70 Rounds

Celebrating 1/2 way to St. Patrick’s Day, 6 months since the start of my lockdown, heading back to Moncton tomorrow in the endless cycle of strangeness that is 2020.  But Guinness is half-price, the guy wearing a Domus Legis sponsored green t-shirt (I’ve seen that gut on Paddys of olde) who “knows just enough to get the gig, just not the rebel songs” is on guitar early.

An upside down year, every which way you look.  Stuck around this week for the Stone’s Throw articling event, just to show the face among the increasingly distant crew of co-workers.  Slicked back hair on Proctor, fit-to-burst McIsaac, mesmerizing smile of McInnes, hellos via Aucoin from Landry and MacPhee.  Visions of a ghostly past, to be fair.  The ex-Managing Partner who approved the Antarctica sail, then never asked once how it went.  This morning the long-bearded homeless guy was waiting on the work side of the ferry, and this eve there was Johnny K, whose Scotch we drank, looking the same as he does in my mind from back in 2002.  How many rounds since?  70 this summer, he said, and with no improvement.  Heh.

Tell me Ma, Dirty Old Town, Galway Girl.  Shivers, still.  Nine years later after Eire.  Black Velvet Band, Marie Ellen Carter, Feel the Same Way Too, all the good stuff.

There comes a change.  Brought on by age in recent years, accelerated by this pandemic.  Ready for what shall roll on next.  Differences in taste, motivation, desire, expectation... but - and most importantly - even as the essential standards of this one pure Life remain.

Amazing how one individual can spark such emotion, such joy, such magic for that right other, when perfectly met.  But so say we all.  Or most of us.  At one point or another.  

Behind me in this booth is a poster, instinct says take it, and so I started.  But.  The cheap hat is enough.  I’ll remember this one time I closed my eyes, and decided to remember the fun of this random, unexpected celebration, perfectly opposite to the firm-sponsored welcome event you fled across the way.

I feel it coming.  It’s later than you think.

PS.  I can’t believe the Spirit of the West song he’s closing this out is not Home for a Rest but something else (Venice is Sinking!)  And remember this qantas-flight-nowhere article that made sense and actually brought a smile.  Four Strong Winds, then home.