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We could have all sorts
of fun with this name (especially with a word in it that rhymes with
hog), but we will refrain in order to give the impression that we're
in any way professional and sane. After all, my "Erin go braless"
joke didn't go over so well at a co-worker's party last month (it
was her birthday, I was drunk and it was true). Considering the meathead
quotient at this joint, I don't think they'd get my Gaelic puns anyway--even
if I did drop a total doozy. Actually, the crowd varies depending
on what band or team is playing at MSG. The hockey fans (I think that
sport and weak fanbase still exist) are always the scariest and fondest
of light-colored American brew and fighting. I don't know for sure,
but I think Tír na nÓg translates to "big sweaty zoo,"
as we crammed our little group into the bar's crowded, humid confines.
Made even less bearable by the hot rain falling outside, I wanted
to just swing my bag in a giant arc and knock anyone within five feet
of me on his or her ass--be he or she friend or foe. Despite the pressing
bodies, it was miraculously easy to get a beer. I chalk that up to
observant bartenders who can pick out a thirsty, over-heated patron
in a sea of pretenders and space-hoggers. It's a matter of keeping
your head up and eyes moving. That Asian chick with the giant cosmo
standing at the bar isn't looking for another drink any time soon.
The exterior of this place looks like a stripmall bar in Peoria. The
interior is also unremarkable, but what do we expect from a place
whose soul purpose for existing is to get drunks drunk so they can
drunkenly shout stupid shit at dudes in athletic gear making twelve
million a year. [MF]
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