I think my favorite part of St Patrick's Day (observed) is the quiet dignity of the celebration. The green Dr Seuss hats, people swearing, "WOOO!!!"-ing, and occasionally puking or urinating outside my house.
Bah O'Humbug.
Of course I, too, was once 20 and ridiculous (believe it or NOT!). I spent that final youthful SPD in Dublin, staggering around Temple Bar in bright green eyeshadow, singing Pogues songs and drinking whisky. I was flashed by a young man wearing a kilt, threatened at knifepoint by a rather frightening gentleman, and nearly flattened by a double-decker bus. All in all, fun times, but not ones I'd necessarily like to relive vicariously through the people swearing loudly on the street below.
Honestly, I don't mean to be shaking my fist all curmudgeonly over the kids having a bit of fun on an unseasonably gorgeous Saturday in March. And I know this riffraff comes with the territory of living in the East End (as I quickly learned my first night in my apartment when a young gentleman belted out a Journey medley below my window). Yet I can't help but wonder when it became acceptable to be a total douchebag in public.
Ooh, I smell garlic bread.
Anyway, I'll be heading out this evening (against my better judgement). C & A invited me to join them at Solera, and I figure an evening at the wine bar can't help but be civilized, even on SPD.
And, just so I feel like I'm not totally foresaking my Irish heritage, here's some music to drink by. Sláinte!
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