NO ONE WAS MORE IRISH THAN 'IRISH'

The Week Between

The Parade and The Dinner

Conjures Up Thoughts

Of 'Irish' Langan

By Lew Marcus

Who Many Times was Bylined as Lew O'Marcus

Well, here we are in the middle of one of those Scranton party week celebrations. The parade was last Saturday and the dinner is this Saturday. This gives us a perfectly good six days in between for some hard, two-fisted, non-stop drinking. After all, how do we maintain our Top Five reputation for binge drinking? Now, before we get too carried away on the topic of drinking. Let's define some terms. Above I said that the parade was this past Saturday and the dinner is this Saturday. In Scranton, that does not need to be explained. But outside the Electric City, you had best describe it so everyone will know. It's the St. Patrick's Day Parade and the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick dinner.

   These events are defining moments in Scranton. We mark the passage of time by the things that happened at both of these cultural institutions. "Why that was so long ago it was the same year Bobby Kennedy was the keynoter." Or, "Hell's bells, that was long before I had to go on the wagon. That was back in the day." With one in every four citizens of Scranton of the Irish persuasion, even non-Irish reckon time by parade and dinner history. "That was the night I lifted the champagne from the tray going to the head table and (radio station owner) Joe Dobbs wound up paying the bill," I have often related. On that night, we were all Irish. And I was drunk on Joe Dobbs' dollar.

   My job at the Old Tribune for years was to cover both the parade and the dinner. It got so I could write the parade story the night before. I never did tell the "other" story, like having to wade through a sea of baby strollers to get into Pete Bordi's saloon on parade day for a nickel draft. I once bought a round for the bar on parade day in Bordi's, paid with a twenty dollar bill and got change. Covering the dinner was an exercise in patience and observation. This was a big event for a small-town reporter. The dinner attracted two U.S. Presidents, two Irish Prime Ministers and a handful of U.S. Senators. Every time I got to interview one of the stellar keynote speakers, someone with one drink too many had to horn in and ruin the moment. But that went with the turf.

   My favorite division in the parade for years was a "division of one." Consummate Irishman Francis McGeever would march alone. He never was official. He never paid a fee or a sponsorship. He would just cut in line and march with his head held high.

   But if ever there should be a permanent honorary grand marshal of the parade, I would vote for a man I knew my whole life only as "Irish" Langan. It wasn't until he died that I knew his given name was Thomas. I didn't know a lot about "Irish" but as a rookie reporter I came into contact with him on a regular basis and, of course, I listened carefully to the old-timers as they related "Irish" Langan stories, which, of course, got better the later into the night you'd go and the more libations you'd ingest. (That's, "the more beers you drink" for my friends in South Side.)

   I first met "Irish" on the steps of City Hall on Labor Day 1971 -- my first year as a reporter at The Trib. It was time for the annual "straw hat picture." Tribune photographer "Butch" Olds would pose "Irish" in front of a downtown landmark, such as the Courthouse or City Hall, and he'd punch his fist through his straw skimmer (that's a hat, for you folks in Dunmore). It marked the official end to the summer season. After that picture appeared on the front page of The Tribune, you dare not wear your summer attire: straw hats, white shoes and pastel blazers. The season as over until next Memorial Day.

   "Irish" wasn't your typical Scranton Irish. He was archetypical. Books have been written about the unique Irish personality. The Irish character has been summed up as somewhere between Samuel Johnson's famous quote "They are a fair people; they fight even among themselves" to "If it wasn't for whiskey, the Irish would rule the world." I never saw "Irish" in a fight and I actually never saw him take a drink. But that doesn't mean he wasn't as Irish as Paddy's pig, whatever that means.

   In my mind, "Irish" Langan was the quintessential Irishman. His presence was loud and commanding. But he was generous and kind. He had an opinion on every matter, but usually with good humor laced with gentle sarcasm. He knew everyone and even more people knew him. He'd cry at the drop of a hate at a sad tale and he's pull a fiver out of his wallet and give it gladly to a poor unfortunate beggar on the streets. "Irish," I'd point out, "he's just going to go down to Michael's and buy whiskey with that money." He'd rejoin, "If that's what the poor, blighted bloke needs, then bless him. The money went to a good cause."

   Listening to "Irish" was an adventure. It took a while to understand his cadence and vocabulary. Usually he talked so fast and introduced so many "foreign" words that you'd be stumbling on the beginning of the sentence and he'd already be at the end of the next. A typical remark might go, "I watched that dago son of a mango-eater pull out his frog-sticker and cut off a piece of cheese faster than a chanaker could put a dollar back in his wallet." My head would be swimming in the imagery. Forget the fact that it was the most bigoted remark I ever heard. That was just the way he talked. Bigotry was not one of "Irish's" faults. It wasn't that he hated blacks, Jews, Germans or Hungarians. It was just that he loved the Irish so much.

   Now, for a literal and cultural translation of the aforementioned quote: A "dago," of Red Pepper Everywhere But a 'Mango' in Scrantoncourse, was an Italian. That he was the "son of a mango-eater" was a reference to the Italian love of red peppers, which, in Scranton, were called "mangos." A frog-sticker was a long knife, fancied by people who worked in the produce industry. A "chanaker" was a Jew, referencing the Jewish holiday of Chanukah. Where he got that I'll never know. And, of course, he'd end with an ethnic slur about Jews being cheap, or at least frugal with the dollar.

   "Irish's" vocabulary was spiked with words that today would get you sued, beaten up and/or banished from society. Italians were "spaghetti benders." Englishmen were "roundheads." Jews could also be called "yamakers" (from the skullcaps called "yamakahs") or "Hebs." Eastern Europeans were "polaks," "hunkies" or "Ruskies." Asians were "chinks" and "gooks." And his beloved Irish were "mics," "harps," "shamrockers," "shanty," or "lace curtain"; each with its own socio-economic implication.

   Out of "Irish's" mouth none of these words had sting. It was his irascible charm that pulled it off. He wasn't racist. He just saw the world in two groups: Irish and non-Irish. In his mind there was a huge difference between calling a black person the "n" word and calling them a "moulignon." Calling someone a "moulignon," which means eggplant in Italian," was a two-edged sword. It was more of an indictment of Italian bigotry than of his own racism. And, besides, for "Irish," the "n" word was ordinary and common. It just wasn't colorful enough.

   "Irish's" greatest joy was picking on those who thought they were high and mighty. He loved needling politicians and those taken with themselves. I was too young for drinking in his famous saloon, but I heard the stories. My favorite was that journalists never paid for a drink. Now listen to me calling my profession "journalists." If "Irish" heard me say that he'd correct me: "Don't get no airs about ya," he'd caution. "You're just a whiskey-besotted ink-stained wretch and leave it at that."  As for charging the Tribune boys, he'd wait for a politician to throw a twenty on the bar to pay for his dollar whiskey. "Thanks," he said with a grin. "You just bought a round for the boys." No one argued.

   "Irish" wasn't a local phenomenon. He was national. HeSENATOR JOHN GLENN once reprimanded astronaut John Glenn for not posing in a picture with his nephew, Jim Munley, who was running for judge. Glenn got right in the picture. He even zinged President Kennedy. After his defeat of Nixon, "Irish" sent him a telegram telling him if it wasn't for "your old man and Congressman Bill Green of Philadelphia, you would be selling bananas." JFK actually read the telegram 'cause he asked Bill Green, "Who the hell is "Irish" Langan?"

JFK IN SCRANTON   Stories like this and many, many more were fodder for a nationally-syndicated column written by gossip columnist Earl Wilson, of course, carried by The Tribune. Wilson loved "Irish" and loved, even more, "Irish" stories. Hardly a month would go by without a mention of his Scranton buddy.

   It was always a pleasure to see "Irish's" smiling face. I never saw him frown. Oh, he'd cry at a funeral and get a tear in his eye during "Danny Boy," but moments later it's be his boomin' voice that would be celebrating the moment. They don't make 'em like that anymore and we are poorer because of it. I can hear him now in heaven calling the angels "halo-ers."