Happy St. Patrick’s Day, if you can afford it. Happier, still,
if you can’t. Getting ripped off induces a worse hangover than a
fifth of Jameson.
Calls to a few of the nation’s premier Irish public houses
reveal prices that will send patrons to the poorhouse. At New
York’s Paddy Reilly’s, a pint of Guinness will set you back $7, at
Boston’s Black Rose $6.50, and at Chicago’s Cork & Kerry $6.
It’s not quite enough to make one a teetotaler; but not so cheap as
to prevent one from contemplating a switch to Old Milwaukee.
Bars make a rich man poor. The extortionate pricing, the
inflated cover charge, the obligatory dollar every time a bartender
hands over a glass, and the expensive cab ride home make
yesterday’s normalcy today’s luxury. So, the money-saving pre-game
drinking ritual has, for many, become the game itself, with the
subsequent bar visit serving as the time to nurse rather than down
drinks.
What’s a cheapskate to do?
One option makes wherever you are the bar. In the River Street
area of Savannah, a St. Patrick’s Day destination that sagely
scoffs at open-container laws, celebrants may roam with booze in
hand unmolested by badge-bearing Neal Dows. Elsewhere, one must
beware—under the spell of a narcotic that dampens awareness, no
less—of the watchful eyes of watchdogs.
If there’s anything that announces “drinking in public” more
boldly than a brown paper bag surrounding a peach schnapps bottle,
it’s the red keg cup. Even drinking from a shiny flask shows the
police more respect than the red Solo cup. Discretion requires
imagination and planning. Nothing says “upright, law-abiding
Yuppie” louder than a cardboard Starbucks cup. Imploring friends
with the revolting habit of morning coffee to double-cup quickly
provides an at-the-ready supply of drink disguises. Drinking in
public doesn’t offend cops; drinking in public in a public way
does.
Nevertheless, police in major metropolitan areas will act as
bouncers-in-reverse this weekend, corralling drunks into bars
instead of throwing them out of them. “Several hundred Baltimore
and state police officers will be saturating the city’s bar
districts this St. Patrick’s Day weekend, looking for drunken
drivers and people drinking in the streets,” reports the
Baltimore Sun. Boston police aggressively ticket
parade-goers who passively imbibe. They issued 363 citations for
drinking in public in 2011, followed by 244 citations last year.
Either you pay the taxman by drinking in the tavern or you pay him
by drinking in the street.
March 17 is when we collectively pretend that anti-social
behavior is really social behavior. Projectile vomiting, impromptu
impersonations of Mickey Ward and Arturo Gatti, and a.m.
inebriation rank as a few of the behaviors that the bourgeois share
with the bums on the holiday. Like children who wish every day
Christmas, a few adult enthusiasts of St. Patrick’s Day make dreams
of March 17 24/7-365 come true in nightmare form. Last year I ran,
almost, into one of these proponents of St. Patrick’s Day
Infinity.
A pile of clothes moving in the road startled and stopped the
car. A closer inspection revealed a human being within the
garments. Lying asleep, legs on the curb and body in the busy
street, the man came within a few feet of knowing the real meaning
of last call. Awoken, he communicated to me — just not in any
language presently known to earthlings. The first policeman on the
scene recognized the gentleman and explained that his unusual
napping spot wasn’t unusual for him.
If Betty Ford and Frederick Exley had ever procreated, surely
the evidence lay in the street before me. The shamrock on his cap
suggested membership in my tribe. It was March 12, meaning that St.
Patrick’s Day had become St. Patrick’s Week — if not St. Patrick’s
Life — for Mr. Jameson Guinness Ford-Exley. He desperately needed a
holiday from his holiday.
The cost of St. Patrick’s Day in the bars and St. Patrick’s Life
in the streets strikes me as too high. The example and the prices
set have inspired a tradition for St. Patrick’s Day, and the month
that surrounds, of sobriety. Go down a dozen Harps. I’ll have a
glass of milk.
Photo: UPI
