The Blue Leprechaun: Call of Duty, Ross Perot and Chicken Parmsean

After a day of writing the usual fun stuff: body found under a bush, car accident, old people burying a time capsule, I made my usual post-work trip to the bar.

For whatever reason, I felt compelled to try something other than my usual spots. So I visited the Blue Leprechaun (located here).  The walk was a little long, but the weather was nice (until it started to rain. I report the news, not the weather).

I’ve been told that most the time the Blue Leprechaun sports a pretty decent crowd with a good mix. Turns out that 6:30 on a Tuesday is not one of those times, because the place was as bare as the stands at a JV soccer game.

A decent crowd gathered at the circular bar, so I made my way up and ordered a Bell’s Oberon—that’s where the journey begins.

About eight to nine dudes are at the bar—and not a woman in sight, except our unfortunate bartender Lyndsey. Who spells Lyndsey with a ‘Y’? Future post right there, but I digress.

Lyndsey did her best with nine “charming” bros who shared everything from how much they liked her top to why their latest girlfriend broke up with them. (I got off of work and was in no mood to talk, but I did add 3 more dollars to my usual tip, call it “I’m sorry you deal with this” compensation)

But back to my new friends for the night, the bro sitting two seats down from me was Eduardo from Brazil, (I’m giving Eduardo 6 out of 10 confidence points that he really is Eduardo and 3 out of 10 that he is really Brazilian). Anyhow, 20-something-year-old Eduardo was having a conversation with a 40-something-year-old plumber Jim on what was better, Call of Duty or Battlefield.

Eduardo was downing a Pepsi while using dramatic arm motions to explain why Battlefield is better because Call of Duty is infested with potty-mouth 10-year-olds who all know about anatomy of our mothers, while Jim was asking about how to use the grenade launcher while sipping on his Bud Light. (I know I shouldn’t judge people by what they drink, but they do, because I’m judgmental like that). 

Jim seemed to be digging Eduardo’s rant, only encouraging to Eduardo to speak more on the fan boy manifestation of Call of Duty, meanwhile I ordered the Chicken Parmesan (it said on the menu it’s the crowd favorite). 

Jim was sitting next to his work buddy Bob, or was it Mike, oh hell, I was too enthralled with the Chicken Parmesan and fan boy conversation to pay that much attention. Bob/Mike was speaking with a recent U-M engineering graduate on his astonishment of two teenagers that he discovered smoking marijuana in a parking garage. 

The graduate informed Bob/Mike that Ann Arbor has pretty lax rules when it comes to weed, a $50 fine from the police if you get caught, which apparently is a miracle in and of itself since AAPD have next to a 100 better things to do than catch you with pot. 

The graduate explained the decimalization of marijuana is a result of a ballot initiative the residents past. Bob/Mike scoffed at the idea of a voting, claiming he hasn’t voted since 1992 since the candidates are either “Liar A” or “Liar B”. (Come’on Bob/Mike, Ross Perot was on the ballot that year, that’s at least worthy of a “Liar C” mention.) 

While that conversation was developing, my new Brazilian friend Eduardo blurted out ‘You know when the only time it’s OK for someone to have sex with my mother?’ At that point I asked Lyndsey for another Oberon, some things you just need to hear out.

Eduardo and Jim’s conversation evolved/devolved from fan boys in online game to having relations with another dude’s mother—any online gamer can see the natural progression. 

After a short heart-to-heart, Eduardo and Jim gave each other an awkward bro hug and told him it would be alright if Jim slept with Eduardo’s mother, his rational was that he had access to his mom’s boobs as an infant, so why shouldn’t Jim have access now. Eduardo was rolling four Pepsi refills deep at the moment, so I’m not putting it past him that the caffeine is getting the best of him. 

Bob/Mike was done with his political discourse with the graduate, who was having a loud conversation about bringing his lady friend to the bar, and now turned his attention to Jim. This is when I finally noticed they are working the same shirt and work at the same plumbing firm.

The conversation turned to the film The Purge, and what would they do during a night of anarchy. Eduardo would use the law-free night go speeding down I-94 in his Dodge Intrepid, while Jim and Bob/Mike would like to relive the 1980s with some LSD and prostitutes.

This is when Jim turned to me and asked why I was so quiet, pulling me into the conversation and away from my Chicken Parmesan. He asked me who I was and what I would do. I explained I was a reporter, and outside of breaking into a car dealership and pulling a Tyler Durden on the business that owns my student loans, I’d have a quiet purge night---I like rules, rules keep me safe.

I figured it was time to call for my tab. I left a 23 percent tip for Lyndsey, who did not notice/return my head nod as I walked away.

The rain stopped for my journey back to the car, and as I was walking through the UM campus back to my car I kept thinking, "damn, that was a pretty good Chicken Parmesan."