1. Plumber's Craic.

"Tell me what's wrong with youth these days," inquired Raymond McMahon. He was an erect Komodo dragon wearing a green flannel button-up and enough Old Spice to singe every hair in your nose.

"Tell me why they're in such a damn hurry."

As Raymond spoke, the daytime bartender at Mrs. O'Leary's Cow and moonlighting drummer of the freshly signed The Farrow Moans, 24-year-old Tommy Shannahan looked at the grizzled man before him. As Raymond sipped his Guinness — sucking the promise out of the sunny, quiet Sunday that Tommy hoped for — Tommy pondered:

• Why is this man so angry? He has an extra manic twinkle in his eye today.

• Why does he always have to be the first person here when I open?

• How amazing would it be to be sleeping right now?

• Carmen Swisher's legs.

• Did I forget the snare at the gig? I think I put it in the van next to the hi-hat.

• Carmen Swisher's denim skirt and panty shot she gave while accidentally*1 rocking back on the bar stool and laughing at Cal's terrible joke. Was she humoring him? Does she really like corny-ass puns?

• The lack of youthful and cool people that come into The Cow during the day.

• Maybe we should change our set list. Maybe we should lead off with "Shattered Halo." Mental note: Run that past Cal.

• I can drum as good as Patrick Carney*2. Right?

• Carmen Swisher's silver, silky thong. Why do the hot chicks gravitate toward the lead singers? "Oooh, I'm so ironic. I'm a lead singer. Check me out. Run your fingers through my gorgeous, sun-blessed hair." I bet Cal banged Carmen Swisher last night.

• Why is this dickhead staring at me? Didn't he ask a rhetorical question? I'm gonna need an energy drink to get through this — two of them actually.

• He's going to wait all day for an answer isn't he?

"Do you think it's because of all this technology?" Raymond interjected in his thick, Chicago accent before Tommy had a chance to answer. "Has the brain adapted and evolved to understand all this computer mumbo-jumbo and how to satisfy itself with instant information and gratification, but in doing so — in the process of that — did it dumb-down and deteriorate other aspects? Things like common sense? Things like logic? Things like courtesy?"

Before Tommy could answer, Raymond continued, "Are they so overcaffeinated — I mean, c'mon, there's a coffee shop at every corner — it's unbelievable! Breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert — it doesn't matter, they're drinking it all damn day. I remember when you'd have a cup or two to get things going in the morning and that was about it. Go to any Starbucks, at any time of the day, and you'll find dozens of teens in there sipping away. Shit, I didn't start drinking coffee until I was 25 years old."

Raymond, pressing the brim of the glass to his lips, gathered his thoughts with a 1,000-mile stare. He lowered the beer without taking a sip and then carried on.

"Or, now hear me out for a second," he said. "Are they are too overhydrated? Think about it now. Doesn't it seem like everyone's got a fucking bottle of water sewed into their faces — that is to say, when they're not drinking coffee? So, maybe they're so overhydrated, their brains turn into putty. Is that what's going on? Bunch of 10-pound waterheads roaming the streets? What the fuck did people do in the `20s, for fuck's sake? I don't see historic film of people carrying around rusty tin cans and guzzling down water every time they walked up a flight of stairs. Christ Almighty. Maybe all the water they're drinking is battling it out with all the caffeine they're drinking? An entire generation of mush brains, walking around and banging into each other like Boxelder bugs in the fading autumn. Maybe it's a combo of both, you know?

"Or, here's another idea ... is it something they're putting in the water that's watering down brainwaves? I don't want to sound like a conspiracy theorist*3, but it's starting to make me wonder. No one drinks the fluoride-loaded tapwater from yesteryear anymore. Why do they put fluoride in our tap water anyway? Do you know how terrible that stuff is for your insides? Maybe the FDA — those trustworthy souls — maybe they're in cahoots with some of the bottled water companies and putting only God-knows-what in it. You ever think about that? How do you know where your water comes from? Do you visit the company when it is being bottled? The label says it's from the Fiji Islands — you could say — but how do you know?"

Tommy grabbed a handful of his curly, chestnut hair and gave it a squeeze as if he was about to turn it into a ponytail or stuff it underneath the baseball cap he was wearing. He considered the old man's lament and felt Raymond made some valid arguments, but he wasn't about to humor him.

"OK, how about this one," Raymond said, "Are they so oversexed — check that, probably more like overmasturbated — that it screws with their logic? I mean, they can watch a porno anytime they want. Get it delivered right to the palm of their non-jerking hand in less than a minute, the way these phones with those Internets work. Do they walk around not giving a shit because they're only a few moments of privacy away from releasing a huge dopamine dump? Do they stay home all day, cranking away on their self, and then, when they actually wander into civilization, do they not know how to handle the reality? Don't even get me started on chivalry. It's an endangered species. Men these days wouldn't know the first thing about courting a lady. Maybe they don't feel they need to, because it's easier to rub one out as opposed to having to work for the real thing."

Tommy pulled his phone from his pocket and took satisfaction in knowing he wasn't going to have to put too much effort into the conversation. Raymond was going to continue with or without any interjections, per usual, and all he would have to do was nod or utter "yep" every so often. He started typing Cal a text message.

"Let's say, for whatever reason, God time-traveled you from 1901 to the present," Raymond said. "Or maybe a bottle washed ashore and you rubbed that son of a bitch and a genie popped out, granting you a wish. And your wish in 1901 was to visit right now. And once you get here, the first person you meet is some asshole. And this asshole tells you that in his pocket, he holds a device where, with a couple (pretending to dial a phone number) beep-beep-beep button pushes, he could call any country in the world and talk to another human with hardly a second of delay. And then, with a couple more button pushes, he could answer virtually any question you had — on virtually any topic, about any fucking thing you ever wanted to know, and he could give you the answers in nanoseconds — you'd be blown away! But after a while, once you got to know this asshole with the magic device, you would come to find out that all he really uses it for is to watch people fucking so he can rub one out. Or so he can send his buddies a funny video of a monkey sticking a finger up its ass and then giving it a sniff. Or, even better, he gets on the Internets so he can argue with complete strangers about his shitty opinions of religion, same-sex marriages, gun control and presidential elections. Then you'd be baffled. You'd say, "gimme that fucking thing!" and you'd try your damnedest to find out how to grow better crops, raise healthier animals, build better machines for farming, or how to make medicine for your family — you know, the shit that really matters in life."

Raymond had a sip as a gauche Tommy put his phone back in his pocket.

"What about this one — give this one some thought," Raymond said after a few moments of silence. "Are these kids so overmedicated — check that — depressed, because their big ol'American life sucks so much — because mommy and daddy didn't buy them a brand new Hummer for their 16th birthday, that their tiny brains just completely give out in crucial moments like say, when they're backing out of a fucking parking spot and aren't paying any attention to my pickup truck behind them — my fire hydrant-red, giant fucking pickup truck!?"

Tommy tried not to laugh and pinched his glabella with his finger and thumb like he ate ice cream too fast.

"Here's the kicker," Raymond said, "the motherfucker writes a note to me and sticks it under my windshield wiper. The note says, `I accidentally hit your truck and I'm writing you this so it looks like I'm doing the right thing because there are people who are watching me right now. Sorry. Shit happens. Like when I can't afford insurance.' And that was it. Can you believe that?"

Tommy couldn't help but wonder if the karma police finally caught up to oldfangled Raymond McMahon and stuffed his lousy attitude into the back of a cruiser.

"Twenty-two thousand, one-hundred sixteen miles was all she got to roll before someone dinged her up." Raymond said. "Lady flagged me down as I was having a meltdown — throwing punches at the air and kicking the hell out of the tires. She said I barely missed the kid. Said he just sped out of the lot. And she didn't get his plate number either. She thought he was doing the right thing in writing that note. They're always in such a big fucking hurry until you get stuck behind one of them in aisle of a grocery store and they've got their nose buried into their phone like it's a stripper's bleached balloon knot."

As Ray continued blabbering, Tommy ran a comb of fingers through his hair and delved back into the conversation he was having with himself:

• Did I grab the amp? Being your own roadie sucks.

• Will my ears permanently ring for the rest of my life? How many years do I have left until I'm completely deaf? Twenty? Twenty-five, tops?

• Sleep. I'd lie on this cherry wood bar and use that smelly bar rag as a pillow if I could. It would feel great. Just five minutes. That's all I need.

• What time does sweet Blue come in to relieve me today — 4 or 5 p.m.? I can't remember what she said. I've got to check the schedule.

• I wish I was in my bed. Why do I always agree to work Sunday mornings — especially after a gig? Junior could miss Mass every now and again, and Jesus wouldn't fire lightning bolts up his ass. We need to hire another daytime bartender.

• My hair is driving me nuts and this hat is beginning to stink. Should I shave it all off? Or does Carmen Swisher like long hair? Cal's got such good, long hair. Lead singers ... lucky assholes.

"They're goldfish," Raymond said, but his words fell on Tommy's deaf ears. "You want to grab them and shake the shit out of them and say, `You're not the only fish swimming in the bowl! Wake up! Look around, man.' But, they're goldfish, and a goldfish's memory erases itself every three seconds*4. This is how this generation swims through life: `What's this? Hey look — I'm an entitled American!' Three seconds later — what's this? Hey look — I'm an entitled American!' Three seconds later ...'"

Mrs. O'Leary's Cow, or "The Cow" as it was known by regulars, is a traditional Irish-themed pub located in the 2700 block of North Halsted Street, priding the legacy of Irish-Americans in Chicago. There are framed newspaper articles on the walls near the front doors telling the story and theories of the Great Chicago Fire of 1871. Legend has it, Mrs. O'Leary, a perfect scapegoat for the blaze because of her Irish-Catholic immigrant roots (an unpopular ethnicity to be in those days), owned a cow that kicked over a lantern and ignited her barn, which then engulfed the city*5.

Tommy had been a fixture in the bar since the day he was born. Actually, his parents conceived him in the back office after a New Year's Eve party sneakaway, so he's been a part of the pub's history before he was born. Tommy never knew that. His uncle, Michael Jr., inherited the bar from his father, Michael Sr., and The Cow had been a landmark in the neighborhood for almost a half-century. Tommy's first job, when he was 11, was as an errand boy who did odd jobs around the bar. He'd run out for supplies when things got low. He'd fill ice coolers. He'd stock liquor in the cellar. He'd help roll kegs into place. He'd get regulars cigarettes. He'd pass love notes for shy patrons drunk in infatuation, when they finally got tipsy enough to work up the courage to spill. He'd run bets for his eldest bookmaking-bartender brother, Kevin. Hell, he even delivered the details to an alderman about a mob meeting.

He, along with the entire family, was well-liked and well-known in the neighborhood. Tommy followed in Kevin's footsteps as a bartender the day he turned 21. He was the pulse of the place, and people came to him for more than just drinks. The Cow was more of a home to Tommy than his apartment.

Another aspect of The Cow that makes it different from other bars — no TVs. The main reason was to encourage conversation, and so local musicians can play whenever the spirit caught them. "House" instruments littered the walls, and anyone was more than welcome to play. At times, this philosophy was a double-edged sword for Michael Jr., drawing more artistic and methodical thinkers, but losing sports fans — and most importantly, the Sunday football drinking crowd.

The change came when Michael Jr. took a holiday to Ireland and was fascinated with the absence of TV in the country's pubs and the presence of so much "craic" (pronounced /KRAK/ or "crack", an Irish slang term for news, gossip, fun, entertainment and enjoyable conversation) amongst drinkers. He loved that publicans would learn so much by simply exchanging their thoughts, ideas or anecdotes from their daily lives, instead of looking up at the TV like a transfixed zombie.

Upon his return, Michael Jr. removed every TV that The Cow owned, swapping them for guitars, flutes, whistles, drums, a piano, and even a crwth. He installed stunning wood shelving that was shipped from Ireland to create and house a library of books for his customers to use and share under the pretext of the honor system. He also began placing copies of the Chicago Tribune along the lengthy bar. And his final change was removing a massive second bar and lounging area in the back room (which was called "the emerald isle" because the walls, floor and ceiling were painted with glow-in-the-dark green paint and the room was lit by black lights), only to erect a stage to showcase live music, which, wasn't restricted to traditional Irish music. Since Tommy was a member of an up-and-10 coming band, Michael Jr. left most of the music-related responsibilities to his nephew, and The Cow was known for booking local, talented musicians.

"Did you hear a 12-year-old girl got shot by a stray bullet yesterday?" Raymond said, flipping through a newspaper.

Tommy, mindlessly drying pint glasses, didn't reply.

"Goddamned drive-by in broad fucking daylight. What a bunch of pussies." Raymond balled up his fist and shook it like he was about to throw dice. "It used to take balls to walk up to someone you had a problem with and loosen their teeth for `em. Times have changed. Now, these cowards throw lead anytime they get angry."

There was a long pause while Raymond drank. Tommy used his index fingers as drums and lightly tapped a beat from a Moans' song on the glassware while he waited.

"It's all about instant gratification these days — everyone needs it for just about everything they do," Raymond said. "How rich is the revenge, when something as fast as a trigger pull can satisfy it? Wouldn't you rather punch someone in the face and feel the connection? Wouldn't you want the intimacy? Wouldn't you want to stand over him after you leveled him, soaking in the triumph, before picking the bastard up off the floor, dusting him off and ending the beef? Wouldn't you want to be the bigger man and let him think about the shame and embarrassment of catching a beatin' for the rest of his life, instead of taking it — his life — away from him with a bullet in a matter of seconds? What happened to the good old days? Did the sue-happy society we live in cause this? They'd rather you shoot someone and run away rather than punch someone and scoop `em up?"

Raymond had another sip, and his words started adhering to Tommy's mind.

"I remember one time," Raymond said, "I think it was in `77. I was working a job on the south side — local plumbing outfit — Irish outfit, you see. I had about three guys I was supervising that day. It was hot. Hotter than a freshly fucked fox in a forest fire — I can tell you that much, buster. It was July. The humidity was awful and there was no relief coming off the Lake. So we were doing this job — I was on the first floor, soldering some quarter-inch copper with a torch, and my crew was doing an underground."

Tommy humored his guest with an inquisitive raised brow.

"An underground is digging trenches, you see. We give `em a diagram and they go down a couple feet of code, where the cast iron is laid to supply water into and throughout the house ... and then another pipe carries shit and piss away ... eventually it all ties into the sewer system. That's Plumbing 101 for you. Anyways, I'm keeping track of these three gophers, you know, laborers. I called `em gophers. You know, ditch diggers. Whatever you want to call them, they were earning some cash during the summer break from college, you see. They were good kids — hard workers. Kind of like you. Bustin' your hump and trying to make it as a musician, right? You work your ass off, I know, I see it. You're a dying breed. Your old man probably taught you about ethic — a good work ethic — did he teach you it?"