What is Up, Party People?

by

Or should I say Patty people.

It’s St. Patrick’s day, which I have completely forgotten any number of times today.  And I did not wear green, both the girls did today, they were adorable and cute and neither have a speck of Irish in them.  But both mom’s were adamant that they wouldn’t get pinched.

I pinched their wee little cheeks when no one was looking, they are just delicious.

I was riding my bike home tonight through the Polk Gulch and was vaguely starting to notice that it was going off more than usual.  Normally, Thursdays are just starting to take off when I head home, folks starting up the weekend and all.  But tonight it was extra special crazy.

It was when a posse of loud boys wearing green socks and dyed green hair gamboled across the street at Pine that I finally got it, again, for the umpteenth time, that it was St. Patrick’s day.  Day to wear green, drink yourself green, and pass out in the front you your Escalade with the driver’s side door open and your body hanging out.

Dude.

I thought this guy was just looking for his keys or something, but no, they were in the ignition and he was passed the fuck out.  It was approximately 7:50 p.m.  Happy St. Patrick’s!

Happy hang over.

Happy I don’t ever, ever, ever have to drink green beer again, or Irish car bombs, or Guinness, or Harp, which I never liked anyhow.  Not that I’m too worried about the lack of my consumption’s effect on the liquor industry, I’m sure no body noticed but me.

Ah, holidays, I’m so glad I forget about you most of the time.  I never did really get into St. Patrick’s, again, the whole lack of being Irish thing.  Plus, I always tended to be working on the day.

Highlights from the reel–Henry Hall bringing in his little brother Morgan, not of age, sorry, Mr. Bob Worm, I let him in, to the Essen Haus and them getting absolutely hammered and doing the chicken dance to the polka band.  Martin pouring so much dye into a boot of beer that it was no longer green, but black, and the table being so messed up that they didn’t even notice.  This is the same table that bought the paper vest off Martin for $50.  You know you’re drunk when….

The smell of corned beef and hash vomit.  Need I say more.

Off the topic of beer and vomit; the year my mom bought me holiday themed socks for not only Valentine’s Day, but St. Patrick’s Day.  Jesus, mom, I never lived that down.  I was in 7th grade, new to the school district and there I was in Mr. Peterson’s algebra class rocking the holiday socks.  I was Napoleon Dynamite meets mathletes.

The snickers from Kerri and Naomi withered my little soul.

Getting wasted with Anna Parker at the Dubliner in Noe Valley.  I do not know to this day how we managed to get into the bar, or into the bathroom, now that I think of it, all I remember was the bouncer flirting with me and some guy passing me a handle of Jameson’s.  Then somehow making our way to the Harry’s in the Fillmore where our mutual friend, Brian Belfield was bartending.  Needless to say, Anna was not able to drive home that night.  And I remember a vague conversation I had with a ex-girlfriend of Eric Roblees’.

Ah memories.

Now the only thing that’s green in my vicinity is my Lilliputian French/English Dictionary that Pell gave me last week.  I think I’ll keep it that way.

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