Today is St. Patrick’s Day. The patron saint of home exterminators.
He is credited with banishing all the snakes out of Ireland. Sort of a 5th century version of the TV show “Gator Boys”.
Since it is the most important holiday in the Boston area I got up this morning and immediately threw a corned beef into the crockpot. I realize that they didn’t have crockpots in the 5th century but I wanted to be faithful to the celebration so I went online to find an authentic recipe for corned beef. An interesting pattern developed. Although there were variations in cooking time, temperature and accompanying vegetables there was one thing constant.
6 ounces of beer.
We all know the standard container for beer is 12 ounces (OK…sure, 40 ounces for those of you still in college). So what was the thinking behind the “half a can of beer” ingredient? And is 8 am too early to drink a half a can of beer? It also didn’t specify the beer. Guinness? Bud? Some fancy microbrew with a stupid name like “Dead Monkey”? Light beer? Dark beer?
I used a half a bottle of Longboard beer…Hawaiian beer.
Of course we all have images of St. Patrick’s Day celebrations
The green rivers…
However, I think this is how most of us remember St. Patrick’s Day…if we can remember
It starts like this
…and ends like this
Since this is my second official St. Paddy’s Day in or near dear ol’ Boston, and the likelihood of me venturing out past the end of the driveway is highly improbable I thought I’d relate my last real SPD (St. Pat’s Day) blowout.
Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear. The ‘70’s ride again!
One of my brothers (who shall remain nameless) and I heard about a great time at a place called The Oar House on Main St in Santa Monica.
The Oar House was famous for free peanuts, sawdust on the floor, mismarked restrooms, music that was an eclectic mix of pop, classical, sound effects and popular films & musicals played at deafening levels and cheap (and on that night) green beer.
I remember we got there early enough to get in and quickly melded with the students, locals, surfers and airline crews guzzling green Bud and singing along with the Stones and Ethel Merman. As the night wore on, the flood of spilled beer turned the floor into a mucky mess of sawdust and crushed peanuts. This made dancing somewhat like trying to hopscotch in a very dirty horse stable. As the evening wore on and became blurrier I seem to remember writing on the walls, kissing a girl on a dare and observing an impromptu volleyball game played with a Leprechaun Hat. At that point the evening disintegrated into behavior that would make the most jaded Instagram poster blush. Every day I’m thankful that iPhones and the internet weren’t invented.
I have absolutely no memory of the drive home or getting to our apartment. I woke up the next day…I can’t say it was morning…and was staggering down the hall when the afore mentioned brother peeked out of his room and asked, “Did you come in here and throw up on my jacket?”
I did not.
A St. Patrick’s Day that shall live in the Hangover Hall of Fame forever.
For those of you who choose to pub crawl with the hordes of frat boys and amateur drinkers today, here’s a lively conversation starter…the final resting place of St Patrick looks suspiciously like Plymouth Rock.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!