SAINT PATRICK'S DAY: THE MOST REGRETTABLE HOLIDAY OF THE YEAR

Tomorrow is Irish New Year. And no doubt, crowds of happy suburbanites will flock to town to watch the grand parade, featuring golden leprechauns, darling little kiddies in mediaeval Irish costumes, people dressed as ancient bards, and lines of clog dancers jigging down Market Street to the sound of bells, gongs, and bagpipes. With melodic song and Irish car bombs.
Oh so very festive. An event for the entire family.

I've actually never watched the parade.
River dancing gives me a head-ache.

I did have corned beef and cabbage once. Over fettuccine noodles.
It wasn't really very good, and I think I would've preferred goat.


Saint Patrick's Day weekend is a good time to avoid the city. Amateurs are about, and they infest every decent place to eat or drink, with the exception of Chinatown. They do not associate Chinese food or bakery products with an Irish festival -- rightly so, as one of their national heroes was such a phenomenal racist and bigot during the early days of San Francisco that his grave should be desecrated on a daily basis, his withered remains dug up and scattered to the winds -- but, oddly, they will be all over the Mission District as well as North Beach. Gorging and disgorging.
Burritos and tacos with corned beef.
Espresso and Cappuccino.
Begorrah.

Sunday drunkards deserve one evening a year. It will take them the other 364 days to recover. They might want to spend that time reading some of the Irish authors whose stellar contributions to English literature are quite beyond compare, but I seriously doubt that any of those intoxicated bastards can actually read.
Given that many of them grew to doubtful adulthood in the texting era.
And probably spent all their time playing video games at school.


My dislike of Irish New Year is so intense that every year on March Seventeenth I scrupulously avoid anything which might be seen as an observance of the day. No Irish Whiskey (though I will stock up on Jameson's beforehand, ere the stores run out), no dark beers, absolutely no boiled cow flesh salted or otherwise, and above all no cabbage cooked in the fashion of the Anglo-Saxons.
The only thing green I shall drink will be tea.

Thank god the Irish never invented a cuisine, as that means we shan't have to starve; nothing edible is tainted with SinPaddism. We can eat Vietnamese noodle soup, wonton, boeuf bourguignonne, sauerbraten, bint es-sahn, gaeng massaman, and chicken adobo to our hearts content.
And, given that there is no decent coffee anywhere in the English-speaking world untill you get to the Bay Area, we don't have to do without proper stimulation either. We can be awake and watchful, as we hold our shotguns ready to blast the first drunken frat boy who tries to pee in our doorways.
Next week it will be all over; the overflowing cells at the local police station will disgorge a hung-over crowd of once-a-year Irishmen, their disappointed parents will ask them "Giuseppe, what possessed you, fool?" And their college professors will speak extra loudy so that Ivan O'Petrovitch will hear the lecture no matter how hard he covers his green and pounding ears.
It will all be forgotten. Except for a distaste for Jameson's.
Of which there might be a little left we hope.
Which we shall consume celebratorily.
After hosing down the sidewalks.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day.
Drink responsibly.
Tequila.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================