On Friday I was so busy at work I didn't even notice that it was Saint Patrick's Day (a real blessing, since I hate St. Patrick's Day) . However, when I got on the Commuter Train to go to my brother's place in Stamford, I quickly remembered what day it was. My car filled up with 30-40ish Banker type white men; not unusual for the Metro North. However these men had been drinking since 10am and were using a Saint whose greatest claim to fame was that he may or may not have driven the snakes out of Ireland as an exucse to exhibit rotten behavior. These guys all knew each other, and they didn't bother sitting down, instead crowding the area near the door. There was probably 15-20 of them. They were, in a word, shitfaced. The man-boys were singing and yelling, punching the light fixtures and making homophobic and racist comments. What fun for the rest of us passengers! The ringleader, who kept screaming for someone to perform a "feat of strength" (you're a little confused pal, that's Festivus. Duh.), kept singing this charming refrain to the tune of "American Woman": "American Muslim, get away from me!". Over and over and over. It was disguisting, but like an anthropologist concerned with primitive cultures, or a highway rubber necker, I could not look away.
I took this very unhelpful photo (cameraphones really should have zoom lenses) then asked the man sitting next to me, "Is this for real? I feel like I am watching some horrible cliche come to life."
Fortunately, my night got better once LittleBrother picked me up from the train station. We went to his place and ate take out pizza and pink wine from a box. We watched some Def Poetry Jams and the movie Swingers.
"Do you have a cookie, or something?" I asked, going through his cupboards.
"Or something?"
"I need something sweet."
"I have the greatest low calorie chocolate snack ever," said LittleBrother. "I have fudgesicles." At that moment I considered that my brother was money, so money baby, and he didn't even know it. Or, that could just have been the box wine talking.
8 comments:
It wasn't the wine.
Fudgesicles are totally money.
I've been waiting for a St. Joseph's Day/St. Patrick's Day post. Thanks for not disappointing me.
-ML
I am deeply troubled by St. Patrick's Day, mostly because it's not so much a representation of Irishness as it is of American Assholishness.
I mean, can't the suits of the world (whose great grandfather on his mother's side came over to Nova Scotia from Cork umpteen years ago) give it a frickin' rest? Why are you being a drunken jerk in your grandfather on your mother's side's name anyway? It is a disturbing white frat boy holiday, to be sure.
That said, I made some kickass (if I may say) colcannon and drank of the Guinness on Friday. But I did not parade, carouse, or pee in public. I'm pretty sure the actual Irish reserve such behavior for Ireland v. Scotland sporting events anyway.
Yes, as the MuppetLover knows I wrote an op-ed about St. Patrick's Day and St. Joseph's day that I tried to sell to Metro NY and Newsday without much luck. I thought about publishing it here, but maybe I'll want to try again next year?
Rest assured that I have strong feelings on the subject. Sheena, would you care to explain what Colcannon is or is it just going to gross me out like potted beef?
Colcannon is fabulous. It's mashed potatoes with sauteed cabbage (though I like to use kale... it has more flavor) and onions mixed in. It's traditionally served on Halloween, actually, but since Claire's a vegetarian, I can't just go making corned beef for myself. It may sound gross, but I promise it's fantastic. I had the brilliant idea of putting a bit of gorgonzola in there this time around and it brought the dish to a whole new level.
When it's served on Halloween, people put a ring and a penny in it. If you end up with the ring in your serving, it means you'll get married within a year. If you get the penny, you'll have financial success. Please see Jim Sheridan's movie "In America" for an example of colcannon in action.
Of course I remember that scene from "In America." So that's what they were eating. Mateo got the ring and the penny. And then he died. How very ... Irish.
Oh My God, St. Patrick's Day sucks here (Boston) too. I made the mistake of trying to take the redline somewhere in the direction of the parade in Southie on Sunday and was privy to tons of drunk and semi-drunk people of all ages, all in about 30 shades of green with shamrocks festooned all over their persons, and clutching various "disguised" alcoholic drinks in containers such as travel coffee mugs, Glaceau Vitamin Water bottles and the like.
FANTASTIC.
Begob, ye've got it!
Jim Sheridan's a genius. In the Name of the Father was the first R rated movie I ever saw.
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