After too much food and too many Mai Tais, we headed off looking for another bar. Refusing to go to the $6 per drink Irish Bar, Fado, we lapped the MCI Center and remembered The Rock, a sports bar in the height of the sports bar sense that is situated in the shadow of the arena. The Rock, however, has got to be some millionaire’s pet project, as they open and close the bar at will: if nothing’s going on at MCI, it’ll probably be closed, but if a Devil’s game is on TV it might be open, but sometimes during Caps games it’s closed...who knows. Last night was an off night and we thought we were defeated. About half a block later, I notice a sign at the foot of the Red Roof Inn advertising their bar, The Irish Channel. What could we lose, right?
As it turns out, nothing. The Irish Channel was stocked with the standard Irish Bar paraphernalia, an FOB bartender, and I even recognized the tie-wearing managerial type as one of the managers at Ireland’s Four Courts where I used to work. It looks less like James Joyce’s study than Fado and more like a bar bar, but the bonus here was that drinks were inexpensive, taps were plentiful, the guitar strummer happily took requests and there were less than thirty people in the place (one of which was a boat saleswoman on her way to Finland next week to meet with a supplier).
Cut to this morning. Overindulgence on Chinese food, rum, and Caffrey’s does a strange thing to the dream-addled mind. I had a few dreams in succession, one of which I was running in this obstacle course competition thing at my high school and people from my class who I haven’t thought of in five years made cameo appearances cheering me on. Then I had one where I was hanging out with the principal and vice principal from Boston Public and the principal was moonlighting as a dishwasher repair man to make extra cash and the vice principal appreciated my graciousness in not pointing it out or reminding him.
But the weirdest part of the dream happened next. I was looking out the window and there was this big black bird with long legs, a bubble-like body, a long neck, a big orange beak and a crown of feathers around his head that he could position up or back. He seemed goofy and jovial in a way. I called the Boston Public Vice Principal over to check it out and just as he came over to look out the window, the black bird strutted over to a minifridge that was outside, opened it, and out hopped this red parrot. The parrot hopped around squeaking and frolocking with the black bird. I went outside to check them out. The black bird wasn’t as willing to come to me, but the parrot hopped and squeaked right over. Upon further inspection, I noticed this parrot was missing his bottom beak and had only one leg. I immediately went inside to call HM to get the number for the parrot rescue place but I dialed the wrong number and ended paging Sparky instead.
After I hung up with him, this guy came to the door and asked if I had seen his dog. I said that I hadn’t, but that there was a parrot with half a beak and one leg in the backyard. He said “yeah, that’s my dog alright. He likes to dress up like a parrot and stick a feather in his ass.”
Sure enough, the guy went to pick up the parrot and it was a small furless dog wearing a parrot costume with a red feather stuck in his ass.