The Luck of the Irish

“Luck of the Irish in Delray Beach” By Kate Teves

“Luck of the Irish in Delray Beach” By Kate Teves

By Kate Teves

Recent, unflattering media can attest that I’m all for beers and a jig at the local Irish pub (with bonus points for references to U2). But squeezing through a sea of sweaty, hollering revelers in the scorching Florida sun while dodging beer showers and puke tsunamis sounds about as appealing as a hole in the head.

But not so for the those attending Delray Beach’s Annual St. Patrick’s Day Parade where suddenly everyone is Irish, even the pigs, and decidedly thrilled about it.

The day amounts to large hordes of college kids puking their guts out all over our streets, followed by divorcées in crochet-knit-halter-tops puking their guts out all over our streets, followed by red-faced middle managers—sweaty and swaying—looking like they should puke all over our streets. It is a panoply of leather skin, plastic boobies, bad tattoos, bloodshot eyes, and puffy faces. Or to sum it up: sunburns, steroids, and… sadness. (Not a person of color in sight, incidentally. Can’t begin to guess why.)

I am out on the balcony right now on the quiet Sunday morning after the storm as I write this. It’s 7:00 AM and we live a couple of blocks from the site of yesterday’s parade. As if on cue, somebody just started hurling on a palm tree down below. Heave, heave, retch! Heave, heave, retch!

HAPPY ST. PATRICK’S DAY EVERYBODY!