Irish Frisky

We’re obviously in favor of holidays that revolve solely around drinking. Which is why we love St. Patrick’s Day. We also like how it brings droves of amateur drinkers to midtown. Their drunken antics make the annoyance of an overcrowded area worthwhile. Such was the case last year, when we watched some girl-on-girl action on the deck of Buzzard Beach, followed by said girls grinding sandwich-style against a mulleted man.

In honor of the upcoming daylong wastoidfest, we headed to O’Dowd’s. Although it usually attracts the typical Plaza bar crowd (meatheads who think the Plaza is hip) and the college Greek crowd (who don’t know any better), we like to remember O’Dowd’s for a specific moment. Once, during happy hour, we were surrounded by man couples, which inspired our future alt-country ballad “You’re Not Foolin’ Anyone With That Wedding Ring (We Know You’re Gay).” When we win a Grammy, we’ll be sure to thank O’Dowd’s.

On a recent Saturday night, the crowd was again sausage-heavy. DJ Rico and his retro-to-right-now playlist (along with two women in Chelsea haircuts who were backup dancers on stage) just added to the meat-market vibe. As Research Assistant Casey pointed out, “There are more crew cuts in here than at the Iraqi border — and a whole lot more collateral damage.” But we liked watching the guy rows, waiting for the ladies to ask them to dance. “Someone order me up an Anthony Michael Hall!” Casey said.

We ordered up drinks instead. We started with the house specialty — Guinness, of course — then moved on to mixed drinks served in tall, thin glasses with flared tops. The winner of the night was the Irish coffee. O’Dowd’s usually makes its Irish coffee with Jameson and brown sugar, but we got it with Kahlua instead. It had a nice, caramely taste and came topped with a load of whipped cream.

Fueled on alcohol and caffeine, we emerged from our “snug,” a quasi-secluded, roomlike booth. This wasn’t because we’d seen a couple making out in one nearby; it was so we could mingle, which seemed essential in the Dance Party U.S.A. atmosphere.

The crowd’s behavior was ever more amusing. We spotted what looked like the worst Elimidate ever, already in progress: Three guys with plaid shirts tucked into their jeans surrounded a little be-boop in Bebe. And we noticed many instances of dorky dancing, from the guy who was dramatically waving his arms around to the Beastie Boys’ “Sabotage” — and mouthing the words — to the Pebbles Flintstone type (she even had on a one-shouldered shirt!) who kept hoisting her Miller Light bottle in time to the music.

However, it was when DJ Rico denied our request for “We Built This City” that our night ended. We left, feeling as though we were adequately prepared for the drunkaliciousness that will be March 17.

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