Happy Hallowmas, everyone. Today is the day that Christians celebrate all saints, those known and those unknown, that takes form as Día de los Muertos here in Southern California. The Day of the Dead is a day of remembrance, a celebration of life and of the afterlife, a day of revelry. Not to bring the party mood down, but today has been a very pensive one following on the heels of Halloween hedonism. I’m struggling to put into words just exactly what has me down, so please bear with me.

Last night I was very, very fortunate. After years and years (and years) of being a fan, a friend got me tickets to see The Pogues—and on Halloween night no less. For those unfamiliar with the band, they are an Irish folk/punk/rock band, formed in London in the early ’80s that stayed together through 1996. I was only barely born when the band formed and still too young to see them when they broke up, so I had resigned myself to never having the opportunity to witness one of their, uhm, energetic live performances. Needless to say I was very excited when I found out I’d finally have a chance to see them.

I’ll skip forward by telling you that the opening acts were both amazing (as expected) and by ten o’clock the room was filled with costumed, drunken revelers ready to pogo their way through the set. We had a perfect, unobstructed view of the stage. The lights went down. The crowd started to hum. The Pogues took the stage, in full mariachi garb, and started to play. And Shane MacGowan, poet laureate of a generation of bands and fans, doddered on stage in a bath robe and a sombrero so drunk he could barely stand.

Now, I was prepared for this. I’m well aware of MacGowan’s drinking, and that he doesn’t take the stage in a state that even remotely resembles sobriety. But even being aware of that, it’s hard to watch a man, particularly someone whom you respect, slowly, surely, killing himself right in front of you. He could barely remember the lyrics to songs he’d written, he couldn’t remember the set list, and the whole time the crowd and his band mates laughed uproariously at his confused, drunken hijinks. They roared at his mumbled, slurred banter and chugged more beer and pogoed into each other with such enthusiasm that they didn’t notice the specter he’s become.

And as he was slurring his way through the song I was waiting to hear, I looked over at the boy—maybe all of thirteen, who was there with his father—standing next to me at the rail. He smiled at me, because we were both singing. And right then, in that room full of people, I wanted to sit down and cry, for all of us.

If I should fall from grace with God / Where no doctor can relieve me / If I’m buried ‘neath the sod / But the angels won’t receive me / Let me go, boys / Let me go, boys / Let me go down in the mud / Where the rivers all run dry

Pour equal parts beer (ale) and ginger beer into a tall or pint glass and serve.

Shandies are a European staple wherein you mix equal parts beer and lemonade or soda. Though popular in most European countries, it is known by many names. The French call it a panaché and use lemon-flavored soda water. The Germans call theirs Biermischgetränke and use non-alcoholic beer for the popular, child-friendly version, or they make the Radler with regular beer, which was invented by a bartender who was running out of beer during a bike race—he cleverly named his concoction “cyclist” to fool the thirsty bicyclists into drinking his watered-down beer.

The British generally make shandy gaffs with lemonade or ginger beer, which is often served (at a higher lemonade-to-beer ratio) to children in pubs. Or at least that’s what my British friends tell me. They could just be putting one over on the dumb Yank.