So. I’m at The Bagel Place With The WiFi, because I’ve been working all day and I try very, very hard to go out among the Hu-Mans at least once a day. The Pogues are on my iPhone and as I tend to my MacBook I’m bobbing my head in serene sympathy with whatever was going through Shane MacGowan’s head when he recorded “Fairytale Of New York,” besides the contents of the bottle of window cleaner he found in the janitor’s closer right before the recording session.
I notice that the little girl in the armchair is looking at me and her father seems to be saying something. I unplug a headphone. They notice me noticing them noticing me. Conversation ensues.
“We were just talking about how you’re enjoying your music,” the father (a very normal, professional-looking dad) says.
I smile. “It’s The Pogues. It’s involuntary.”
“You know, Shane MacGowan threw up on a friend of mine once, back in the 80’s,” he says.
“I suppose that isn’t statistically unlikely, given the man’s history,” I reply, but I’m impressed.
“That’s nothing,” he says, and proceeds to tell me briefly of his time as a club promoter and sound man in New York City. Mostly: friends of his getting vomited on by some of the leading creative lights of that musical era.
“Wow,” I finally say. “You totally didn’t waste the 80’s, did you?”