NM--Day 3 heading west

NM—Day 3

Oh my god---once I got in to New Mexico---the view outside really picked up.  Red hills, canyons and mountains all around.  What a beautiful state.  I was pumped to go see Santa Fe, and decided to get my headlight repaired there.  I felt like I was in the land of Wil E Coyote and the Road Runner and was bouncy, happy and smiley, looking forward to seeing one of the funniest people I know, Mr Joe Carney.

I pulled in to Santa Fe, and it was hard to see the charm, as I was at the Jiffy Lube just outside of town.  It was  a very nice Jiffy Lube, but nothing special.

I walked the area while my oil was changed, and bumped in to some adobe houses with ornate iron doors.  Kind of hit the mark?

Anyway, the Jiffy Lube fellows couldn’t get the headlight to malfunction, so I drove away with just an oil change.

I drove through the old square of Santa Fe and it did seem charming, but almost in a New Orleans, come and drink and party way.  Lots and lots of strings of red peppers and margarita signs.   I was hoping for more crystals and turquoise, but maybe you have to know where to go for that.

I rolled down the hills to Albuquerque and arrived at the Carney manse.  Little John Carney and Terry and I took Pickle up a hill in a nearby park and the view was awesome.  They live in an area of rolling hills, a mix of old and new houses.  Joe pulled up and we met him and I got to see their lovely house with a huge backyard.  John has allergies, so Pickle agreed to hang out in the laundry room.  Joe wrestled with the baby gate that would keep Pickle confined for at least 10 minutes until he finally got it to work.

A bit about Joe—he’s got a round round Irish face and any feeling he has shows up right on that mug of his.  Black hair, blue eyes and he looks like an Irish man, straight out of central casting.  Joe is an amazing mimic, tells the best jokes and likes to gossip.  He’s such a funny funny dude—and I’m so grateful to him, and Terry and John for putting me up.  Years ago, I dated/hooked up with one of Joe’s pals.  It was all very casual, but I found out that he had slept with someone else on St. Patrick’s Day.  Carney was giving us both a ride home, and he and I “broke up” with me in the backseat of Carney’s car, while his friend was in the front passenger seat and Carney was driving.  Carney handled it like a champ and even dropped me off after the split.

Carney’s got a brother, Tommy, and parents “Mr and Mrs Carney” and every St Patrick’s day, Joe and John fly in, and the guys march in the St. Patrick’s Day parade with the Irish Fellowship.  I’ve never gone to the parade but usually join the group afterwards at Cavanaughs, a downtown Irish bar in the Monandock building  http://www.cavanaughschicago.com/home

A few years ago, I stayed home from St. Patrick’s day, licking my wounds from a breakup, and turned on the TV to watch the parade. 

And I just knew, that right at that moment, I’d see those round Irish Carney heads, wearing the Irish Fellowship Sashes, Aran sweaters and waving at the crowd. 

And there’s nothing more fun than watching local coverage of the lame Thanksgiving Day parade, New Year’s eve and St. Patrick’s Day Parade.  Chicago is a town that likes it’s drinks, and all the broadcasters are boozing it up, Judy Baar Topinka is in studio with a mysterious to-go coffee mug and people like “Chicago’s own Matt Walsh” as the Grand Marshal. 

The true party is at the South Side Parade on the Sunday of St. Patrick’s---I went only once, and everyone bitched because it was being invaded by Northside revelers, pouring off of busses from Lincoln Park, a bunch of trixies and todds trotting their way over Southside bungalow front yards.  I was there with a legit southside irish family, and as I munched on corned beef and cabbage,  I watched them all scowl at the partiers.  A few years later, they shut the parade down, but that only lasted 2 years.  I haven’t been back since, but that’s pretty fun, too.

Anyway, we went out for dinner (to an Irish pub, of course) and I made Carney do all his impersonations of our mutual friends, and laughed and laughed and laughed.

When we got home, Pickle had peed in the laundry room and John brought me paper towels to clean it up and almost gagged.  Poor kid.

We hung out a bit more, but Pickle bitched the whole time, so we put her in the kennel and called it a night.

The next morning, I saw Joe and John leave, with both of them wearing neat polo shirts, tucked neatly in to their trousers.  John told me all about his school routine (I love hearing that shit) and Joe showed me how lock the front door (So the bad guys don’t rob us, Beck Becky).  What a nice family.  Oh, I was closing pocket doors to keep Pickle out of rooms, and I think I broke the dining room door.  I left a note, but  Joe hasn’t said anything, so I’m prepared to check it on my return visit and pay for the damage.

Off to Scottsdale!