Point/Counter Point: I liked St. Patrick’s Day when it was cool
“In fact, let’s call it that: Early Spring Freak Out and Copulation Day. You can wear whatever you want, get hammered and honor the Goddess of Spring or the Lord of Baseball for all I care.”
I was hanging around with some friends at a local spot where young professionals drank in Dublin. It was late Friday afternoon and the typical happy hour crowd was having drinks like in any other city in the world. But these folks were getting DRUNK. One guy, replete in suit and loosened tie, was getting absolutely pole-axed. He said his goodbyes and shambled into a mini-van cab and was gone. I was told later, by people that knew him, that when he reached his home, the sliding door of the cab opened and he fell out, flat onto to his back on his driveway. Right in front of his kids and all of their friends. Someone dragged him inside and another Friday night in Dublin was in the books.
This was fairly normal behavior. I’m not saying everyone in Ireland behaves this way, but no one blinked an eye when a dude in suit and tie crashed and burned in such a remarkable manner. He was a living stereotype of the Irish drunk and it seemed about as normal as someone wearing shoes.
But why Americans feel the need to act like this, one day out of the year, is baffling.
I love St. Patrick’s for many reasons. One is that is signifies spring is on its way. Another is that it reminds us baseball is about to begin. But really, I love it because as an Irish-American, I have a small window of time that I feel like Mathew McConaughey with a bong in one hand, and an Oscar in the other. But the fascination with dedicating one day out of the year to really pushing the limits of your alcohol intake seems about as genuine as a felt top hat with a shamrock on it. Especially since the only difference is that there’s just less vomit on the other 364 days of the year.
I was in Dublin for St. Patrick’s Day as well and it’s a misnomer that the Irish don’t celebrate the day like we do here. In recent years, St. Patrick’s Day has become a huge deal in Ireland and they go all out: parades, funny hats, and bars packed like LoDo on Opening Day. People were taking the day off and it was a big fucking party. The Irish don’t need an excuse to celebrate, so the American version of St. Patrick’s Day seemed to appeal to everyone there.
But the Irish experience became something else after I had been there awhile. The hard partying, piss-in-the-street and throw-a-bottle at anyone who looked at you funny element is still going to be there, but what it became to me was the fabled “nice quiet pint with friends.” Catching a buzz was nice but getting high off the good conversation, the atmosphere and the craic was where it was at.
You can say the reason I don’t like the feces fest of St. Patrick’s Day is because I’m old. It’s fine. I accept that I’m old. But after I discovered in my own youth that St. Patrick’s Day is the ultimate amateur night (a close second to New Year’s Eve), I shied away from engaging with the idiots who were Irish for a day. And when anyone asked why I wasn’t going out for St. Patrick’s Day I would reply, “everyday is St. Patrick’s Day for me.” Smooth.
I listen to Irish influenced music year round, I sometimes drink too much and wear something with a shamrock on it on a regular basis. My thirst for revenge and obsession with death screams IRISH. And yet I like to think I have a great sense of humor and you can’t get me to shut up. And when you have all of that wrapped up in a pasty white package, you don’t need a pair of glitter covered, green sunglasses to let everyone know you’re Irish.
Go ahead and get loaded on March 17th. The Irish are surely flattered by it and the bars appreciate your business. But as someone who actually enjoys Ireland and its culture, St. Patrick’s Day is a pretty far cry from that nod to the Irish and closer to just a mandatory early spring freak out. In fact, let’s call it that: Early Spring Freak Out and Copulation Day. You can wear whatever you want, get hammered and honor the Goddess of Spring or the Lord of Baseball for all I care. The rest of us will enjoy a quiet pint, talk about death and listen to the Pogues in peace.
