It would follow that the only nationally recognized celebration of another nation’s traditions would boil down to being basically a Bacchanal. I mean, burning someone in effigy on Guy Fawkes day as they do in Brittan does have it’s own spark of lovely in that unruly mob kind of way, but really…how could that possibly compare to drowning yourself in liquor before midday even hits. Now this is a celebration.

For Love we have Valentines; Patriotism there’s July Forth; Escapism has Halloween; and religion and Family have the newly and controversially dubbed Holiday Season. (instead of Christmas.) But St. Patty’s Day is the only holiday dedicated to getting shitfaced and loosing all semblance of decorum. Yeah, there’s Marti Gras, but they don’t get a parade in EVERY major metropolis.

Note the following:

– My office is just above an Irish pub. They’ve been stocking the roof of the building with neigh on fifty kegs for today, and there’s been music pounding base lines through my feet since nine in the morning.

– My little smoking spot in the office is the fire escape over the roof of the pub. Before noon, someone from the bar wandered upstairs, and allowed the door to lock behind him. Stumbling a bit and banging the door, he finally wandered into the corner, and promptly peed onto one of the radiators. I was laughing through my cigarette, but finally decided to turn around and let him pee in peace, lest he turn, zipping his fly to see a man grinning at him.

– Just outside my window I can see the groups in the parade as they prepare to turn onto Fifth Ave. Bagpipers, of course, litter the scene playing the ever ironic “Scotland the Brave,” on this, an Irish Holiday. Adding to the oddity are the Civil War reenactors, who, in a fit of divine wisdom, chose to bring bayonets out to a street pock marked with drunks. (The South wasn’t represented. The Union marched alone.) A few, still carrying their innocuous brown paper bags, tried to join the line, singing something that was, I guess, some approximation of a marching song. They made a go for the pointy props before being shuffled away.

– A co-worker ran across the street to grab lunch at a diner across the way, but encountered this instead.
“What do you need?”
“Let me get a turkey…”
“Wait! Wait! Hold on!” cried a man in what appeared to be an Irish Rastafarian Hat. “Do you have beer? Is this a bar?”
“Beer’s right there,” said my co-worker.
“Shit. This isn’t a bar. Wait! Do you have beer?”
“Yes, sir.” The clerk explained. “It’s right there.”
“Is this a bar? It isn’t, is it.”
“Let me just get a Turkey sandwich with…” said the co-worker making a valiant effort.
“Wait. Wait. I have one question. Do you have beer?”
“Yes. It’s right there.”
“Good. That’s all I needed to know…” Drunky o’Rasta wandered off.
“Thank God. Crazy day, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Anyway…Turkey with…”
“WHERE’S THE BEER?!”

– On his way back, he found some corn-beef and cabbage on the sidewalk…partially digested.

It’s not even two yet.

God I love this holiday.