Charlie Sheen seems to hold the crown as the poster boy for the party. However, when it comes to being a true manly man who can actually keep his life together, yet still balance afternoons of chugging pints of Guinness and shots of Jameson, Sheen has nothing on the West Chester Chapter of the Ancient Order of Hibernians (AOH).
This Sunday, I was hijacked by a bunch of Irishmen, forced to go pint for pint on a charter bus to Baltimore, march in a parade, then spend all afternoon drinking and eating while trying to maintain my sanity (all completely against my will of course).
In an attempt to maintain the anonymity of my polish roots in a sea of Irish folks, I let my red-tinged beard grow out a bit, put on a green shirt and brushed up on my Celtic tunes. Just as I began to settle in, the bus driver began to shout out roll call:
“Murphy!”
“Here.”
“O’brien!”
“Here.”
My palms began to sweat. My last name would surely pull the curtain off me. My mind raced as I thought of solutions: McWawrzyniak . . . O’Wawrzyniaky . . . surely I could conjure up a quick cover-up.
“Wawrzyniak!”
Timidly, my hand went up. I mustered a quick “Here,” and pulled my hand down.
Silence and confusion rippled through the bus. “Exactly who is that kid? Why is he coming along? He looks kinda Irish…”
As we drove out of West Chester, the keg of Guinness at the front of the bus got tapped. Solo cups were passed back and forth, along with boxes of soft Philly Pretzel Factory pretzels, homemade strombolis and other carbohydrate-packed, sober-me-up goodies.
Holding my red cup, I knocked back a generous swig. Not only does Guinness have the appearance of motor oil, but the effects as well. It lubricated my rusty limbs and vocal cords as I raised a fist and sang along to the raspy voice of Shane MacGowan and The Pouges playing through the speakers.
Conversation and insults were shouted freely, people’s eyes became hazy and the line for the bathroom grew as these good ol’ boys got ready to rain green on the streets of Baltimore. Unfortunately, during this bus ride I let a bit of my inebriation shine through as I threw my finger at a herd of cows and declared, “WOW, look at those deer!” This would be something some of the boys wouldn’t let me live down for the remainder of the trip.
Apparently, arriving fashionably late for this parade is this groups specialty. Moments after we arrived, we were in formation, with flags raised and banner displayed. Euphoria took control. I was in a fine group of gentlemen, on a wonderful day, in a wonderful city. Turning that first corner of the parade route instantly made me the happiest boy on earth.
I waved like I was Miss America, cheered like I was at the Super Bowl, and probably mouthed the words “I love you” to about 15 people.
We marched under an American flag strung between two fire trucks as the crowd’s cheers drove us home to the finish line. My eyes were wide and I found my hand still waving at anything that wandered by. I couldn’t convince my body that the moment had ended. A rush for the bus commenced, and we moved on.
I’ve been to Baltimore a few times, but this is the first time I finally understood where the Charm City moniker came from. The brick-paved streets, the brownstones and cozy bars quickly had my heart a’ pounding.
Stopping into Todd Connors, everyone tossed in a 20 to consume libations until the cash ran out. At that point, the group I settled in with — which included a local friend and a man whose Irish roots apparently run longer then his Polish last name — decided it was time to move on to the next place.
The Horse You Rode in On is not only the longest name in bar history, but one hell of a place to saddle up at the bar.
Realizing my liver was getting too much work, my stomach cried out as I made the mistake of ordering the $6 cheesesteak and fry combo platter. Apparently a cheesesteak in Baltimore includes lettuce, tomato and mayo. The Horse (for short) had a dark, yet lively, atmosphere and a solid group of locals, but what really shone through was the staff and service. Bartenders and bar backs were friendly and entertaining, lowbrow yet passionate and rooted. I cannot wait to go back.
Apparently getting a bunch of drunken AOH members onto a bus in a punctual manner is a bit of a task. The bus driver asked for last call five times in a 30-minute span. Finally the last few stragglers staggered onto the bus. As we filled our cups with the remainder of the keg’s contents, I slouched into my seat and finally let my body relax.
I had not only met a group of people who embody the Irish spirit, but a loving, communal spirit as well. As Jameson was poured into a Dixie cup for a shot to celebrate the life of a fallen brother and member, I began to feel as if I belonged in this group. As if I always belonged.
For more information, search the West Chester AOH on Facebook. And for more Evan rants, head over to www.AverageEnthusiast.com
