CORK, Ireland — It’s summer in Ireland (or what constitutes summer in Ireland) and it has roused our irrepressible instinct for superstition. For all our desire to become one of the smart economies, we are still ultra superstitious. We flail about the streets to avoid stepping on cracks or under ladders. The sight of a flock of magpies triggers frantic bouts of counting (one for sorrow, two for joy, and so on). Umbrellas left open indoors is an antecedent to hysteria. We don’t even talk about shattered mirrors.

Having recently rolled through the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, our minds are now secretly ticking forward to July 15: St. Swithin’s Day. We know nothing about this Swithin character except that if it rains on the date named in his honor, we are, essentially, fooked. The saying goes that if it rains on St. Swithin’s Day, we’re doomed to another 40 days of rain. Weather is a serious matter to Irish people and it occupies a space of utter mysticism in our minds. We all know the kind of monsoon event that Irish summers can be and we believe, deep down, that low pressure and all its symptoms are the result of some portentous force having a laugh at our expense. Be honest, you blame Rihanna for summer 2007. I know I do. Swithin’s Day looms as large on our horizon as Budget Day, and every fine day between now and then will be ruthlessly enjoyed.

About a month ago the country was overcome with a week’s worth of sunshine. Boyfriend and I stared at Evelyn Cusack’s smiling face as she waved her arm over the multitude of cartoon suns that hovered across the map of Ireland. That was all it took.

A few photons of light energy breaking through the clouds set in motion a form of migration to rival that of the Antarctic penguins and the red crabs of Christmas Island.

It is a phenomenon that we all participate in. Tartan-patterned flasks that have been passed from one attic to another for generations are unearthed and dusted off. Bread is buttered, filled, and foiled. Wardrobes are plundered in search of swimwear that has not been worn for years. Rugs and towels are rolled up. Cars are loaded as though in preparation for the apocalypse. And then, following a comprehensive check-list, there is a hemorrhaging of people from our urban centers to our blue-flag coastlines. For me, it was Garretstown in west Cork, but the routine is the same everywhere.

The second the handbrake is yanked, you stumble from the car, ninja-stripping across the car park in a frantic clamber for your own square of sand. It is as though you have discovered and claimed el mundo nuevo. You drop your cooler box, your backpacks, your rugs, your newspaper—everything except the bucket and spade that you secretly, desperately, wanted to bring but couldn’t. Now that you have cordoned off your own zone, you begin the process of factoring up. It’s not really that you’re pale in that cool Scandinavian way and you want to preserve it. In fact, you’re more… grey in that malnourished Irish way, but you still can’t ignore the internal “you’ll get skin cancer” caveat that your parents barked at you as a kid. And anyway, nothing says summer quite like the scent of UVA protection and a stranger’s second-hand cigarette smoke (which is inescapable on blustery Irish beaches).

You sit down on to your rug with all the grace of a subsiding structure and wait out the obligatory 30 minutes for your skin to absorb the sun cream. To pass the time, you whip out the newspaper. Supplements, crosswords, and Sudokus were invented for just such an event. There is no free wifi here. No means for your devices. This is a time for the wholesome art of reading, of informing yourself on national and international issues that you feign to understand, and for some slightly academic entertainment.

You open the first page and the whole thing lifts like a kite into the air. From that moment, you engage in a ferocious wrestling competition with your broadsheet publication (tabloids are less susceptible to breezes, and in any case, are no great loss). You haul its wilting pages back and pin it down to the rug with your body. This is an improvement but it still does not permit page turning and the sand is now blowing into your eyes. You content yourself with the cover page even though you read that part in the car on the journey over. You glimpse the upper right corners of subsequent pages, grasping a word here or there, headers, page numbers. Fascinating stuff. You stick at it mindlessly for a while until you estimate that you are, probably, UVA’d.

Buoyed by the warmth of the sun, you rise to your feet and march towards the water. It could be childhood memories or it could be sunstroke, but either way you have shrugged off those adolescent insecurities that once had you creeping awkwardly, surreptitiously to water’s edge. You know you are not perfect. No amount of recessionary jogging, Junior C championship training, or mechanical erosion has been able to shift that stubborn cellulite. Your legs are bruised and potholed after last week’s league encounter with that beast of a corner-back, but you don’t care. Your blindingly white skin is crying out for vitamin D, having been deprived of it for the best part of a decade. The water is inexplicably appealing, as though its salty tang is calling to the fish buried deep in your evolved genes. However, this is as far as the allure goes.

Your body nearly spasms when it laps coldly around your ankles and it takes every fiber of muscle to swallow back a whimper. You lurch forward a step or two, perhaps even hallucinate icebergs on the horizon. The gentle swell of water that washes a little further up your legs towards your knees is confirmation. That’s deep enough thanks. This is the Atlantic Ocean after all and I think I’ve been brave enough for one day. You retreat quickly, stumble back to the rug, and grab a towel to stave off frostbite. You might engage in some very athletic bat-ball, flinging yourself lithely across the unforgiving terrain, grunting with the effort and the feel of those sea-shells biting into your feet. After some competitive rallying and your body temperature now normalizing, the time comes to plunder the cooler box.

Those ham sandwiches, naturally salted with some rogue sand, are ever so tasty after your exploits at sea. The rice crispie cakes too. It all goes down a treat with some tea from a tartan patterned flask. You tackle the dog-eared edge of your side of the rug, weigh it down with a nice stone-formation, and lie back. You sling Boyfriend’s t-shirt over your face as reprieve from the glare of the sun and nod off for a short while, twitching softly at the occasional nose-diving fly. It is 19 degrees Celsius, which is pretty perfect for our delicate Irish blood. Any lower and you’ll be reaching for the fleece you bought for 20 cent in Penney’s; higher, you might actually pass out.

You rest your eyes for an hour or so, then gather up your belongings and trudge back to the car. Your hair is suitably wind-swept. You have a salt line on your shins and sand between your toes. You feel the right amount of plantar fasciitis underfoot — just enough to know you have spent the day in flip-flops.

It was, perhaps, not the success you had hoped for, yet you leave with the proof of the coast in your bones. You join the queue of traffic and begin the slow process of transfusing the cities again. Tomorrow you might need to wear a scarf and come July 15, you may need to purchase a boat, but today was as good as any. Yes, the summer is here.

Based in Boston, the Irish punk rock band Dropkick Murphys will release their seventh studio album “Going Out In Style” on March 1^st.While there are more than 8,000,000 rock bands in the world, it is still incredibly difficult to find outstanding bands out there. However, without adoubt, Dropkick Murphys is one of them.

Their passionately destructive music is based on a unique combination of a powerful voice of Al Barr, a strong bass line by Ken Casey, significant and unique chords by Tim Brennan (accordion, whistles), Jeff DaRosa (banjo, bouzouki, mandolin, harmonica) and James Lynch (guitars). Throw in a stable melody line of bagpipes performed by Scruffy Wallace, and aggressive drum beats produced by Matt Kelly and you have a creative and magic blend of Irish folk rock and punk rock, which make their music unique.

The record starts with an energetic typical Dropkick Murphys styled tune “Hang ‘Em High.” The title song “Going Out In Style” reminded me of “Captain Kelly’s Kitchen” from the album “The Warrior’s Code” because of the way Barr and Casey alternate on main vocals. It’s an interesting listen, as moment by moment since their voice qualities and singing styles are different. While Casey’s voice is uplifting, warm, and strong, Barr’s voice is aggressive as we can see the veins and blood vessels on his neck when he performs live.

Melodic track “Broken Hymns” is based on lightly rhythmical drum beats, which gives the listeners a whole new impression of the band. The unstoppably fun tune “Take ‘Em Down” focuses on the social consciousness and unwavering support for organized labor, but the song is filled with soulful excitement, despite the fact that they are singing, “Let them know, we gotta take our bastards down.” The song would possibly energize you before going to a stressful workplace a.k.a. ‘battlefield’ every morning.

One of the record’s highlights is Bruce Springsteen’s guest vocals featured in the old standard tune “Peg O’ My Heart.” The collaboration makes the song refreshing and vigorous. The catchy tune is bright and fun, especially after the slow-moving comfortable song “1953,” which is built on a consistently solid bagpipe melody with unified vocal harmonies. (No one is shouting in this song.)

Throughout the record, the Dropkick Murphys’ actively fast-paced energy is exploding so that some people might be able to feel as if they are watching the band performing live.

Track list

1. Hang ‘Em High
2. Going Out In Style
3. The Hardest Mile
4. Cruel
5. Memorial Day
6. Climbing A Chair To Bed
7. Broken Hymns
8. Deeds Not Words
9. Take ‘Em Down
10. Sunday Hardcore Matinee
11. 1953
12. Peg O’ My Heart
13. The Irish Rover

They are going back on the road soon, and of course will dominate the Boston’s House of Blues on the St. Patrick’s week this year too.

Show schedule in the United States

February 23       Niagara Falls, NY              The Rapids Theatre

February 24        Detroit, MI                         The Fillmore

February 25        Milwaukee, WI                   Bradley Center

February 26        Chicago, IL                         Congress Theater

February 27        Chicago, IL                          Congress Theater

March 1               Denver, CO                        The Fillmore

March 2              Kansas City, MO                The Beaumont Club

March 3               Minneapolis, MN               First Avenue

March 4               Des Moines, IA                   Val Air Ballroom

March 5               St. Louis, MO                     The Pageant

March 6               Cleveland, OH                    House Of Blues

March 8               Philadelphia, PA                 Electric Factory

March 9              Philadelphia, PA                 Electric Factory

March 10              New York, NY                 Roseland Ballroom

March 11               New York, NY                Roseland Ballroom

March 12             Washington, DC              Shamrock Fest at RFK Stadium

March 13              Uncasville, CT               Mohegan Sun Arena

March 16             Boston, MA                   House Of Blues

March 17               Boston, MA                   House Of Blues

March 18              Boston, MA                    House Of Blues

March 19               Lowell, MA                    Tsongas Arena

Stage, film and television actor Shay Duffin, known among moviegoers for his roles in Raging Bull and Titanic, died on Thursday at UCLA Medical Center from complications related to heart surgery. He was 79.

Mr. Duffin was born in Dublin and wowed American and Canadian crowds for years with his one-man shows: “Brendan Behan” and “The Importance of Being Irish.”

He also toured with a stage production of James Joyce’s “The Dead.”

Mr. Duffin played the bartender in “The Departed,” and he had roles in “Raging Bull,” “Titanic” and “Beowulf.”

According to California Artists Radio Theatre, Mr. Duffin’s final performance was on March 17, during which he sang and acted in a production of "Hyacinth Halvey," by Irish playwright, Lady Augusta Gregory.

Duffin leaves four daughters Laura, Linda, Ruth and Susan. Funeral arrangements have not been announced.

“Guinness: It’s good for you!” was the advertising motto of the world’s most popular stout for a good part of the 20th century. As a 13-year old drinking my first pint of it in a Dublin pub, I came up with my own slogans. “Drink this stuff from the River Liffey, and you’ll be sick, in a jiffy” was one. “It’s foaming head kills bugs dead” was another. But soon I learned not only to love this stuff (an event that occurred before the very pint I was mocking was half-gone) but I came to favor this style of beer in general.

Once you go black you can’t go back, and for me there was no returning to the canned piss water that is most of the beer sold in the United States. Lagers, even really good ones, remain my least favorite beers. There are lots of ales that are delicious, but my heart belongs to porter specifically. Stout, porter, beer, ale — what does it all mean? Pour me a pint and I’ll tell you.

Ah, good. Well, first I’m obligated to say that like most systems of nomenclature, there are some inconsistencies and vagaries. But I still feel confident — and more confident with every sip — that I can give you the suss on these basic terms.

Beer

It’s all beer, so don’t let anyone convince you that a certain brand “is an ale (or whatever) and not a beer.” You don’t have to take a swing at them, just don’t believe it. According to Michael Jackson (an Englishman who is as famous in the beer world as the identically-named King of Pop was in the music world), six centuries ago there was a distinction, briefly, but it’s long gone.

Dark beers get their color from malt, germinated grains that resemble bean sprouts one finds in a salad. The malt is cooked before it’s added to the brewing process. For lighter beers, care is taken to avoid carbonization that will add pigment to the finished product. For darker beers, the idea is to toast the malt so that a dark color — and more importantly a deep, dark flavor — is the final result.

There are three principle types of beers — lager, lambic, and ale — and one can’t always tell which is which by looking at it. One can’t always tell by taste either, although maybe the English Michael Jackson and other experts at that level are able to.

Lager

With few exceptions, when a beer is brewed so that all the gross vomity-looking yeast that gets thrown away sinks to the bottom, that’s a lager. Of the three principle types of beer, lager is the youngest. Developed in Austria and Bavaria in the mid 1800s, it soon became the lifeblood of the whole German beer culture of gigantic steins and the Reinheitsgebot laws that had already been laid down centuries before.

Pilsner is one of the first distinct types of lagers developed; Heineken is an example of it, as is the Chinese beer Tsingtao. Bock, a sometimes-dark lager that has managed to grow testes, is still another. So are the “American-style lagers” I previously compared to diluted urine. In fact, lager is the most popular beer in the world.

To my own pallet, Asian lagers such as Singha (Thailand), Kirin, Suntory (both from Japan) and Tsingtao taste better (i.e. less bad) than other non-Bock lagers. I have no explanation for that nor expectation that your own taste buds will agree; try them yourself.

Lambic

Another type of beer is lambic. Except for a very few adventurous microbrewers elsewhere, lambic is a peculiar creation that only comes from certain regions in Belgium.

Rather than relying upon added yeast, lambic is a result of the untamed yeast molds and bacteria that are already found on the barley and wheat used to make it. It has a fruity taste reminiscent of wine or hard cider, and many lambics are so loaded with raspberries or other fruits that they fall into the category of “Belgian fruit beers.”

When I first staggered out of a drinkery in Brussels full of this tasty sweet but un-beer-like stuff, I thought all Belgian fruit beers were lambics. Only recently I learned plenty of Belgian fruit beers are actually ales, the type of beer most germane to discussion of Guinness and its swarthy kin.

Ale

Remember that putridness that sinks to the bottom when lager is brewed? When brewing ale, that yucky gunk floats at the top. Premium beers associated with Trappist monks in Belgium, such as the Chimay brands, are ales. So are barley wines, potent potables that substitute grains for grapes. Bitters are a pale ale overloaded with hops, while other ales, such as the various brands of “India Pale Ale” very popular with hobby brewers, aren’t hella different from certain lagers.

Ales, compared to lagers, more often have a dark color and flavor. Bass Ale is a darn good beer, and Smithwick’s (a similar beverage from Ireland) is even better. Newcastle Brown Ale is tasty, but none of these dark ales compares to Samuel Smith’s Nut Brown Ale — divine nectar I tend to think is overpriced until it hits my tongue and reminds me otherwise.

Porter

Even though I’m beer savvy, I can’t taste the line where dark ales end and porters begin, and I suspect any division imposed between them is arbitrary. What is definitely true is that many or most of the darkest, malty-est, most flava-ful ales are classified as porters, the story of which will bring us back to Dublin via London.

Supposedly, the term “porter” takes its name from the people who drank it the most, the porters (i.e. dockworkers, teamsters) who lifted cargo off ships and carried to it locations around London like two-legged mules. Maybe, but always be suspicious of this type of etymology; even when these explanations appear in writing around the same time as the coinage, as they’re often what scholars politely call “fanciful” (and what most folks just call “fake”).

So never mind where the term “porter” came from, just know it’s a particular dark beer that seems to have appeared in London around 1700, give or take a generation. It was almost immediately popular not just because it’s delicious, but because it had a better shelf life. Other beers around at the time were shipped to pubs while they were only half-brewed. This meant that as soon as they finished becoming beer, they could be consumed before they spoiled.

Not so porter. It could finish brewing at the brewery and then be bottled up for consumption whenever. It was easy to make in large quantities, and booze-wise it was strong stuff too. Soon people where getting rich from brewing it and even more were getting rich in spirit from drinking it.

Some distinct types of porters have been identified. “Baltic porter” is a high-proof porter from the neighborhood of Russia, Poland, and Scandinavia. This stuff is a great example of why beer nomenclature is so slippery. Not only do some folks consider the traditional Baltic porter to be a stout, most Baltic porter nowadays is brewed with the sludge at the bottom. That actually makes it a lager if one accepts the technical definition.

Porter was also brewed in the American Colonies before the Revolutionary War, and “Pennsylvania porter” is a representative of this New World beer. But it’s an extra-hefty style of porter, discussed next, that’s the best known example.

Stout

There’s wide (but not universal) agreement that all stouts are porters, but not all porters are stouts. The debate about this is neither lively nor interesting, so let’s just skip it and look at the history instead.

The 18th century popularity of porter spawned variants. Some beer drinkers who favored the dark and yummy porters weren’t afraid of too much of a good thing, and increasingly darker and yummier porters grew in popularity. These roasty-good beers were dubbed with names like “double porter” or “stout porter.” That second term, when shorted, gives us “stout.”

In “Finnegan’s Wake,” the cheerily macabre 19th century Irish tune that inspired James Joyce’s eponymous Dublin epic, we’re told that Tim Finnegan is laid in his casket with a bottle of porter at his feet. “Guinness Extra Stout” was known as “Guinness Extra Superior Porter” until about the same time as this song was composed. Accordingly, there’s little reason not to think it was this same quintessentially Dublin drink that lay at the foot of poor Tim’s coffin.

The idea that “Guinness is good for you” (fearr de thº Guinness for those who “have Irish” ) wasn’t just a successful ad slogan. The company based it on some pretty shady “market research” in the 1920s in which people were asked how they felt after drinking it. Big surprise: they said they felt good. People took the idea literally and it was consumed in great quantities by nursing mothers and those with failing health. Eventually more modern sensibilities (and governmental regulations on advertising) took hold.

Guinness is the most famous Irish stout, but it’s not the only one. Its two traditional rivals, Murphy’s and Beamish, are both from Cork (Ireland’s “second city”). When I lived there doors away from the Murphy’s brewery, the smell of it and other beers brewed on-site assailed my nose as soon as I’d step out my door. The gaseous byproducts of the brewing process have an unmistakably distinct sweet scent. The odor can be nauseating, especially full on, but it’s also something I came to enjoy and, eventually, miss. In Cork City, the drinking of Guinness rather than one of the native stouts is a slightly traitorous act even though many locals themselves have actually switched to foreign-born lagers — such as Heineken and Budweiser — that are made in the same local breweries.

Some think these two Corkonian stouts are less bitter than Guinness, and Murphy’s based an ad campaign around this idea, but I’m not so sure. All three are a complex symphony of smoky tastes both bitter and sweet infused by the malting process. In describing what the non-visual senses perceive, people often fall back on comparisons. When discussing stouts, Irish and otherwise, “coffee” and “chocolate” are often mentioned, but this is more metaphor than similarity. Again, taste for yourself.

Besides these brown beers from the Emerald Island, there are stouts from elsewhere in the world. As said, the previously-mentioned “Baltic porter” is considered a stout by some and it’s similar in style to the “Imperial stouts” associated with Russia. Both share a high alcohol content that helps them survive the winters of Northern Europe without freezing.

“Milk stout” or “cream stout” is made with lactose, a sugar extracted from milk, and is sometimes called “sweet stout” for the resultant effect. “Oatmeal stout” is made from… can you guess? “Oyster stouts” hail from a bygone era when shellfish were a popular pub grub. Sometimes the name just implies it’s to be enjoyed with oysters, but in many cases those same mollusks are part of the brewing process. What does that taste like? I don’t know and I don’t want to know.

“Chocolate stout” and “coffee stout” are typically just terms referring to particularly dark and aromatic stouts. Less often, it means a tiny amount of that ingredient is part of the brew process. That, and especially the bit about the oysters, makes me see the sense of the German beer laws.

Drinking it

The proper pouring of certain beers, especially Guinness, is considered essential by many. In its most dramatic expressing, the act of drawing a good point takes on the ritual of a Japanese tea ceremony. I wouldn’t say you can completely ruin a beer by pouring it wrong. I do think the texture of the beer can suffer, especially during the initial sips, and you only get one chance to make a first impression.

But it’s beyond debate that a decent beer deserves a glass. Beer from a bottle is acceptable if you’re trying to play beach volleyball at the same time as you drink, or if you’re underage and drinking on the roof of someone’s garage, but there aren’t many other situations that justify it.

Beers, especially good beers like some of those I mentioned, have multiple layers of flavor that kick in at different times. A taste of a well-crafted beer is like a firework that rises to the air in a trail of green, explodes red, explodes blue, dances around, explodes gold, and then surprises you with a shower of orange after you thought the show was over.

This party in your mouth can take place because your taste buds aren’t evenly distributed. The guys who taste sweet cluster in one place while the guys who taste sour hang out in another, and so on. Drinking beer from a bottle is like listening to music with the bass turned all the way off or having sex with a condom. Why do it if there’s no good reason?

Summary

Beer is beer. What different styles are called is sometimes a matter of debate. When gunk sinks to the bottom during brewing it’s lager, and if it floats to the top it’s ale. Certain dark ales are known as porters, and the darkest and creamiest porters are called stouts. Don’t drink from a bottle. Guinness is good for you.

PARK CITY, Utah — Irish documentarian Ken Wardrop’s film "His and Hers" opens with an Irish proverb:

"A man loves his girlfriend the most, his wife the best, but his mother the longest."

While that may suggest that Wardrop’s documentary would focus on Irish men, it turns the proverb on its head and focuses on Irish women and their relationship to the men that they hold sway over.

Wardrop’s film is made up of vignettes featuring 90 women (ages one to 90) from the Midlands of Ireland who each represent an age. Wardrop asks each woman about their relationships with the men in their lives.

The results are simply wonderful. Wardrop does a tremendous job framing his movie in a way that each vignette flows seamlessly into the next. He uses the effective technique of having most of his subjects enter and exit through stairs. The film opens with a toddler opening a safety gate and climbing the stairs with quite determination. Each subsequent shot of older girls calls back to that first mischievous toddler and suggests the experiences each of these women have had since they too were crawling carelessly past gates designed to project their fragility.

From a little girl lamenting her chores to a woman whose husband dies in her arms after a slow dance, the honesty and openness Wardrop gets from his subjects is stunning.

Through each of the 90 vignettes, Wardrop is able to show what has Irish men so smitten. These women are all funny, engaging and emotionally honest. As you get to know these women it is no surprise that Irish men love their women so much.While the film only contains one brief shot of a man, the men in these women’s lives comes through in their stories.

Like the women Wardrop features, "His and Hers" is funny, moving and always affecting. If this one makes it to a theater anywhere near you, I strongly recommend it.

BALTIMORE — It’s March and that means that Easter eggs are soon on their way and that pints o’ beer and allergies are here! We all love spring, St. Patrick’s Day and holiday feasts, and one of the best places to celebrate all three is the Baltimore-Annapolis, Maryland area on the Chesapeake Bay. Rich in Irish history, early spring flowers and fresh crab, your senses will come alive exploring all that the area offers.

Baltimore is the sin-city of the ages, originally established from the tobacco and sugar trades with the Caribbean, but when the potatoes in Ireland disappeared a massive exodus of settlers flooded the area leaving their mark on the city. The name Baltimore is from the Irish city in County Cork, Anglicized from “Baile an Tƒ­ Mhƒ³ir” meaning “Town of the Big House”.

Since St. Patty’s Day falls mid-week, that leaves you with only one option — celebrate the weekend before AND after. It’s only fair. With only one weekend to explore Baltimore, do three things: pub crawl the bay, pub-crawl Fell’s Point, and slink over to the cemetery — preferably the one where Edgar Allen Poe is buried. (Just be careful not to drunkenly stumble into a crypt.)

The downtown area of Baltimore is centered on the bay, and houses ships of today and yesterday. A fine example of fleeting American craftsmanship is the USS Constellation permanently docked here. If you’re a sports fan the Boston Red Sox (another fine strappin’ young Irish lad of a team) are playing spring training games the weekend before, and there are games all week long. Ah, the Great American Pastime — bringing Irishmen and beer together for a century, and now you too.

A bit uptown from downtown, but a fun stumble over is the little church cemetery that houses the grave of Edgar Allen Poe, who resided in Boston and Baltimore. The graves here date back to the late 1700s and the grounds are well kept and classically spooky. ‚ Also in the city is the earliest surviving home in which Poe lived, and now operates as the Edgar Allen Poe House and Museum.‚  If you’re looking to go ghost hunting, wander on over to a little place in Fell’s Point (said to be Poe’s final drinking hole) called The Horse You Came In On. It is rumored that an upstairs room is occupied by a spirit named “Edgar”.

Fell’s Point, once popular with the sailors has been refurbished and is the new hip spot. There are more than 120 pubs to whet your whistle, cobblestone streets, music, shopping and great local eats.‚  With a rich maritime influence left behind from St. Patty’s Days gone by, some of the infamous naval beauties were built in Fell’s Point yards, epitomizing the clipper-ship with the area. The aforementioned USS Constellation calls Fell’s Point home, as well as many Civil War ships, and privateers.

Speaking of navy

Not so far from Baltimore is Annapolis, home of the US Naval Academy, the ratification of the Treaty of Paris, and one of the original capitols of the United States. In Annapolis, the history seems to seep from the cobblestones.‚  Walk down the same streets that George Washington and Thomas Jefferson tread, and were once a hot-bed of patriotic action. There are several homesteads on the main street that have been transformed into quaint inns dating back to the mid-18^th century, including the Maryland Inn, whose tavern hosted the likes of Ben Franklin and John Adams.

Host to the two largest in-water boat shows each year in October, and year round races, there is a constant stream in and out of Annapolis ‚ year round of sea-worthy vessels coming in to port, to eat the fresh crab-legs and drink stout pints as in the days of old.

Annapolis is another small-in-square-footage-big-in-possibilities charmer. Theater thrives there, premium yachting abounds, and there are plenty of historical pubs and shopping to keep you entertained for the weekend.

While this may be the cleanest debauchery you’ve ever partaken in, the cities of Baltimore and Annapolis are picturesque, sports-worthy, pub-alicious, and just their streets are waiting for you to dance down. Don’t forget to wear green. I’ll be watching for you, pint in hand.

For more information on the historical Inns in Annapolis visit Http://www.historicinnsofannapolis.com. For more information on The Horse you Came In On visit http://www.myspace.com/thehorselive . And lastly the Poe House/Museum is here: http://www.eapoe.org/balt/poehse.htm.

Carly Erin O’Neil, our favorite lass, reported from Baltimore and Annapolis.

Shepherds we shall be. To our local video store. For Boondock Saints on Blu-ray. February 10.

Set for $34.99, the Boondock Saints Blu-ray features deleted scenes and outakes with commentary from cast and crew and a special director’s cut.

We would like to see a “Saints” documentary or featurette — something NEW that you couldn’t find on the DVD and Special Edition DVD of the movie.

Boondock Saints is one of the great cult classics of all time, but moreso if you live in Boston.

Just in case you aren’t familiar:

Irish brothers Connor and Murphy MacManus live and work in South Boston. After killing a Russian mobster in self-defense, the brothers believe they have found their calling from God ridding the earth of human evil. So they set out to complete their divine deed by ridding the streets of gangsters, criminals and lowlifes; and as the body count rises, the brothers become local heroes (deemed the “Boondock Saints”) even as the police are on their trail. By risking their lives for their beliefs of Veritas (truth) and Aequitas (justice), the vigilante brothers take the law into their own hands”¦until they are pursued by unorthodox FBI agent Paul Smecker who follows their trail of bloodshed, but admits that the boys are doing exactly what he has always secretly wished to happen.

As St. Patrick’s Day approaches, we all prepare to celebrate in our own special ways and embrace our Irish roots.

Take Katherine Heigl for instance.

The “Knocked Up” star is half Irish, and was recently seen showing off her emerald pride by wearing the Primp’s Four Leaf Clover Hoodie ($165 at Bloomingdales).

The soft and cuddly hoodie is extra long zip jacket style with an elongating, flattering fit with an all-over print and rhinestone detailing that is both cute and stylish.
 
The Primp shirt may be hot, but if you don’t wanna spend $165, there are a few more options including an always popular Flogging Molly hoodie and just about anything form the vast collection of Notre Dame merch.

Katherine Heigl still looks hot in her shirt though.

Throngs of green-clad people. Pints of black or green-dyed brew. Plates of steaming corned beef and cabbage. These images have become synonymous with St. Patrick’s Day around the world. It started as an annual feast in honor of Ireland’s patron saint, St. Patrick. Legend has it that the Christian missionary drove all of the snakes from Ireland, and taught the native Irish about the Holy Trinity. While not an official holiday in the United States, almost every major city has events. Chicago, for example, dyes the Chicago River green each year, and New York City has a large annual parade.

In downtown Boston, where the city has celebrated St. Patrick’s Day since the mid-1700′s, Blast’s John Forrester gathered together a small group for an evening of Irish cuisine and beer. Beginning with pints of Guinness as Shepherd’s Pie was being prepared, the five guests sampled various Stout-based concoctions.

Guinness, by far Ireland’s most commercially successful beer, is often mixed with other types of beer and liqueurs. Both in the U.S. and in Ireland, the most common example is the “black and tan,” or “half and half — one part stout and one part lager or ale, such as Harp and Bass. Another popular mix was the “black fog” — a few splashes of Chambord, a Black Current flavored liqueur, and Guinness.

Overall, the crowd-pleaser seemed to be the Black and Gold half Stout and half alcoholic cider, such as Magner’s or Strongbow. There are, of course, countless other concoctions that will allow you to go beyond the standard pint of green-dyed Budweiser or traditional Guinness this holiday, so strap on that shamrock, throw on a green t-shirt, and start your own St. Patrick’s Day tradition this year.

“Craic” is an Irish term for a light-hearted evening filled with good food, drinks, music and laughter. While there are many ways to celebrate the holiday breweries, bars and restaurants are all known to have events–try inviting some friends over for an intimate night of Irish food and drinks this St. Patrick’s day. Instead of the stereotypical corned beef, hash and green beer, here’s a unique dish from the land of Erin that is sure to help bring a bit of craic to your St. Patrick’s Day party.

The Blast Shepherd’s Pie

Serves 5-6

2 to 2 1/2 pounds potatoes, such as russet, peeled and cubed
3 tablespoons sour cream
1 cup milk
Salt and black pepper
extra-virgin olive oil

1 11.5 fl. Oz. bottle of Guinness Draught Stout
2 pounds ground beef

1 clove garlic
2 medium-sized carrots
1 large onion
2 1/2 tablespoons salted butter
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/2 cup chicken broth
2 heavy dashes of Worcestershire sauce
1 cup frozen peas
1 teaspoon paprika or cayenne pepper

Hot sauce (optional)

Prep Work: Chop carrots, onions and garlic. Peel potatoes and cut into 1 to ¾ inch cubes.

Begin by boiling the potatoes with generous dashes of salt while you warm a skillet on another burner to cook the beef. While the potatoes cook, add a small amount of olive oil to the pan and the chopped garlic. When the garlic begins to smell fragrant, add the ground beef and cook for a few minutes. As the meat begins to turn brown, add salt, pepper and a third of the Guinness bottle. If so desired, add a dash or two of hot sauce as well. Once the beef is browned throughout, add carrots and onions, and stir often.

Keep an eye on the potatoes; when they’re tender, drain the water. Add milk and sour cream, and mash until mostly smooth. Once they’re at the desired consistency, cover and set aside.

To make the gravy, use another burner on medium heat and melt butter in a small skillet. Once the butter is liquefied, add flour, chicken broth, salt and pepper, and the remaining 2/3 of the Guinness. As you’re making the gravy, preheat the broiler on a high setting. Stir constantly so that the gravy does not melt, and no lumps of flour remain. Let it thicken as it cooks for a minute or two, and then add to the meat and vegetables. Lastly, add peas to the meat.

Take out a rectangular baking pan with 3 to 4 inch sides, and fill with meat and vegetables. Cover bottom of pan evenly and then spread potatoes over the meat, forming a top layer. Sprinkle fine layer of paprika or cayenne over the top.

Place the pan away from the heat source in the broiler and cook until top layer of potatoes are browned.