All the news that's fit to drink.

I suppose you could say that I'm just now shaking out the cobwebs from a St. Patrick's Day bender. Last year I went all out with my St. Patty's post, but for whatever reason, didn't have it in me this time around. Before I launch into a very late roundup of the weekend's beer-related thoughts, please enjoy this video of the Dubliners playing "The Irish Rover" with The Pogues.


Shane McGowan. Wow. Just wow.... Anyway, where was I? Ah yes. I pulled a shift waiting tables on Saturday, which was at once fun and frustrating. Fun because people were jovial, frustrating because they wanted to be jovial and hang around while I waited for them to pay me so I could escape to the wilds of Northampton, MA to get MY beer on.

The thing that amused me most about the wannabe-Irish boozing crowd (no, it was luckily not like the UES wannabe Irish boozing crowd, well-documented here) was their drinks of choice.

Granted, there were a fair number of straight-up Guinness (or, according to Tobs, "Gayness") drinkers in the mix, keeping our lovely bartenders busy drawing shamrocks in the head. In my section, however, the most popular drink was by far the Black & Tan.

The Black & Tan, while a delicious beverage (and wrong as it may be for a stout to float, it is pleasing to the eye and ever so much fun to pour), is named for the paramilitaries who shored up the Royal Irish Constabulary when it came to squashing the IRA and Sinn Fein's declaration of an Irish Republic.

Now, while I'm aware that the common wisdom is that St. Patrick's Day has something to do with whacking snakes or something, I do find it a little humorous that people can shout "Erin Go Bragh" whilst hoisting the drink named for a group of people who did their darndest to keep Ireland under British rule. I mean, snakes aside, people like to celebrate their Irishness or wannabe-Irishness on that day by getting plastered (conveniently forgetting about the despair and so forth).

I considered suggesting these people opt for a Half & Half (Guinness and Harp Lager), but decided to keep the trap shut. I did manage to disabuse people of the notion that they wanted to drink Harpoon's Hibernian, so it wasn't a total loss. We also have Smithwick's on these days, and while I object to its color while you're pouring it (weird muddy brown during the "cascade"), it settles into a nice deep amber color and is quite tasty.

Win a Date with Some Weird Dude!

This ad (or one like it... there's also a dude with a knit hat and a dude with a lot of tattoos... covering their demographic bases, I guess) has been popping up a lot on my MySpace logout page lately.

Uh... Boyfriend season? I'm aware of the whole "springtime-is-coming-so-make-with-the-flirty
-like-in-Bambi" business, but for some reason I'm getting some funny images in my head regarding the season for those elusive boyfriends.

Firstly, I am from New Hampshire, so when I see "___ Season" my line of thinking turns toward weather and/or hunting. In this way, boyfriend season comes before/during Mud Season and dissipates by the end of Black Fly season? Or is it still boyfriend season during Mosquito Season? I mean, they obviously hibernate during the winter, so that's out...

Then there's the idea that it's boyfriend season, as in you can hunt them with perhaps a bow and arrow (oh, how classical!) or high-powered rifle. In which case, how does one stalk the creature? On horseback, riding behind a pack of baying foxhounds? Do you set up in his house under a pile of clothes/boyfriend detritus and wait for him to show up and lick up the salt (or, you know, beer...Fritos, what-have-you) you spread on the floor?

The thing that really creeps me out, though, is how similar it seems to the dreaded "Bathing Suit Season." And, knowing MySpace, it seemed just as likely (before I saw the True logo) to be advertising some manner of diet pill. "Get those winter pounds off, ladies! Boyfriend season is around the corner."

Either way, the Match.com and True.com full-frontal MySpace assault is weirding me out. Match has these bizarre little videos of "regular guys" receiving titillating messages from "regular girls (or so we would assume)." One of these guys appears to be 12. The other, reads a message whilst removing a button-down shirt and stroking his five o'clock shadow (don't worry, there's a t-shirt underneath). Both smile creepily, and the camera angle makes it seem like they're looking right at me. I find I am neither intrigued nor titillated by this (this spoof video, however, is hilarious) so much as uncomfortable and a little intruded upon.

I certainly don't frown upon online dating (whatever works...or provides the best emotional scars/stories to tell your friends at the bar), but I thought MySpace already had that function built in...for free...so why would I be inclined to pay someone to hook me up with the likes of Lil' Fella and Scruffy the Date Rapist?

The final thought on the matter is that I'm obviously in a demographic that gets thrown these ads (due to being young and a lady). I am therefore curious what other information MySpace uses to place the ads. My "single" status" Do my "interests" indicate that I would be more likely to click on Scruffy the Date Rapist's little home video?

I hope that it's not that sophisticated a system... but at some point it could be, and isn't that fun? So, I turn it over to you, bloggy folk. Do those of you "In a Relationship" end up with these disturbing videos? Are you free of the "boyfriend season" blight? And guys - what do the ladies look like?

Meanwhile, I've heard it's time to dust off that high-powered rifle and/or start popping dexatrim and running in place late at night. Boyfriend Season's just around the freakin' corner.

For anyone who's interested (mostly Josh)...

We have Harpoon Hibernian Ale on draft at the bar.

My review..... meh.

Predictable, really, considering Harpoon's tendency to occupy the gross-to-meh spectrum.

If you want a real Irish-style red ale, I'd avocate seeking out the Pennichuck Engine 5. It's delicious.

Whoa there, Wild Thing.

Hey kids! This post marks the official beginning of Sheena's Opining About the Red Sox Season. We are 39 days and 53 minutes away from Opening Day. I'm sure y'all are just as excited as I am.

Anyway,Boston.com (and indeed the whole region) is all a-twitter over "Dice-K," but for me, the matter at hand is Jonathan Papelbon's hair:


Yes, he's going for the "Wild Thing" association, which I dig, but somehow it doesn't fly as well during spring training. Here he just sorta looks like a rapist trucker. I think the mojo-enhancing power of weird hair should be reserved for the regular season, but that's just me.

Meanwhile, observe the clever conversion of a Damon jersey.

Stay tuned through the season to read more about my thoughts on Red Sox grooming habits and occasionally the manner in which they play the base-ball.

Also: "Christ, what an asshole."

Found this via Gawker and threw up a little bit in my mouth.

Peter McBride can take off his polo shirt and maintain his preppy image. McBride, 22, has a Polo pony tattooed on his chest. The idea came to him as he was waiting in line behind a man at a D.C. tattoo parlor: "I noticed his polo shirt and made my decision."

Before I read the article, I thought perhaps that this young man works or models for (which doesn't make it better, just slightly understandable. a wee bit.) Polo. No, he's just a douche, is all.

While the piece sorta manufactures a trend wherein people are getting logo tattoos, the fact that anyone does it is pretty disturbing. I mean, really? Who's going to have sex with this man with that thing on his chest? He has the logo of a thing to be purchased and worn with the collar popped.

I mean, sure. Plenty of people get idiot tattoos (a young man with whom I went to high school made up a nickname for himself, then had it tattooed on his bicep in Gothic lettering. He later had the Superman logo tattooed on his other bicep.). But he can look like a douchebag for a fraction of the money and none of the pain.

Since I read Until I Find You, and became the only of-age member of my immediate family to remain un-inked, I've been pondering what I'd put on myself indelibly. A line drawing of James Joyce in profile? Angel wings on my shoulder blades? Calvin peeing on the face of Derek Jeter? Some kind of "tramp stamp?" Or just some kanji whose meaning I don't know?

In all honesty, I've been thinking about a drawing of the Brooklyn Bridge.

One of the benefits of summer is the tattoo-watching. Seen any good (or terrible) ones lately? I swear, you can't swing a dead leprechaun in this city without hitting a tattoo of Celtic knotting.

Enter winged pigs.

Much as I hate to admit it, David Brooks' column today did not make me vomit or howl with rage and pull my hair. Crazy, I know. Usually, I go to the Op-Ed pages on Sundays and Thursdays and read D. Bro with one eye, wincing. Color slowly creeps into my cheeks and the one-eyed reading becomes two-eyed furious skimming. I throw down the paper (or less romantically click away) and screech "I fricking hate that guy." His breathy, nipple-stroking love letter to John Roberts a few weeks ago nearly killed me. It was days before I could hold down food.

But today, I say to him: "Toosh." Today, D. Bro, you win. Granted, the column is of the fairly toothless variety, but I agree with you. Post-Katrina New Orleans is an opportunity to strike a blow against poverty in the region and we shouldn't let it go by. Check him out, kids... he's rational and not fellating the Bushies today: Katrina's Silver Lining. (reg. required)

Admittedly, this is not a difficult sentiment to agree with, but it planted the seed that led me over to Slate, where I found a convincing case for NOT rebuilding the parts of New Orleans that are currently under water. These parts of New Orleans are the poorest, the schools are terrible, unemployment is high, etc. So why would we want to plonk down some new buildings and have these people live their desperate lives in the same manner when that part of the city clearly wants to be a lake?

The shocking thing, for me, was reading on in the piece and discovering that I am in agreement with Dennis Hastert. Whuuuuu? Kinda makes sense, though, right? Help the displaced rebuild their lives in better neighborhoods in other cities, as my buddy David Brooks suggests, and you can help halt the cycle of poverty that has plagued families in these neighborhoods for years. Not a bad idea. It's not about a once-great city coming back, as Bush has said by way of comfort, it's about calling the situation like we see it (shitty), and seeking to improve it. We could have spent money to improve the levees, which may or may not have withstood the storm. Now, we can spend money helping thousands of people get back onto new and improved feet. Think of it! Better homes, jobs, and schools in other communities = halting the cycles of poverty, crime, and recidivism. It's so crazy it just might work!

However, it seems more likely that the Shrub-in-Chief will give another tax cut to the wealthy and then sip lemonade on Trent Lott's new porch.

As for me - in tentative agreement with Dennis Hastert and David Brooks in the same day. Knock me over with a feather.

Here's the Shafer piece: Don't Refloat