Monday, March 19, 2012


If I was Saint Patrick I'd be ashamed to have this called my holiday. Where other ethnic groups call attention to what they've accomplished this seems to be a day which celebrates getting out and getting smashed. Case in point.
The streets where I live are half the width of those on the Upper West Side. Between 28th and 25th there must be 30 bars, each of which has tables out. On St. Patty's these bars are filled to overflowing with almost legal kids, most of whom have bottles and glasses in their hands, in violation of the law. One bar on 28th and 3rd looks like the Columbia front four minus brains, and they're accosting everybody within range that's not wearing green. As I try to pass them with 2 bags of groceries one knocks my glasses off and steps on them, breaking them in two. I bend down to pick up the pieces and grab Paddy by the balls. SQUEEZE. Then I get up and stumble inside. Talking to the bartender has no effect, and he insists the manager isn't there. I go outside, and my playmates aren't there.
Across the street there's a police van with four officers. I cross, because it's my street. One cop looks at my bloody face and asks what happened. I tell him and volunteer to go with them. They say they can't do a thing about it, 'because it's Saint Patrick's Day. I thank the, and walk away, thinking how we maligned pigs in the 60s by naming cops after them, because pigs are nice animals.
I'll go on record as saying this holiday makes the fabled West Indian Parade and the Puerto Rican Day Parade look like tranquil walks in the park.

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