I see a sea of green
The sometimes volatile nature of being a freelancer means that jobs sometimes fall through. This can be disastrous or joyous, depending mostly on the state of one's finances and the weather condition outside. So when I found myself at the last minute not having to work on Friday, I figured it was a good day to do some good, old-fashioned people watching. It was an absolutely beautiful day and it just so happen to be St. Patrick's Day. While I find green beer to be an insult to the otherwise delicious beverage, I do enjoy watching its effects on those who consume large quantities of it.
Sure, the History Channel debunked the myth that St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland as exaggeration incurred over centuries of embellished storytelling. What is no exaggeration is the number of slushes it drives into Manhattan every year on the 17th of March - especially when the date falls on a Friday and even more so when the weather is nice, such as it was. They come early and they come drunk. Screams (of the intoxicated variety) tore through Penn Station around 10 am. A short and stocky marine escorted a drunken college kid out of Penn station and invited me to go to Jersey with him and get drunk. I declined and he professed his love to me anyway. A low-ranking restaurant employee tried to sweep fresh puke onto a dustpan, with little success. Everywhere people were wearing whatever green garments they could dig out of their closets. Silly hats, green beads and assorted shamrock crap were available for sale at every street corner, with plenty of takers.
For those on the market for a classier souvenir, the Saint Patrick's Cathedral gift shop offered this statue of St. Patrick for eleven thousand clams.
I'm not a parade-person. I can think of 100 things I would rather do than watch a parade go by, such as picking lint out of my belly button and watching paint dry. But you can't get a sense of the magnitude of the St. Patrick's Day festivities without attending the parade. So I went. For a little bit, which was all I could take. I figure, if I have to watch a parade, give me something to look at, like floats and balloons shaped like Elmo or Capitan Underpants. But no luck, at least not for the 15 minutes I stood, six or seven deep, kiddy corner from St. Pat's Cathedral (the VIP area where no commoners were allowed). What I saw was the color guard on horseback and several servicemen in combat fatigues. Mostly I saw the top of people's heads. Time to move on...
Every bar in town was having some sort of commemoration. Downtown in the financial district they clearly took ambiance a bit more seriously, including a stretch of real grass in the middle of the alley. Drunken, but classy, I suppose was the message.
At the end of the day, the casualties of the green beer staggered home the best they could, in varying levels of impairment, from seriously trashed to behaving mildly like an asshole. All in a day's celebration.
Sure, the History Channel debunked the myth that St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland as exaggeration incurred over centuries of embellished storytelling. What is no exaggeration is the number of slushes it drives into Manhattan every year on the 17th of March - especially when the date falls on a Friday and even more so when the weather is nice, such as it was. They come early and they come drunk. Screams (of the intoxicated variety) tore through Penn Station around 10 am. A short and stocky marine escorted a drunken college kid out of Penn station and invited me to go to Jersey with him and get drunk. I declined and he professed his love to me anyway. A low-ranking restaurant employee tried to sweep fresh puke onto a dustpan, with little success. Everywhere people were wearing whatever green garments they could dig out of their closets. Silly hats, green beads and assorted shamrock crap were available for sale at every street corner, with plenty of takers.
For those on the market for a classier souvenir, the Saint Patrick's Cathedral gift shop offered this statue of St. Patrick for eleven thousand clams.
I'm not a parade-person. I can think of 100 things I would rather do than watch a parade go by, such as picking lint out of my belly button and watching paint dry. But you can't get a sense of the magnitude of the St. Patrick's Day festivities without attending the parade. So I went. For a little bit, which was all I could take. I figure, if I have to watch a parade, give me something to look at, like floats and balloons shaped like Elmo or Capitan Underpants. But no luck, at least not for the 15 minutes I stood, six or seven deep, kiddy corner from St. Pat's Cathedral (the VIP area where no commoners were allowed). What I saw was the color guard on horseback and several servicemen in combat fatigues. Mostly I saw the top of people's heads. Time to move on...
Every bar in town was having some sort of commemoration. Downtown in the financial district they clearly took ambiance a bit more seriously, including a stretch of real grass in the middle of the alley. Drunken, but classy, I suppose was the message.
At the end of the day, the casualties of the green beer staggered home the best they could, in varying levels of impairment, from seriously trashed to behaving mildly like an asshole. All in a day's celebration.
Labels: city life
posted by Fe at 10:57 PM
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