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Dear Drink: Irish Handcuffs

An open letter to the Irish Handcuffs at the Brotherhood Lounge

IRISH HANDCUFFS: A shot of Jameson and a can of Pabst at The Brotherhood Lounge. Photo credit: Pappi Swarner

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Dear Irish Handcuffs,

OK, I know what you're thinking.

You think since last week I turned into the biggest crank-guy I'm going to use this column to grouse about the holidays again. You think I'm going to groan about my horrible holiday work schedule; how more gunfire erupted since the last week's column; that mankind is meek and inferior, ever struggling to live up to some hideously puritanical idea of the scared and the enlightened.

Well, I'm not Irish Handcuffs. See, something happened this week that has changed my tune.

Sunday, as I was cramming work in so I could make rather merry, I heard a clanking noise down the office hall. Skulking around the corner, I found the old, dead Mac G4 was wavering with ghostly images and emitting a low moaning sound. "Quit it," I said, giving the plastic casing a swift shove, but the moans only grew more plaintive. Then the office printer slowly churned out a single sheet of paper, which read: "You have mail." Trembling, my hand reached for the mouse and clicked. "You will be haunted by Three Ghosts," read the message from suckitscrooge@humbug.net. And then, as suddenly as the whole thing started, the computer shut down, the printer shut off and all was quiet again. "Bah," I actually said out loud, as I labored down the hall. "That was nothing but an undigested bit of MSM Deli's Mike's Deluxe, a blot of Harmon Steep & Deep Winter Ale, a crumb of Bread Peddler blueberry scone."

Having slipped into a doze at my desk, I was none too happy to awaken and find myself face to face with an unearthly visitor. "Are you here to fix the roof?" I asked, wiping the drool of my chin. The figure standing above me was Midshipman Thomas A. Budd, who was a member of the Lt. Charles Wilkes expedition, which discovered what is now called Budd Inlet in Olympia. "Rise! Grab the tail of my raccoon cap and walk with me!"

"Cripes, do this, do that. You guys sure are pushy for being from the other side," I didn't say but wish I did, as, together, we passed through the office's dry rot wall.

We stood inside The Brotherhood Lounge in downtown Olympia. But, lo! This wasn't just any night. It was the Broho's 10th anniversary bash, packed from end to end. Budd asked if I knew the joint. Know it? I've been coming here since ol' Pit Kwiecinski bought it. There he is. Bless his heart. He's making sure everyone is having a grand ol' time. Look, he even brought OldSchool pizza for everyone.

"Hilli-ho everyone!" Kwiecinski didn't say but it would have been awesome for this column if he did.

Then I saw myself plopped in the middle of a party, snapping photos without permission, pushing my way to the front of the stage to snap shots of the awesome female-fronted Scorpions tribute band.

"Chirrup, Swarner," Kwiecinski should have said. "Maybe you haven't noticed but there's a party in our midst."

Budd pointed to the crowd. Everyone was laughing and pinching ass (Tacoma hugs, Olympia pinches ass) as one big, happy family. Everyone knew everyone, and thrilled to spend the day before Christmas Eve together at the festive Broho Lounge.

Kwiecinski handed me one of the Broho's most popular drinks; that would be you, Irish Handcuffs - a shot of Jameson backed with a can of Pabst. You begin tripled distilled with light malt, caramel on the front palette and a bit of grainy sweetness. Then, of course, comes the gulp of Pabst - watery, thin and bland, yet surprisingly refreshing. Sure, your working-class beer is a "look at me, I'm creating irony" thing at hipster bars, but it balances the Jameson well.

Kwiecinski grabbed my camera and my notepad, then pushed me into the joy.

"Enough, Budd," I cried. "Leave me! Take me back! Haunt me no longer!" And with that, I was back at the office, and Budd disappeared in a puff of smoke.

By the time the second Ghost arrived, the state's first governor Isaac Stevens, I was long gone, racing toward the Brotherhood's 10th anniversary party. Twenty minutes later, I had an Irish Handcuffs on the Brotherhood's back patio, jumped in the photo booth with Weekly Volcano scribe Nikki McCoy and basically rocked it like a hurricane.

So, dear Irish Handcuff, I have resolved this year that I will not shout, I will not cry, I will not pout, and I'm telling you why: I've learned it's Ok to chill every so often, drink good whiskey with cheap ass beer and get to know my fellow man. And besides, it took me all morning to get that smoke smell out of the office, and I'd just as soon Budd doesn't come around again.

Cheers,

Ron Swarner

THE BROTHERHOOD LOUNGE, 4 P.M. TO 2 A.M., CASH ONLY, 119 CAPITOL WAY N., OLYMPIA, 360.352.4153

LINK: Photos from the Broho's 10th Anniversary Bash

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