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.
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!