Seven Red

What disease of cluelessness led me to believe that I could just hop on the El and get down to Unnamed Employer Institution in Chicago on Saturday, March 15? It’ll be an easy trip, right? Twenty minutes, and a comfortable read on the train, yes?

Well, yes, if every drunk twenty-something in the city and points North weren’t converging on the Loop for the Annual Amateur Night Irish Parade. Aw, who am I kidding? I can’t be mad at twenty-two year olds who are so obviously drunk at 10:20 in the morning that they are convinced for five consecutive stops that they’re going the wrong way on the train, despite the fact that a new pack of drunk twenty-two year olds continues to get on at every stop. (Lesson: How can 200 twenty-two year olds be wrong?) These are my peoples, and I love them.

Besides, they were funny. One guy must have had one of those Heineken mini-kegs in his backpack (in his fucking backpack, ya hear?), because protruding from the area of his shoulder was a very discernible beer tap, which a group of about 15 kept taking slugs from, as we rocked and rocked on the Brown Line. His friend told him that he looked like he was lactating, an observation that drew howls of approval and recognition from all around. Then the group broke into what I thought was a fairly good rendition of Parliament’s “Tear the Roof Off Sucker (Give Up the Funk),” complete with baritone variations and , well, a whole lot of rhythm going round. I was advised by a guy pouring what appeared to be Jameson’s from a flask into a little cup attached to his girlfriend’s green beaded necklace that it was well and truly time to turn this mother out. Ow. Gotta have that funk. Many train riders were rockin’ the O’bama t-shirts, among other creative Irish-themed garb, like clip-on leprechaun beards, green plastic top hats, all manner of beads, Donegal sweaters, shamrock-patterned suspenders, tweed newsboy lids, and a thousand and one “Kiss Me I’m Irish” temporary tattoos affixed to the face, neck, forehead, arm, ear, and visible areas of the upper breast (the last of which makes a damn fine argument, I should add). It’s a party. My man with the Jameson’s asked if I was “Shcomin’ ta the parade,” and the whole group seemed genuinely disappointed when I told them I was going to work. “Y’shacall in shick, man!,” one girl said, and there were nods all around. God love ‘em, the younguns.

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