Here in Boston, it’s the start of The High Holy Days what with St. Patty’s Day once again upon us. No snakes, and to celebrate we’re talking corned beef and cabbage and plenty of beer and whisky.
It wasn’t until I was exiled to Detroit from 1980-1982 that I began to celebrate the holiday in earnest. First stop was The Tipperary on the West Side, south of Fenkell, where a besotted lass stood at the door to this dark pub, brooding architecturally and so splendid it could’ve been a movie set, smooching the would be Irish among us. Little smooches, but on the mouth, and affectionate rather than inviting.
From there it was onto several other pubs all over town that attested to the Irish who’d come in search of jobs decades earlier. Pints and shots and designated drivers!
Here in Boston it’s gonna be more o’ the same.
And prayers have been answered!
He’s back. Tiger is back. See what happens when you admit that there’s a Higher Power?
This man has not made the admission.