I found a parking space around Second City at 4pm. It was a gamble. I was on the clock until 5, but had a 6:45 put-in rehearsal for Dan, the Rush drum understudy. If they gave me work, I’d lose the spot and probably be late to the rehearsal.
To make it a true gamble I entered Corcoran’s, an “Irish” bar on St. Patrick’s Day. I don’t know when exactly St. Patrick’s Day turned into an uglier, shittier version of Mardi Gras. It has always been a stupid American tradition of bullshit Lucky Charms imagery and drinking until you’re an asshole. But somewhere along the way it truly became the douchebag’s holiday of choice, with white, green-beaded, Jamiroqui-lidded, white shitheads littering the streets with bodily fluids and high volume, white worthlessness. Maybe it was around the time the Cubs put lights in Wrigley Field.
The gamble paid off. Upon entering, my friend Mick called my name and offered me a seat in the crowded, mildly obnoxious environment. We had been trying to coordinate a drink for a couple of weeks but had been either too busy or sick. He told me about getting stung by a jellyfish or Portuguese man-of-war in Puerto Rico. Then Brad Morris from The Second City mainstage joined us and we shared talent agent horror stories. Speaking of horror stories, I ordered a nine dollar cardboard ashtray of Irish sausages and chips.
Lauren got out of her Second City rehearsal and joined us at 6. Between 4:45 and 6:40 I enjoyed the mandatory taste of Guinness.
Then it was off to the put-in and another appreciative crowd for Rush.
Verdict: Win
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