Pat is a Renaissance man.
He's a teacher/masseuse/carpenter/guitarist.
One of the goodest guys I know.
Pat and I used to be in an Irish Americana cover band.
We did pub songs and Johnny Cash rip-em-ups.
Plus the occasional Handsome Family tune.
Pat played guitar and mandolin.
I played a two piece drum kit.
Dan played upright bass.
And Marc played guitar and sang lead.
Marc was the true Irishman.
Born in Ireland.
The accent and everything.
Marc always referred to us as lads.
He gave our fun little combo credibility.
We were called Up Ya Boyo.
It's an Irish expression meaning "I'm drunk and yelling things".
Contrary to what you want it to mean, it does not mean "up your ass".
But thank you.
Every other Saturday night we'd do three sets at Shamrock O'Leprechaun's.
Layers of Guinness would smoothen our goosebumps.
Sometimes the drinks were free.
Sometimes they weren't.
Which was weird.
Nevertheless we'd rowdy up the room with "Sally Mac" and "Drunken Sailor".
For the rebels there was "The Foggy Dew" and "Rock On Rockall".
Then we'd play "Folsom Prison Blues" and "In The Air".
By 2am we were full of stout and loot.
It was a good time.
The last time we played was last Halloween.
You were supposed to go dressed as a song.
I had a hot dog costume laying around that I bought several years ago.
So I arrived as a hot dog.
Y'know.
Like the Elvis song.
Or the Led Zeppelin song.
Nobody knew those songs.
I hate dressing up for Halloween.
But that's another story.
The set was going well.
We had torn through "Whiskey In A Jar" and "Jolly Beggar".
Right before "Jumbo Breakfast" Pat's wife alerted us that cars were being towed from the lot.
The show must not go on.
I launched out of my hot dog costume and ran outside.
It was like The Blob, with people scurrying in all directions to save their cars from the clutches of the fatso tow truck cretins.
But my van was already in their possession.
Shitfart.
So I skulked back to the bar.
Everyone had left to retrieve their cars.
There was no one to play for.
It was dumb.
Later, the owner of the bar reluctantly paid for my towing.
Marc had to talk him into it.
Some bills were tossed at me.
I reluctantly thanked him.
I don't know why he was shitty to me.
He shouldn't have ensured us it was safe to park there if it wasn't.
After that gig, Shamrock O'Leprechaun's mysteriously didn't want to have drummers playing in their bar anymore.
Soon after Marc became a father.
Dan moved to Los Angeles to play bass and write comedy for one of the man channels out there.
And so Up Ya Boyo was put into storage.
It's too bad.
I miss it.
In his spare time, Pat built a bar for a friend.
In my spare time, I watch The Flintstones.
In Russia, times spares YOU!
We hauled it out to the burbs in my van.
Pat paid me for my contribution to his small business.
And took me out for burgers at Moody's.
Right now I will take work wherever I can find it.
But it's best when it's with one of the goodest guys I know.
Verdict: Win
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