So, here I am - chillin' at the Roasterie in Brookside. Let me give you a snapshot of what's going on.
To my left, a middle-aged woman, clad in an obnoxious amount of green, who looks like Sophia Loren is trying to subdue a terror child. The volume control is broken on this child. Screeching anti-melodic tones brings him unending delight. A man, perhaps the lady's husband, attempts to counsel the child. His voice is high and raspy, as if he got kicked in the testis after having a cold for two weeks, and thus, carries no authority. The terror screeches on.
Pause ...
Hey, Jim and Bethany showed up! We enjoyed some coffee and tried not to snicker each time the poor fellow next to us spoke in soprano. They are hanging with friends tonight and playing Settlers of Catan. What a great game.
Thankfully, things have simmered down, and all of the folks who came in after the St. Patty's parade have gone home. But the Irish music plays on. Death by pennywistle. You can't help but tap your feet to the chipper arpeggios. But goodness, they're never ending. I think it's making people irritable. One of the bro-istas behind the counter surveys his patrons with wide, aggressive eyes, seemingly eager to whup the ass of the first person to give him reason. I try to avoid making eye contact with him. This is probably what it feels like to live in Dublin - happy music and scary guys ready to turn you into a pretzel before you can say "Top 'o the morning."
St. Patty brings out the best in all of us. Here's hoping you find your pot 'o gold. Whatever or whoever that might be.
