This will go down on your permanent record

Posted: March 17th, 2011 | Author: Rian ONeill | Filed under: You deserve a slow clap | 11 Comments »

Is there any sweeter feeling than that of outfoxing authority figures and feasting upon forbidden fruits right beneath their noses? The answer to that is no. Nothing is better. Case in point, this past Saturday’s Saint Patrick’s Day Parade, or what will henceforth be know as the day three blarneyed-out potato lovers hoodwinked the SFPD.

Before I spin this yarn, allow me to introduce the conspirators:

Kerry “Quick Feet” Morrissey: The youngest and craftiest of the bunch, Kerry brought a bottle of whiskey and a whole bucket of piss and vinegar to the parade.
McSkills: Winking. Irish dancing. (Like for real Irish dancing.)
Dirty Secret: Wants to join a Robot Cabaret Circus.

David “Donnybrook” Yeager: Don’t be fooled by the Germanic surname and Texas roots. David will cut you with a Limerick and bury you in a shallow corned beef grave.
McSkills: Notre Dame graduating. Heel kicking.
Dirty Secret: None. Spotless record.

Rian “Cabbage Patch” O’Neill: Loves cheese. Afraid that all dogs want to bite his unit. Was once accurately described with just three words: Big. Hairy. Loud.
McSkills: Close talking. Rabblerousing.
Dirty secret: Was born to an English mother.

Right. Back to the parade. We were swimming in sunshine from the moment we met on Market Street. Saw a pack of giant wolfhounds. Clapped on the dancers going kick kick kick. Nipped at the Jameson bottle. Became the number one fans of a middle school marching band led by perhaps the greatest xylophonist in the country. Seriously. She was slapping the shit out of that xylo and our feet just could not stand still.

We ballyhooed on through the Tenderloin with neighborhood-appropriate tall boys in paper bags, just kind of enjoying the show. The route ended at the stately Civic Center, which is typically overrun with aggressive zombie bums but instead was filled with beer tents and food stands and super happy white people wearing green. We blended right in.

While enjoy a fresh barley pop, David noted a party going on in the balcony of one of the grand government buildings that surround the square. We decided to investigate. Took the elevator up a floor, walked over to the ballroom doors, and was stopped by an elderly lady in a pantsuit and a highly decorated police officer with incredible eyebrows. Kerry asked what the deal was. Pantsuit explained it was a private party for the San Francisco Police Department Emerald Society. I mentioned that Kerry’s father was a Chicago police officer and member of their Emerald Society (false). Eyebrows said that didn’t matter, you need tickets. We retreated with major chips on our shoulders.

The three of us loitered down the hall, determined to find a way into this obviously rocking cop party. It was decided our best chance was to have recent college grad Kerry stand outside the men’s room, make friendly with a party guest, slip in, and then somehow slip us in. We really didn’t think it through that far. She obliged and the two “gentlemen” waited out of sight for the plan to come into place.

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. God, how many beers had she downed by now? The answer turned out to be zero. Kerry called an audible on the terrible bathroom blitz, saddled up with the caterers in the kitchen, and phoned us over to figure out Step Two. The University of Illinois-Chicago did this one good.

While David was asking the chef no less than 30 questions about the preparation of corned beef, it dawned on us exactly what needed to be done. We needed to put on waiter uniforms and bust this ball up. The door of opportunity opened when one of the waitresses griped about needing a beer. I said we’d be happy to grab them beers if we could put on aprons and go into the party. For some ungodly reason, she and the chef agreed. Must not have cared about their jobs. We put on the aprons, grabbed bussing trays and tin foil and plastic utensils, and walked past the guarded door into the great unknown.

Cops. Everywhere. Oh and the theme song from the show “Cops” was playing. And I am not lying. Overwhelmed with panic that we would get pinched, I did what any drunken former busboy would do—start cleaning tables. I must have cleared a garbage bag worth of plates, napkins, and empty beers before noticing that David and Kerry were not doing the same. They took the alternate path of ditching their aprons and grabbing beers at the open bar. After bringing a few back to our caterer brethren—Irish honor and whatnot— I dumped the apron and jumped into the shenanigans.

Wish I could tell you how much cop corned beef we ate and cop beer we drank on that balcony. Really do. But it was consumed with so much damn pride and giddiness that the entire afternoon just has a beautiful sheen over it. I can tell you a few things from the inside.

We bought super panther SFPD Emerald Society shirts, which happened to double as brilliant disguises. Kerry befriended Jose the DJ, a retired officer who let us control the music for the last 45 minutes of the ball. First up, Lady Gaga. Next, Kelly Clarkson. I asked Kerry to put on some Stones so we didn’t draw any unneeded attention our way. Typical move for a table busser. David had a lengthy conversation with an SVU detective and later pointed out that “he couldn’t put the clues together that we were party crashers.”

We left that place on sunshiny rainbows. Completely bulletproof. Even walked to The Mint and sang some karaoke. Of course we all nailed our performances. I guess when you strike the perfect blend of whiskey, gusto, and dumb Irish luck, anything is possible.

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