow me to escort us through to the next week.

Canadian Ghostbusters

There’s something amazingly irritating about Canadians. I think it’s the overt politeness or something along those lines. A few months back, my friend Matt talked me into joining him at a bar in Harvard Sq. When I arrived it was he, a coworker, a Dutchman, and a Canadian. The Canadian, Matt, and I were discussing hockey and having quite the time of it. I ruined things by performing my “Canadian Ghostbusters” routine for the Ottawa native. Here’s the response:

Canadian: I think I’d like to punch you in the face for that, eh.

Patrick: Well, I don’t think that’s fair at all.

Canadian: O yeah?

Patrick: The stereotype is that you people are too polite. That’s one of the best stereotypes ever. It’s a compliment.

Canadian: I know. I’m sorry. (pronounced “Sorey”).

Patrick: For fuck’s sake, man! Stop being so polite! Damn.

I play weird video games while I write these. Expect more of these odd screen shots in the future.

Here are some examples of the things I said to him:

(Original Scene We added in a bit of the scene at the mayor's office, but there was a lot of drinking. We aren't perfect.)

I don’t think Canada has an EPA, so I’ll just call him That Guy. Ok?

That Guy: You have to shut this all down! You have to shut this all down! This isn’t structured for an urban neighborhood this thing is nuclear!

Canadian Egon: Well, I don’t think that’s fair at all. We’ve just been behind on the paper work.

That Guy: O, well I guess I can see that. It’s hard to get all that stuff together. You fellas have been fairly busy.

Canadian Peter (enters): What's all this?

Canadian Egon: It’s good to be working. Always nice to help. (To Peter) He's trying to shut down the containment unit.

Canadian Peter: This man has No Penis!

That Guy: What?

Canadian Egon: That was really uncalled for Peter. And it wasn't at the right point.

That Guy: It's ok. It's been a rough day, ya know.

Canadian Peter: O no. I’m sorry. It was just a slip of the tongue. It’s been a hard week.

That Guy: O it’s understandable.

Canadian Egon: Of course, Peter. Go have a Molson and relax.

That Guy: Alright, well, just try and get the paper work in some point this week.

Canadian Egon: Will do!

(Original Scene not found, but it's "When someone asks if you're a god, you say YES!" If you don't know it, you shouldn't ever talk to me.)

Canadian Winston: Ray, I know you don’t like to fib, but, maybe, the next time someone asks if you’re a god you could say yes.

Canadian Ray: I know, I’m just trying to be honest is all.

Canadian Winston: O, Ray, it’s just a little fib to save Toronto. But it’s ok, I understand. You did your best.

(Origional Scene)

Canadian Peter: Ray, what’d’ya think of, Ray?

Canadian Ray: You know, I was just trying to think of something that could only do us good, ya know.

Canadian Peter: Ray, you can tell us. It's ok.

Canadian Ray: Like, something that reminded us of our favorite weeknight when we were kids.

Canadian Egon: O we know, Ray. Nobody’s perfect, eh. So, what was it?

The ground starts rumbling and all run over to the side of the building.

Canadian Ray: O no. O no.

Canadian Peter: What was it, Ray?

Canadian Ray: Gordie Howe.

20 Story Gordie Howe comes politely walking through the streets of Toronto.

Image brought to you by Ryan Walsh.

There’s a lot more than this. Like, hours. I’ll try and record us going back and forth with it and post that at some point. Till then, just imagine this with a Nova Scotian accent. We really just got it from Trailer Park Boys.