St. Patrick's day. Celebrated in America by the Irish and, well, everyone that has ever heard of the Irish. A holiday that commemorates the life of Saint Patrick, a widely successful missionary in Ireland in the second half of the 5th century. How do we Americans celebrate the holiday? Drinking alcoholic beverages and wearing green. And . . . well, that's about it. I'm sure that the folks over in Ireland who are celebrating their RELIGIOUS HOLIDAY are appalled by America's choice of celebratory traditions, but it's true. That's what we, as a country, do. I mean, there's a parade or two, but that's it. Drinking beer and wearing green. And sometimes drinking green beer. And what place is more appropriate to do these things than New York City, a city that has the second highest number of bars per square mile (Athens, Georgia is first - who knew?). So, in honor of blogging about New York's St. Patrick's Day celebration, I headed to the city's epicenter of celebration - Times Square. Yes, folks. I did it. Now, ask any sane New Yorker and they will tell you that this is the LAST place any local would want to be on March 17th. But, I braved it. And, actually, it wasn't so bad. For a while.
And then I headed off to my 4pm obligation. On a side note, if you were wondering why I haven't been blogging so much lately, I have a fabulous new internship at TVI actor's studio. (Incidentally, if you're an actor or an aspiring actor, they have tons of great classes with awesome agents and casting directors. Seriously - that's why I'm interning there - fab.) Anyway, I was inside from 4-8pm and then headed back out to spend some more time observing my fellow cheerfully green-clad Americans in Times Square. Um . . . a WHOLE different story. The first thing I saw was two women on the corner of 46th filing some kind of police report - both were wearing green feather boas and one was bleeding from the head. I crossed the street and a small dodgy-looking character walking with one eye open nearly missed knocking me out with a shamrock-shaped bag. I high-tailed it across Broadway and picked my way through a group of girls that were SITTING on the disgusting sidewalk. One was sobbing, one was asleep, and the other two were trying to console/keep seated the other two. Ew. Wait. This wasn't cheerful and fun anymore. You know when you're out dancing at a club and they turn the lights on full blast and everybody that was once really hot suddenly look sweaty and busted? Yeah . . . like that. I walked down 8th avenue and stepped over a puddle of puke. Yes, human vomit. Orange, chunky human vomit. And, incidentally? That was not the only vomit I had to circumnavigate in my short 8 block walk to the bus, that was, of course, filled with loud talkers, heavy sleepers, and people that I was genuinely afraid would produce still more vomit. Okay, that's it. Done with St. Patrick's Day. I hopped off my stop in New Jersey and was VERY thankful to be at home. And wearing purple.
The moral of the story? St. Patrick's day should only be celebrated in the daylight hours. The end.