Articles tagged with bars:
Sometimes it’s not only the grand, overwhelming moments that make your eyes burn with grateful tears and your chest ache from stolen breath. I guess that’s what I learned this Easter in Ireland.
I’ve never been one to shirk Paddy’s Day. Year after year I’ve met it square on, as if daring this, Bacchus’s favorite holiday, to best me. I’ve made some fine memories along the way…but nothing could quite prepare me for Paddy’s Day in Dingle.
Even the Irish know how absolutely mad, epically weird, twisted like a candy cane in a five-year old’s mouth Wren’s Day is. They kept asking me, friends and strangers, over and over, “Have you ever seen anything like it?”
Turns out, the big man who been singing to me was Brian Cowen, who until last year served as Ireland’s Taoiseach – the Irish prime minister. About three minutes passed before I’d managed to wrangle him into posing for a photo with me. We hung out for awhile after that, drinking our pints as we chatted about where I was from and what I was doing in Dingle and whether or not I’d ever actually be able to leave.
I was messaging recently with a friend in Japan about my ongoing adventure here in the Land of Saints and Poets. She wrote that she was happy to learn I am having the best of times, but unsurprised, too, adding, “of course Ireland would fit you like a glove.” And it is true I am ridiculously comfortable here, that I feel a sense of “home” that I’ve never experienced anywhere else but in the gentle ridges and generous valleys of the Central Pennsylvania Appalachians where I was raised. But why?
I’m sitting here at the Octagon Bar in the Clarence Hotel in Dublin. I’ve got a Baileys and coffee next to me, my computer in front of me and I’m overwhelmed. Not because the room itself – eight-sided though it is, with a jazzy, same-shaped bar in the center, a skylight glowing crimson-colored rising above – is especially breathtaking. It’s the realization that I’m fulfilling a wish that until this moment I didn’t even know I had.
So for this week’s Go Pink Boots guest piece, we turn to the fabulous Serafice Cordova, the woman whom I call in all seriousness and with great affection my “fabuguru”. Sera is the most gifted psychic I know – and yes, I know lots – and is uncanny in her ability to unravel rather well-knotted situations. Even, like, Jill-knotted situations.
So as I close in on my 46th birthday, I’ve been feeling a tad contemplative. It seems as though things are changing for me, and the changes feel momentuous. (At least I hope they are momentous, I really do. I’m ready, Freddy, for big change.) And I got to thinking…maybe I’ll take a wee break from blogging – at least writing my own blog pieces, at least during this birthday month, and instead ask some of my illustrious friends to guest blog for me. I want different perspectives, I want to see through others’ eyes. I want to be made awake.
So back when I was lucky enough to get an invitation to visit the magnificent Beau Rivage Resort and Casino, I heard tell of a magical potion I might sample there. A potion so superb and miraculous that to miss it would be a tragedy from whence I might never recover. The name of this extraordinary elixir? The Bloody Mary.
The time, it seems, has nearly arrived. To cease looking back and instead peer forward into the shining, silver mists of the future. To turn not with fear but hope toward the coming twelve months, leaving behind the joys of last year in anticipation of 2012’s glories. Until, of course, the planet blows up. Or melts down. Or does whatever funky and not entirely pleasant thing it might do, proving that the Mayans didn’t just run out of space on their calendar but actually really knew their end-of-the-world shit.
Well, you know what they say: better late than never. And so, after a brief pause in GPB’s EPIC countdown of 2011’s Craziest Sexiest and Coolest adventures, we return with a truly scintillating look back at the past year’s sexiest. But before you go getting your panties all in a bunch, be aware sexy ‘round here doesn’t necessarily have to do with making whoppee. Sexy, at least on this here list, pertains to something not merely erotic but also exotic, something so massively pleasureable, so intensely yummy, that if I were a cat I would have bared my belly and purred.
Ok, so admittedly it might have been a little much, even for me. My FIRST night in Slovenia and I find myself deep into the Green Fairy, surrounded by stunningly beautiful people with, in a David Lynchian-like detail, a small back and white Boston Terrier sporting a big red rubber ball in his mouth scampering around our feet.
Pirates and night swimming and dive bars and baby possums and muscle cars and manatees: Charlotte Harbor has it all – and a whole hecka lot more.
Ok, so I’m still on my annual swing out west and thus do not currently have the time to pen a beautifully eloquent, deeply moving ode to Wyoming. That will come later, after I’ve made it home and slept for four days straight. In the meantime, here’s are the durn reasons why I cried like a little girl as my plane lifted off from Jackson Hole…
Just how rowdy are Nashville’s bars? Enough so that I actually wondered aloud to one of my hosts: “I’m not sure I’m ready for those honky tonks.” To which she replied, grinning, “Jill, I’m not sure those honky tonks are ready for you.” Read on to find out who bested who…
Yep, that’s me mauling Where’s Waldo while my buddy Mac looks on in fear and dismay as a giant penis dances behind him. A typical Halloween on Pittsburgh’s South Side? You make the call.
Reputedly owned by the former madam of a Bangkok brothel, renowned for bartenders who terrify and abuse the ill-fated club rats who occasionally drift in, clueless, from West Hollywood, Smog Cutter was also once the hangout of LA’s most notorious writerly drunkard. How is it that I’ve lived my entire life up until now without ever setting pink-booted feet inside its glorious doors?
Largely forgotten, Things to do in Denver When You’re Dead", was a 1995 crime film that I simply adored. But despite it’s large and magnificent cast, beautifully written screenplay and superior directing, it was not exactly a love sonnet to the Mile High City. Maybe if Jimmy the Saint, The Man with the Plan and Critical Bill hadn’t been so busy trying to kill each other, they could have taken time to enjoy Denver’s many cultural offerings.
The second installment in the continuing investigative series exposing the hell-raising ways of two women crossing three western states, much like Thelma and Louise. Only drunker and without guns.