Fekkin' rip off!

Yesterday, Wratch! and I spent a pleasant day together on the sushi side of the metroplex (as opposed to the, "Aw hell. That there is bait! Pass the calf-fries," side of the metroplex - aka: where I feel more comfortable), despite the nasty wind that whipped around leaves and sand, leaving our skin and teeth completely exfoliated and shiny.

We saw The Queen at the Angelika and, just so you know, Helen Mirren was brilliant and WILL win Oscar gold tonight! (Or else she owes me five bucks.) Afterwards, I bought a madras summer hat, and then we fought our way, against wind and sand, to the area's best pub for dinner and music.

Here's What Happened at Trinity Hall Last Night:

So Rich and I walk into the extremely crowded, "fight for a seat in the most polite way possible - with a tip of the hat, to ya'" Trinity Hall in all of its Irish glory. It was Murphys and ciders all around to the tunes of live Irish folk music (and piped in U2 between sets) when, finally, we were able to snag a table for two and order dinner.

I have to say that Trinity Hall is an exceedingly friendly place. I have met many colorful folks there and have even kept in contact with some of them. I won third place in an ironic game of Texas Hold'em in this Irish pub, a win that earned me a bottle of free soda bread! We celebrated the New Year there and felt warm as we held hands and sang "Auld Lang Syne" in a circle of bleary-eyed familiarity. Trinity Hall is where we watched the World Cup semi-final last summer when Basement Barry asked, as he had his fingers in my plate, if he could eat the raspberries off of my desert.

"Sure Basement Barry. We met ten long minutes ago, but you are welcome to my desert berries. As a matter of fact, why don't you finish off the rest of my ice cream, while you're at it."

"Thanks. I love berries."

"OK, then. Would you like to borrow my spoon?"

The point is, people there sometimes forget their American cultural recognition of personal space, and I adore this place for that very reason. Because the hall was so packed last night, people were standing all around the tables, having drinks and conversations in small circles which is lovely (!), except when you are eating your dinner and a circle of drunk Irishmen keep slamming their beers on your table, and that beer keeps splashing into your mashed potatoes.

At first, they were pounding the beers down on the edge of the table. That was enough for me to feel a little bit uncomfortable, but I thought, "Hey, sure. You can share our table. No worries."

As the evening progressed, they kept dropping their glasses closer and closer to my plate. Every two seconds a disembodied, blue cuff would jolt into my peripheral vision and grab the nearest glass. On the return trip, the hand would slam the glass nearer and nearer to where my glass was.

I never looked up. All I could see was this arm, which occasionally moved my arm out of the way so that there was room enough for the 2 empty beer glasses, 2 full beer glasses, two half full SoCo tumblers, and a glass of club soda with a twist - oh, and our plates and glasses. In between the constant lifting and slamming of the glasses, all I could hear in an Irish accent was, "I can't believe it was fekkin' sixty-sev'n p'nds. Fekkin sixty-sev'n!"

I was NOT at all angry. In fact, I was laughing so hard it (the laughter) was silent - you know that laughter where you're face is frozen in an agonizing smile and you can't breathe because the laughter is so deeply seated that it stays there in your soul, pressing your gut into your spine - and it hurts because it can't come out, so all you can do is double over and cry. For at least 10 minutes, that's how I was laughing.

Every time I gained some sort of composure, in would come the arm and SLAM! At one point, I really wanted to see what would happen if I picked up the nearest drink (which was not my own), and either took a little sip or moved it to the other side of the table.

Wratch (!): Go ahead. They might not even notice, or you can say it was an accident.

Me: Or they might knock me up side the head!

Wratch (!): They're Irish! That's how they show their affection!

Irish Men: Fekkin' rip off, that! Sixty-sev'n p'nds, my arse.

(SLAM!)

Me: (silent laughter of death)

By the time we stood up to leave, there was an empty Stella glass smack dab in the center of the table and a leaning elbow keeping its owner propped on a stool. Neither the glass nor the elbow belonged to Rich or to me. And the Irish gents were still at it!

What a fun day!

I LOVE people!