"We're playing New York," he said. Or at least I assumed that's what he said. The Limerick accent was still difficult for me to comprehend, as my familiarity with Irish dialects was based mostly on leprechauns of the Warwick Davis and Lucky Charms variety.
Mr. Davis spent over 300 hours with a dialect coach in order to perfect what is known in the business as "The McNoOneTalksLikeThis Brogue."
"You're gonna show us 'round," he continued. "I wanna see if a sidewalk and a footpath are different things. I want to drink a 40, I want to get into a fight with my Puerto Rican girlfriend while she throws my clothes out the window onto the street below."
"You have a Puerto Rican girlfriend?" I asked.
"No, not yet, but I won't be there for another few hours so see if you can hook that up. Least you can do considering the mad groupie gash I'm gonna be throwing at you."
I set down the phone and prepared to do all the things I needed to get ready for a night of drunken hijinks. Specifically, I asked my wife's permission.
"Rubberbandits," she said. "Aren't those the hooligans who got you so drunk nine months ago that you lost your phone and spent the whole next day puking?"
"No. I just got drunk near them. To tell you the truth, I was already lit with those ne'er-do-wells BriTANick by the time I even met the Bandits. Really. Much like incurable disease and poverty, it's all BriTANick's fault."
BriTANick moments before they torture your kitten.
Maybe due to my crafty lie (after all, BriTANick is responsible only for disease) or because she was glad to get me out of the house, my wife gave me the green light for a boy's night out and even set up a nice bed of pillows and comforters on the couch so I wouldn't wake her with 3 a.m. drunkenness.
Having cleared my night, I next had to pick my wardrobe. I struggled to find fashion that was capable of both accenting my international website columnist credentials and masking my "blogger's gut." I opted for the always safe button-down shirt and jeans combination, and caught my train into the big city. It had been so long since I'd been out on a Saturday night. All the young female receptionists and IT geeks from my work week had apparently spent the afternoon in emo chrysalises that allowed them to emerge as Saturday night goth princesses or steampunk divas or whatever the current terminology is for someone who wears black and makes me think about deviant sex. And the men, well, I'm sure there were men in the city, too. I didn't notice.
"Yes, fathers are a chronic, bitter disappointment, aren't they?"
The black-clad youth milled around outside the Bowery Ballroom smoking cigarettes and feigning sadness. That's when I realized I'd given the cabbie the wrong address, because I was actually supposed to be at the Mercury Lounge, blocks away. A second cab ride and moments later, I found a more earnest and Irish crowd filling the bar.