Gun-totin', Chronic-smokin' Hearse Initiator (ludickid) wrote,
Gun-totin', Chronic-smokin' Hearse Initiator
ludickid

Because I know how much you all love to hear me talk about drinking

Saturday was the St. Patrick's Day parade. You'll be pleased to know that the Trav-L-Bar was not confiscated by the authorities. However, it was entirely depleted by myself and my friends.

The parade was nothing special -- the theme this year was education, which lent a sort of frowny, pedagogic air to the proceedings, and the Grand Marshall was Gov. Blagojevich, which is not only a let-down after having Bush and Gore the previous two years, but is also nothing special, since he lives in my neighborhood -- but the weather was inspirationally beautiful, sunny, clear, warm, calm, temperatures in the low 60s after a week of dreariness. And, to be honest, we were far too drunk to care too much about the actual, you know, parade.

I know that some people abjure the St. Patrick's Day celebrations, disdaining them as showcases for amateur drunks, but as a professional drunk, I always have a good time. We (we being myself, Lara, Jeff, Doug, Andrea, Claire and Steve) parked ourselves in the heart of a triangle whose points were a handful of Eurotrashy Polish and German girls, a woman with a pair of kids she seemed to have a lot of difficulty keeping track, and a big dumb frat dude who would yell out the names of each parade as it went by ("I.D.E. SALUTES A TRADITION OF IRISH EDUCATORS! WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"). I brought along some soda bread, some Dubliner cheese, and a brick of Kerrygold butter, about which I have insufficient words to praise how goddamn good it is. The Trav-L-Bar was stocked with a full bottle of Scotch, a 3/4-full bottle of Irish whiskey, and a half-full bottle of Dooley's, as well as a large Thermos filled with Irish coffee. Lara also had a thing of Irish coffee and a flask of Irish whiskey. By the time we left the parade, it was all gone. All gone.

Afterwards, we went to the Red Lion for lunch and beer. Claire and Steve left, and the rest of us headed for Four Moons for more beer. Much more beer. Much, much more beer. Eventually Lara and Jeff left and it was just Doug, Andrea and I, drinking lots of beer and arguing about postmodernism and whether or not human emotional response is inherent or conditioned. I'm sure this conversation was fascinating to the people around us who had to listen to our drunken ravings.

Then I went home and spent all day Sunday in an alcoholic stupor. Happy St. Patrick's Day, friends! I hope your weekend was as flat-out fantastic as mine.
Tags: chic, diary, drunk
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