Author Archive for M. Toole

The night the little people took over O’Leary’s

Straight away let it be said that Irishmen are often prone to hallucinations of mind and spirit.

I know that, for certain, great grandpa came from Kerry and was well acquainted with lots of leprechauns and many a mermaid.

But I’ll be swearin’ to this tale that I’m about to tell. For, it really did happen. And I’m not one to be makin’ up drivel.

Leprechaun hailing a cab on downtown Philadelphia, 2009

It was just a week ago tonight that I was rousted out from under the cozy confines of my electric blanket by the post midnight rattle of the telephone.

On the other end, talkin’ a mile a minute and in all the official language he could muster, was none other than himself, our local police chief.

“Mr. O’Neill,” he said. “Upon checking the latch of your bar this evenin’ we did notice that you went off and left the lights blazin’ and the jukebox blastin’ one of those Irish songs you insist on botherin’ yer customers with.”

Well, this was unsettling news, for, although I didn’t dare tell the chief this, I knew as sure as Harp has bubbles that I had doused the lights and unplugged the box when closin’ the joint just a few hours previous. So, keeping my wits about me, I assured the concerned cop that everything was fine and dandy, but that I would drive down to O’Leary’s and check things out my own self.

Which is what I did.

And upon arriving at the outer limits of the snoring little town of Parachute, all muffled by a soft layer of new snow, I ascertained that, sure enough, my old brick and boards pub was twinkling wide awake like a tree on the courthouse lawn at Christmas time. A curious thing, in the least. For just hours ago the last whiskey had been spilt and the last human fixture removed from a barstool and sent home to his mad wife and happy dreams.

Now, it is not that I place any stock those old tales about pukas and banshees or boogiemen, but I thought it’d be to my benefit and safety to approach the old building with a degree of caution. And I did. I sneaked up on the back door with the car lights off and cased the place before doin’ anything rash.

Just as the chief had said, the lights inside were shinin’ full tilt and the box was blastin’ a reel to beat the band. Takin’ a quick peek through the crack in the door I could see that there wasn’t a soul inside and that all that electricity was goin’ to waste.

Now it’s not a brave man that I am, but one concerned about hefty bills from Public Service. And so I fit the key in the lock and pushed my way inside.

The place was empty, spooky almost. The bottles shined in the light and the ghosts of my customers in hard hats seemed to wave at me from their assigned perches along the bar. And then I shut the door behind me.

Laughter and Irish curses rolled over me then. Pipe smoke hung around the lights and small figures began taking shape in every chair and on every stool. Gartered bartenders standing on empty beer kegs were pouring draws and sloshing pitchers about behind the battered mahogany bar. The Wolfe Tones reel that I had been hearing before had changed to enchanted flutes and fiddles, the likes of which my ears had never before been blessed with.

And I stood there with my keys in my hand and began counting in my head the number of Murphy’s that I’d allowed myself before goin’ to bed and concluded there was only two and that on Grandma Maggie’s grave I wasn’t drunk. Yet, the little people partying there around me paid me not so much as a random glance.

There were fat roast beefs and platters of fried cabbage soaking in butter and sprinkled with sugar all about and a bottle of my best Tyrconnell on every table. Guinness was running from every spigot like faucet water. Faery queens in crimson velvet and capes of ermine flitted about the dance floor enraptured by the Irish airs being woven from the flutes and strings and bones of a faery band.

At the biggest table a group of little men refilled their glasses and clapped time to a newly uncorked jig. They were fun-faced little gentlemen, dressed not as pretentiously as the women; in velvet derbies with matching vests and silken knee stockings.

And, sure as I can’t doubt my own two eyes, there was Liam O’Leary, my great grandfather’s own arrogant leprechaun, sittin’ at the head of the table. On his right sat a sparkle-eyed old man who looked, like me, to be of the mortal persuasion. By the devil, he was familiar to me, too.

But just then O’Leary eyeballed me standin’ with my feet stuck to the floor by the back door and in an instant the music stopped and the tiny revelers all froze in their tracks.

Should I not have been caught so dumbstruck, I might have asked to see all their I.D.s.

“Well O Danny be the divil, if it isn’t the martal bahrkeep, himself,” O’Leary said winkin’ to the old man on his right. “And I see ya got the invitation we sent ya, Pathrick.”

Beaming at his sawed off cohorts Liam bragged. “What a grand party it is, too, if I do say so meself! Come over here, laddie, and sit by me and your grandfaether. Have a tumbler full of this bad beer.”

Sure enough, that old fellow was my great granddad, himself, who promptly poured me a glass o’ golden lager beer which, when tasted, kicked magically like stout. This being done the party resumed and from then hence no one paid me any never mind. Except my handsome, gray-headed great grandfather, “Big Pat.”

For a long enough time he merely rubbed my already tousled head and stared at my soul with his old politician eyes. Family stories had always held that “Big Pat” had had a way with the little people, that his Democratic oratory in the Pendergast precincts had been blessed with the butter of blarney because of his being held in good stead with the magic folks.

I guess I already knew, even then, that the old man from his place in Heaven — or the furnace room, as the case might be —  had been keepin’ a close eye on me, his namesake, because O’Leary had told me as much on a previous occasion.

The first time the obnoxious little imp appeared in front of me– long ago in a dimly lit college newsroom — he had blasted me in the name of my departed namesake for bein’ “phony Irish.,” for thinking that my heritage was a pitcher of green beer, not in centuries of suffering and English spit.

That night grandpa didn’t have to say anything. I knew this was just another small reminder. I knew why I had been summoned the night the little people took over O’Leary’s.

St. Paddy’s Day was coming soon. The bar, of course, would be done up in banners and plastic party hats. The Jameson and Murphy’s and Harp and Guinness would run like the Shannon. We would surely wax phony Irish to beat the band.

The old man was in my bar that night to make sure I could still see through the green costumes, the cardboard cutouts and crinkly St. Pat’s hats and know that to be Irish was to be rich. That the people strong enough to have stayed on the “ould sod,” deserved more than a toast on March 17. They deserved a piece of my Irish heart and soul.

The following morning I woke up on my front porch sharin’ a blanket with the dog, sifting through various excuses (for my wife) and explanations (for myself).

Icy Streets and Leash Laws Clash

(Crested Butte) The town council here may rescind a 150-year-old leash law, due to safety considerations, on Crested Butte’s icy streets and alleys. The action came Monday night as elected officials argued the merits of the long standing ordinance compared with the safety of its dog-walking citizens.

Arctic weather and seasonal moisture here have combined to create treacherous conditions, especially on the town’s north-side streets and alleys. Even Elk Avenue gets a little dicey early in the morning and after sunset.

When a pedestrian mixes an already precarious stroll with approved dog walking methodology a chain reaction is likely to take place. The walker often finds himself flat on his face, horizontal with the pavement, compliments of his  over-eager mutt. Of course, a well trained dog, accustomed to healing, will not create such a hazard but even the most well behaved animal cannot be expected to perform to perfection with all the distractions (canine and otherwise) common to the town limits.

“We need leash laws in Crested Butte or we’d have dogs running around everywhere,” said one councilperson. “The restrictions are necessary for the safety and well being of the animal as well as for the general populace. However when butted up against icy sidewalks and dangerous streets we must reconsider the legislation.”

In a rare departure from existing policy another councilman warned that a slick walk at the receiving end of aggressive canine thrust could easily result in injury, and possible lawsuits.

“If we just rescind the law during periods when the streets are bullet-proof  we might save everyone a lot of hassle,” he said. “We could operate along the lines of the parking laws with certain areas off limits on certain days. We could put up signs all over telling people when and where they could safely walk their dogs.”

Taking no action of the matter and leaving decisions in the hands of the people was not an option, according to the first council member who insisted that maintaining the current status would not solve the problem and that allowing people to police themselves was ridiculous.

“That’s like a Washington lobbyist volunteering for military duty in Iraq,” she said. “It may look good on paper but it will never happen. If we just suspend leash laws until mud season we should avoid disaster. When the real thaw arrives we might even implement higher fines for dogs at large and recoup our losses by June.”

After an hour of proposals it appeared that the law makers would suspend the leash laws for a trial period.

“Either we terminate the law altogether or groom Elk Avenue,” laughed one rogue councilman sitting in the back of the room. “What about protecting drunks and persons too busy talking into their cell phones to pay attention to the conditions? What about flatlanders unaccustomed to negotiating ice? They are people too!”

He then angrily departed the chambers, slamming his laptop, hurling his Sorrels and designer Italian sunglasses into the hallway for dramatic affect.

In other developments the remaining council members voted to deny further liquor licenses to canine groups (the first such action taken toward any applicant in over 30 years) and to ban heated dog houses due to cited high energy use in the often inefficient dwellings. Critics of the action say the council is merely punishing outside dogs for any part they might have in the crisis.

– Fred Zeppelin

Inventor of Panty-Hose Found Strangled

(Montrose) The woman credited with developing and marketing panty-hose was found near death at Sea View Apartments here this morning. A victim of her own shallow devices, 98-year-old Ruthie Roosterson, was cheated and released at St Roscoe’s Memorial. She expired some three hours after her check cleared.

Police have a suspect in custody, a Pea Green chemist and former La Spezian restauranteur Maude de Flippante, who has repeatedly claimed to have invented panty-hose three years before Roosterson. Flippante, then a resident of the Limousin Region of France (see civilized countries under Europe) was promptly arrested and may get the death penalty due to what the court called “tasteless crimes against the comfort, sensuality and libido of all”.

He had publicly threatened to strangle Roosterson at a fashion show in Berlin in 1990.

Flippante is no good,” said his former mistress with whom he escaped a racketeering charge in suburban Paris in 1984. “He stowed away in a case of Martel and didn’t share.”

Roosterson’s eager heirs were notified as to the dire misfortune last night. Authorities informed the lot that there was no money to inherit since Roosterson had squandered her fortune at craps in a Tawaoc (Colorado) gambling casinos over the past few months. Most of the holy expectant remain in seclusion, fiscally devastated by the turn of events.

The sole suspect plans to plead innocent on all charges despite incriminating DNA samples found on the death scene. A trial/barbecue is planned at Pea Green Hall later in the month. Bring a covered fish.

– Landover Pigeone

Steeple in the Sky, Ouray

Saint Patrick’s steeple in vertical confederacy with the San Juans

Ghost of Jim Morrison Returns

(Jack’s Cabin) The ghost of rock and roll legend Jim Morrison is back in Colorado, according to residents here who claim to have spoken with the popular icon. The lyrical spook has apparently mingled on Elk and even stopped to wet his whistle in the town’s bucket shops.

“Why the surprise? Crested Butte has been the destination spot for a host of questionable characters since the 1800s,” said a town source. “We’ve hosted gunslingers and ginslingers, tramp miners and trollops, evangelists and gypsies, party girls and cowpunchers, but it has only been within the past ten years that celebrity ghosts have discovered the place.”

The town, as readers will no doubt recall, received national notoriety in the 1970s due to the ridiculously high incidence of UFO sightings. In addition teams of parapsychologists have verified the presence of a lingering spirit world alive and well in many of the town’s historic landmarks.

“So far not one of these visitors has caused problems, although most of the extraterrestrials tend to drink too much,” continued the source, “and the ghosts don’t seem to drink at all. Right now we’re trying to communicate and share information with both control groups.”

One minor setback is that neither of these visitors, including the likes of Morrison, spends any money. According to CBMR statistics they don’t stay in hotels or buy life tickets. They can just be on the mountain all day, unencumbered by the laws of a physical world and the restrictions of distance and space.

“That doesn’t make them cheap. It makes them frugal,” laughed our spokesperson. “There are lots of vitamins in pizza and coke.”

Resort personnel expect that a new marketing scheme will be implemented, focusing on the plethora of recreational opportunities available here.

“If we can simply tap into this endless stream of visitors we might never see an off-season again,” said a chamber release. “We feel that package deals for these people is feasible by next year.”

Meanwhile, a slated concert by Morrison at the Center for the Arts is on hold until negotiations can be resumed or living members of the Doors, Morrison’s band, can be contacted.

“Jim has been rather illusive when it comes to making a commitment but we do have a slew of hot digital, electronic polka bands scheduled for March.                                                      -Warren of Wexley

MUD SLIDE ENDS MARTIAN PROBE

(Houston) NASA officials today admitted that a massive mud slide has interrupted scanning efforts on the Red Planet. Probes sent to examine the planet’s surface have reportedly been bogged down just west of the Noonday Gulf.

The mud slide appears to have been generated by hordes of astronauts trampling across the Sea of Venus in search of the Seven Cities of Gold. The space travelers, the gold and, up till now, the mud slide, had been kept secret due to “considerable national security considerations of national security”.

“Well the cat’s out now,” said Melvin Toolier, former Aquitaine bull rider great and the recognized inventor of the automotive hair bag. “Now all those loonies on the tax and voter registration rolls will know about alien space ship visits, celebrity wardrobe malfunctions, human abductions, Schiaparelli’s Canals, Cher’s grade school romances and green cheese on our own moon. The next thing you know the public will believe that the Warren Commission was nothing more than a peaceful, grassy knoll.”

Most astronomers do not believe that intelligent life exists on Mars, but do think plants exists there. Until last year scientists had collected no data on minerals or soil specimens.

“Getting back to the mud,” started Toole, “it’s just about everywhere. We suspect that latent polar ice caps may have been the culprit and ancient timber cutting may have created serious erosion.”

Toole was not clear as to who may have been at the bottom of the deforestation or if what appears to be brown, faded Martian Forest Service signs actually indicate attempts at land management.

A combined Russian-American astral backhoe team is expected to arrive on the Red Planet Friday unless they drink too much vodka the night before. With any luck the mud slide can be mucked out before Martian tourist season.

In a related development, bellied sources at the Navel Observatory in Washington confirmed the second sighting of a massive meteor headed straight for earth. The metallic matter, which is thought to have originated between Deimos and Phobos (the moons of Mars) is on a collision course with Disney World.

“We expect the meteor to hit Florida on the night of June 12 which gives people ample time to expand coinciding vacation options,” said Toole from a repaired statement. “After that we just don’t know.” – Suzie Compost