PAINTING THE TOWN GREEN

In an effort to drum up some excitement for Saint Patrick's Day, two weeks hence, I struck up a conversation with a hyperactive little boy near me on the bus. I informed him that on that weekend, Reverend Ian Paisley would come down his chimney with omelettes and valium if he was good, and buckets of mud if he wasn't. I thought it was lovely thing, but his mother glared daggers at me. She'll have a hard time satisfying his questions.
In any case, he kept quiet for the duration of the ride.
Probably counting his eggs ahead of time.

You can probably understand that I myself am not particularly vested in the biggest holiday on the frat-boy calender. I have no eggs to fry in this race, so to speak. I'll dodge the sots.

Saint Patrick, as is well known, chased the able cooks from Ireland and left them nothing but plain boiled potatoes with seaweed. Which is why there are festive marches.
And charming ginger damsels hoppity dancing.

There is an Irish bar near one of the bus stops in the Financial District, which even at the best of times presents public health hazards on the narrow sidewalk outside. It will be quite intolerable that weekend, as intoxicated office workers do their best to get rid of their eggs and intestinal snakes in public. Imagine lumpy viridian snow. Which smells bad.

THE STAMPS OF DISAPPROVAL

I myself will not celebrate. Instead, I plan to stay indoors after work that weekend, Possibly sneering under my breath. Not that I harbour ill-feelings toward the Hibernian element, but having spent several years in Berkeley, I effing well despise fraternities and their alcoholic shenanigans.


Seven weeks afterwards I may celebrate Cinco De Mayo, however. It speaks to me more. The stubbornness of Mexicans wupping an imperialist force, thumbing their noses at the Trump of that era, and telling the entire world to eff off. Yes, that is worth commemorating. Far more than some fictional wussy saint throwing eggs at reptiles.


[Note: the images above are completely irrelevant to the text. Seals I carved a number of years ago.]



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