Oh! Here's a Bill Monahan story I can tell that is probably fine for public access.

When I was living on West 10th Street, and Bill was staying in an apartment on the west 30s, we would often meet at an Irish bar on 7th Avenue and (I think) 25th Street. It wasn't our regular, but it was the most convenient halfway place.

The second time we met there, I couldn't remember the name of it. Bill, between puffs of a Marlboro Red, shouted, "Who the fuck cares about the name? You know where it is! It's just another Fergus McDingus!"

"A what?"

"Finn MacCools's, Paddy McGillicuddy's, some fucking Mick name. They're all Fergus McDingus. Let's get a goddamn drink."

After that, every time we talked about meeting for a drink, we called the place Fergus McDingus'. Sometimes, I would even play dumb about the name of the place, and Bill would reliably rant about generic mick names for bars. How they were all called Fergus McDingus, as far as he was concerned. Never failed to crack me up.

Even now, as other pals can attest, I still use the name Fergus McDingus to refer to any Irish bar. And it never fails to crack people up -- especially people who are Irish by background, in any bit.