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post #160
bio: jen

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that week

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Irish Breakfast

Last week, I suddenly got a craving for Irish Breakfast. I suddenly wanted blood pudding in a really bad way.

Unfortunately, my craving was poorly timed. I started taking action to feed this craving on Thursday evening or St. Patrick's Day Eve.

Like many other robots, I too share a distaste for the amateur drinking day that St. Patrick's Day has become. I love celebrations and parties, but Frat boy America has a bad relationship with the drink. I blame the puritans. The puritanical American logic toward alcohol seems to be: alcohol is bad, to drink even a little alcohol is bad and leads to alcoholism; however, one day a year, you can be like the Irish (????) and drink til you puke. Yes, forget about Irish culture, history, and language, just wear green and drink lite beer. I'm not going to insult the intelligence of non-Frat boy America and say how fucked up that logic is. I'm not going to insult the intelligence of smart Frat boys and say that all Frat boys believe in this logic which perpetuates untrue stereotypes. All I wanted was breakfast.

I'm totally psyched that I used the word, perpetuates. It makes me feel so smart. Anyway, moving on.

On St. Patrick's Day eve, I met my bud, Flava, for beers. I like drinking with Flava because she gives me insights into stuff I never thought about. She has a keen mind and can nail down an idea with the hammer of honesty. She's a mellow drinker and likes to have a few beers and talk about life. Ah, life.

Anway, so I was meeting Flava at Sonny McLeans, a Boston Irish bar in Santa Monica. Yes, there is a Boston Irish bar in Santa Monica. They make good bar food and have an excellent beer selection. On Thursday, I went to Belgium.

When I told Flava of my Irish breakfast dilemma, she sympathized with my plight and offered me the rest of the hot wings. Fortunately, Mike the bartender came to my aid with a few places that might have Irish breakfast.

‘Do they have pudding? They've gotta have the pudding.' I said.

‘They should have the pudding.' He said.

I did not have Irish Breakfast on St. Patrick's Day. I woke up too late and just wasn't in the mood anymore. That night, I drove down to San Diego and met up with Sean who was still jetlagged from flying across the Pacific last weekend. He had tried to go to his favorite bar, but there was a line out the door. He was watching The Last Samurai when I arrived. Yep, Tom Cruise, it wasn't pretty.

The next morning, the sun was shining and the birds were singing. Sean suggested we go out for an Irish breakfast. I didn't have to be asked twice.

We went downtown to a bar/restaurant called Dublin Square. Even though it was late in the morning on a Saturday, Dublin Square was not crowded. Everyone was sleeping in or hung over. We sat out on the sidewalk and ordered two Irish breakfasts from a chipper waitress.

Soon, in front of me was a plate with eggs, sausage, ham, bread, potatoes, and both white and black pudding. Oh yes, I was a happy girl. I gave Sean a loving look across the table and he responded with ‘what?' Sometimes all a girl needs is breakfast.

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