Most bar industry workers hate Saint Patrick's Day. I know, because they piss and moan about it the minute all the Valentine's Day and Mardi Gras celebrations end. Why? It's a rancid drunkfest, and you end up cutting off, kicking out and 86-ing many of your patrons for the holiday.
Me? I still adore this fine holiday.
But why?
I'm not naïve enough to think my Irish ancestors and I have anything in common. I know all the Irish-Americans who go to beautiful Erin Island are seen as annoying jerkoffs by the actual natives.
I know the real Irish are more likely to eat General Tso's Chicken than corned beef and cabbage. I don't drink green beer—mostly because it's always Bud Light, which I can't stand. One of the biggest pricks I've ever worked for was an Irish guy who owned a bar.
I don't wear a kilt. I don't have Celtic crosses or shamrocks tattooed. I speak more Russian than I do Irish—mostly because I've only heard bits and pieces of that crazy-ass language. I still root for Notre Dame football and think Rudy is an awesome story.
I once overhead an actual Irishman scold some drunk girl who tried to buy him a Car Bomb. "Listen lady, Guinness doesn't need anything added to it and neither does Jameson. And Irish cream is for your coffee or for pussies." I'd quit drinking before I took a sip of Bushmill's Irish Whiskey—I'm a Jameson guy, or if you're buying, Red Breast.
I only get a few stray red hairs in my beard, the rest is jet black, thanks to some Black Irish genes (no, that doesn't mean I'm part African. Black Irish is a term for the Micks with dark hair).
As a former New Yorker, I don't care for Boston, but I do wear the occasional polo over a long underwear shirt. I've spent many an hour drinking at McSorely's Old Ale House—one of (if not THE) oldest bars in Manhattan.
I did not grow up in an Irish-friendly spot. North Dakota is about as Irish as your neighborhood Taco Bell. It's mostly German and Scandinavian stock with a few American Indians (feathers, not dots). So for the longest time, my friends led me to believe anybody from Irish heritage was too dumb for engineering and too lazy for farming—two of the biggest industries in NoDak (which, in my case, is totally true). I didn't have the height advantage or intelligence of the Germans, nor the beautiful flowing blond locks of the former Northmen.
However, my family did have something the rest of these folks didn't have: Saint Patrick's Day. The one day everybody gets to be or wants to be Irish. Granted, my neighbors celebrated their own holidays too: the Germans enjoy a month of drinking holidays called Octoberfest and the Scandanavians have, I dunno, Snow Days? The Minnesota Vikings schedule?
So Saint Paddy's Day has always been a big Fuck You to all those assholes who ridiculed my family roots.
Mama Freeman still calls me a few days before Saint Paddy's to remind me to find a bunch of green clothes to wear—even though I own more lime-colored stuff than most Boston Celtics fans. I even bought one of those hokey green Lance Armstrong Cancer rubber band bracelets so I could sport my color as I shower on March 17th.
I'm not going to try to battle stereotypes. Because you can bet your bottom dollar, pound or Euro that I'll be covered in emerald and getting shitfaced while singing the handful of folk songs I can remember through my drunken haze.
So I'll leave you with something else the Irish are also famous for: Irish blessings.
May your troubles be less,
Your blessings be more.
And nothing but happiness,
Come through your door.
…And fuck the Italians.