IRISH EYES ARE SMILING AS MICHAEL MCCARTHY TURNS 100.

"He's coming, somebody calls out. "Shhhhh!"

The 160 guests in the banquet room at the United Irish Cultural Center on 45th Avenue drop their voices and look expectantly toward the doorway. A few moments later, on the arm of his daughter, Marge Ford, guest of honor and longtime Noe Valley resident Michael Joseph McCarthy "ex-Muni conductor, tenor extraordinaire, and centenarian-to-be" makes his entrance.

The crowd erupts with cries of "Happy Birthday, Mike!" as the eldest McCarthy, looking momentarily overwhelmed, takes a moment to gather it all in. Marge had led him to believe they were simply going out for dinner,

This 100th birthday party has come as a total surprise, and for a moment Mike is surrounded by enough McCarthys to populate Montana. They have traveled from all over California, from across the U.S., and as far away as Britain to celebrate with their eldest family member. The Party, hosted by Mike's four children - Marge Ford, Edward McCarthy, Evelyn Dion, and Rita Anne Beck - is capped with commendations from the San Francisco Board of Supervisors and the Consul General of Ireland, as well as personal greetings from Bill and Hillary Clinton.

A few days later we are sitting in Marge's living room on 22nd Street. In addition to Marge and Mike, there's Marilyn Richards, Mike's granddaughter from Pomona, her husband, Scott, and myself - Mike's next-door neighbor for over 13 years.

We're speculating on Mike's secret to longevity. Scott says, "Poppa has a saying. When people ask him, 'To what do you attribute a long and healthy life?' he says...." And then Scott pauses and turns to Mike. "You take it from there, Poppa."

Mike's face lights up in a puckish grin, and he begins to recite: "I get up each morning, and dust off my wits. I pick up the paper and read the obits. If my name is not mentioned, I know I'm not dead. So I eat a good breakfast and go back to bed!"

The room breaks up in laughter as Mike looks pleased with himself.

"He's always been a big joker," says Marilyn. "For a while, back when he was working on the Muni, he'd show up with a whisky bottle filled with tea. They thought he was tippling on the job, until one day somebody called him on it. He pulled that one quite a few times."

A little history. Michael McCarthy was born May 1, 1893, on a farm in Kenmare, County Kerry, Ireland, the fifth child of 12 brothers and sisters. In 1915, when he was 22, he set off for America with just the clothes on his back ("And not even any socks," says Marge.)

Two uncles in Montana found him a job at the copper mines, but hard times hit Montana, and in 1917 Mike came to San Francisco, where he worked as a carpenter's helper and then in the shipyards at Hunter's Point.

In 1921 he began a 43-year career as a conductor with the Market Street Railway, forerunner to the present-day Muni.

Recalls Marilyn, "When I used to ride the cable cars as a little girl, Poppa would have little rhymes for every street. Like he'd say, 'Your day will be fine if you get off at Pine.' People thought it was kind of neat, and they'd actually go out of their way to ride his cable car - actually pass up one car to wait for his. He made it really fun." In June 1961 McCarthy was anointed Muni Man of the Month.

So it appears that part of Mike’s secret to long life is a lively sense of humor.

"Well, it's certainly not what he eats," chimes in Scott enviously. "He always loads up his potatoes with butter, and he loves chocolate chip cookies and Dreyers vanilla ice cream. He could live on that. Also, he smoked until he was 65 or 70 - cigars, cigarettes, and pipes. And, of course, he always has to have his Jamison."

That would be Jamison Irish Whisky, which Mike still enjoys regularly, twice a day. In fact, it is seldom that a visitor is not asked to share a "highball."

"The other thing about Poppa," says Scott, "is that nobody could ever remember when he was sick."

Most remarkable was Mike's recovery from a fall, taken at the age of 97, into an open PG&E ditch, when he broke the fibula just beneath his knee.

"He was in the hospital five days," recalls Marilyn, "and was a terror the whole time. He thought it was a hotel and kept asking for room service. But they all loved him. They thought he was great!"

Two weeks of recuperation at home, and Mike was fully recovered. This was unquestionably due to being in excellent shape. Every morning like clockwork, Mike stands between the door frame and does 35 to 40 deep knee bends. Later you can find him, dressed to the nines and cane in hand, walking his daily two block route between Sanchez and Castro, on 22nd Street.

In 1919, Michael Joseph McCarthy married Katherine McCabe, a beautiful Irish colleen from Ballyhaise, County Cavan, Ireland, and they were eventually blessed with four children. Katherine died in 1983. But Mike is today the proud grandfather of 16 grandchildren and 15 great-grandchildren, many of whom find time to stop by and say hello during the year.

When they come, they always say, "Poppa, sing us a song." Blessed with a strong, clarion-clear tenor voice, Mike is still capable of charming any kind of audience - from family members to the parishioners at St. James' Church, where each St. Patrick's Day he sings "Danny Boy" at the 9 o'clock mass.

One morning in April, I bumped into Mike on the street, all spiffed up in tie, jacket, and hat.

"Ya' lookin' good, Mr. McCarthy." I said, affecting an Irish brogue.

Mike laughed and replied, "Oh my oh my oh my oh my oh my." Then he grabbed my hand. I knew what was coming.

"Knock, knock," he said.

"Who's there?"

"Orange."

"Orange who?"

"Orange ya' gonna let me go?"

With a cackle, the always-uplifting Michael McCarthy reached into his pocket and passed me one of his ever-present peppermints.

Then I watched with a smile as the Candy Man of 22nd Street, the singer of Irish ballads, and the bringer of good cheer continued to stroll merrily into his next 100 years.