(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
Alex had been trying to get her shit together at the time. No really, she had. She’d been living at halfway house over in the South End for two whole months — you know, the one on Mass Ave, down by Harrison and the BU Hospital — and she’d been sober nearly as long. Her third day there she stole a drag off one of the other girls in the house. That girl ended up getting kicked out the very next day when one of the prorectors found a butt in the trash; Alex was lucky that she didn’t get ratted out herself. After that, Alex went clean. Even got herself a job, which was especially impressive considering that the halfway house only lets you out for one hour a day to use the computers in the Career Center. It’s a seventeen minute commute each way on the Silver Line into Downtown Crossing where the Career Center’s located. That only leaves twenty-six minutes to search and send out applications. Not a lot of time, if you ask me.
Not that anyone’s particularly looking to hire an ex-junkie who spent the last fourteen months at the women’s penitentiary out in Framingham for embezzling cash from the autoshop in Waltham where she was supposed to be balancing the books. To be fair, she took the money so she could take better care of her kid. Little Devin was just about the only thing that she had left to live for. Unfortunately the poor kid was either born early, retarded, or both — she didn’t quite know whose it was — and Alex needed the extra cash to handle all his medications and the co-pays. Sure, she spent a few parts of her wage on a fix every couple weeks, but it was a small enough amount compared to the enormous bills that she faced every month. What’s the point of living if you can’t afford a few luxuries for yourself? But the state took her kid once they caught slipping cash from the till. At least he’s getting all the care he needs now. That’s what she assumes, anyway; she hadn’t seen him in a year now.
About a week ago, she finally secured a new gig for herself, answering phones for dispatch at a taxi company out in Allston. Two days later, they kicked her out of the halfway house, on account of they needed a cot for someone else. As far as they were concerned, she had a job now, so she must be on the road to a normal life. After that, there’s nothing else they could do for her, so they give her the boot, change the sheets, and open up the door for the next well-behaved delinquent who needs it. That way everyone gets a chance to work their shit out before their ass lands right back on the streets. The turnover rate at these joints never slows down, but hey, you gotta run a business.
Small, pale napkin with beer
stained edges soaking up the spill
from a three dollar can of Pabst
Blue Ribbon on a brown-black wood
grain bar top in lower Allston:
SOLVE THIS EQUATION AND I’LL SLEEP WITH YOU
But the hand behind that pen is out of sight,
left and gone home all alone for the night.
Posted in memoir, nonfiction, poetry, prose
Tagged 90s pop, alcohol, allston, beer, calculus, commonwealth avenue, cosine, dividend, geome, geometry, great scott, math, monday, okay so it wasn't actually in lower allston it was right on Comm Ave but Lower Allston still better so ya know what I don't care, pabst blue ribbon, pbr, pi, sex, sine, square root, the pill, trigonometry, women