Somehow I knew about the new joint opening. I think I had seen the sign painted on the glass of the door, James Joyce Pub. Well, I was surprised to get the call checking to see if I might be available to play solo for their big opening. Did I mention that it was on St. Patrick's Day?
Boy, I needed the work. I usually do. I felt guilty after a few minutes on the phone, though, and asked, "Don't you think that maybe you should think about an Irish singer?"
It was quiet for a few seconds and then, "We did. There are none available."
Well, I had a fine time. Now, of course, I know. Every Irish drunk knows Danny Boy on midnight on St. Paddy's Day and every drunk is Irish at midnight on St. Paddy's Day. They're all proud and happy to come up and sing it at the top of their lungs before vomiting on their own shoes.
Count me in. I wish I were Irish.
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