Saint Patricks day looms like a dark cloud, waiting to pour gallons of alcohol on my sober head...and I reminisce about my tavern days when I was part of the party, and everyone was Irish, and we all had such a good old time...I have visions of John Wayne sweeping Maureen O'Hara off her feet in the "Quiet Man"...ahhhhh...he is such a manly man...drinking and fighting and boxing and doing all those man-type things which legitimizes all drunks in America, Ireland and all over the world. As a practicing alcoholic for some 30-odd years, I call this celebration, an amatuer event, much like New Year's Eve...Acne faced college students drink a six pack of beer in the gin mills, and end up puking on their feet, as they carouse outside in hoards...like Celtic heathens going to celebrate the beheading of some Roman.
I was a real drinking man...good for a fifth a day, and Saint Patrick's day was an everyday event for me. The old saying goes, "A man has to believe in something...so I believe I'll have another drink!"...This was my credo for years. My heroes were W. C. Fields and the doctors on MASH...Now these were swarthy, exiting and sarcastic men who earned their bones, paid their dues, and deserved to sit next to me on a bar stool.
So much has changed for me. I will celebrate by watching the Quiet Man with my sweet wife. My drink for the evening will be a nice cup of tea, and I will enjoy Barry Fitzgerald telling John Wayne, "No pattie fingers now!"....Ah, green Ireland, pubs, drinks, and more drinks! It was a great life, 'til I got sick and tired of being sick and tired.
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