Service with a smile.

Fake Patrick's Day.

9.00 am
Mom calls me up singing "It's a Great Day for the Irish" and wishes me luck. I laugh and tell her thank you, and I'm amazed (and touched) that she remembered. I send a couple of text messages out to friends: good luck today, don't get too wasted, have fun, etc etc. There are three parties within earshot. And they're raging.

10.00 am
I leave the apartment. "House" parties everywhere. Drunk people already yelling out windows to passers-by (mostly drunk guys yelling at girls in green shirts). I keep my head down and make a beeline to Dunkin' Donuts, with the hope that my promise to arrive at work with breakfast for everyone would be fulfilled. I enter through the side door. As I walk toward the register, I catch sight of the line that had already formed. So I followed it, looking for the end. And kept following it. And followed it right out the front door and around the corner. I sighed and continued down Washington.

10.10am
Every place on Washington that even remotely resembles a bagel place is stuffed with a sea of green. I almost give up entirely, but there it was, beckoning from across the street. MOLA. Mola mola mola mola mola mola mola. Well, hell. If I can't get bagels, I at least need coffee. Yes, NEED. So, I walked toward Mola in silence. Kept my head down. Didn't want to alert anyone to my direction so as not to attract attention. Mola is MY secret. And so I entered. Fuck yeah. No line. Lots of goodies. I bought a latté, 3 muffins and 5 pastries. Less than $20. Score.

10.15am
I leave Mola with my glorious beverage in hand and head down toward my bar.

10.27am
There is a line of people. I can't tell what it's for. I pass the end of it near 2nd street and think that this couldn't possibly be the line for the Shannon? Could it? I step to the left to pass by, and as I'm walking I see the line disappear around the corner up ahead.. holy potatoes. It is the line for the Shannon! Why, there must be at least 500 people! And the bar isn't even open yet. More craziness as I turn the corner onto 1st. There is a line going up Bloomfield for McSwiggan's. There is a chaotic mass of people waiting for Buskers that leaks into the streets. Line at O'Donoghue's. At Mulligan's. I'm trying to see if there is a line at my bar. I see a shirt some large Italian man is wearing. It's hand-drawn. "I'm not Irish, but kiss me anyway. Pleeeeese?" I pass a girl wearing a green shirt with shamrocks all over it: "Everyone Loves a Drunk Girl." When did Irish become synonymous with low-class drunken idiot? Oh, wait, I guess it must've been the 1800's. I'm so glad we've advanced the culture in the 150 years since.

10.33am
There is a small cluster of people waiting at the front door. Some of the girls are sitting on the sidewalk. Apparently, they've been there for a while. I pass through their line and they all shoot me hopeful glances. I shoot back some regrets.

11.10am
We open the doors. $20 to get in. We start getting stories from the street: McSwiggan's is charging $40, Shannon is already at capacity, someone was puking in the street. I will never understand the allure waiting for hours to pay a huge amount of money for the option of drinking overpriced drinks in a place that has the ambience of a full-blown riot.

11.30am
Inspired by some events that have transpired in the 20 minutes of our opening, I decide to make a tally. Here it is.

The Official Tally:
Visits by the fire marshall: 4
People thrown out: 4
Girls crying: 3
SBDs that stunk up the whole bar: 7
Bag pipers who played: 1
Requests for Irish Car Bombs (flatly denied): 7
Regulars getting into fights with the bartender: 1
Broken nails: 2
Fist fights: 0
People getting kicked in the head by a horse: 1

Ugh. Tired. Must. Sleep.