SOA Asks: ‘Don’t They Know It’s St. Patrick’s Day?’

By Colby Black
Dateline: March 17, Brooklyn

The first Christmas I lived here, my parents decided to come visit. I asked my dad if there was anything he just had to do. He thought for a second and said, “well, I guess I’d like to do New Years Eve in Times Square.”

“You have fun with that,” I told him.

Kevin, back in the Austin Suds of Anarchy HQ, said he wanted 5 observations from St. Patrick’s Day in New York.

“You have fun with that,” I told him.

Now, at arm’s length I’m sure there’s a certain romanticism to St. Patrick’s Day in New York. But that’s because at arm’s length, you can’t get vomited on by the Tri-State area’s greatest bros.

At arm’s length there’s not a parade route between you and your office.

At arm’s length you can’t hear the bagpipes.

Maybe strike that last one. Because at arm’s length you can still hear that babel.

(This seems like the proper place to point out, I do love the bagpipes in AC/DC’s “It’ a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock ’n’ Roll” but only the bagpipes in AC/DC’s “It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock ’n’ Roll”)

My friends, St. Patrick’s Day in New York is an orchestrated disaster. And not even one of the good ones.

If you need a flipbook of St. Patrick’s Day in NYC, allow me to point you to my social media time machine:

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Interesting story about the wrong train three years ago. I was dating this gal that lived out in Jersey. I hopped a train to go see her. As I didn’t speak Jersey, I didn’t know it was the wrong train. It shot me two hours into the hinterlands, and I arrived in the middle of Hintertown’s St. Patrick’s Day Festivities.

Our train was welcomed into town by a man holding his toddler and waving. Oh, also. He was peeing. Mostly facing the train.

So that, was where I’d gotten with this screed this morning. And I had no idea how I was going to finish this off.

But I knew, by God, I hated St. Patrick’s Day. And I was pretty sure I hated it more than anyone else in the world.

So I’m riding the subway into the office this morning, and I’m zoned out with some random episode of Marc Maron’s WTF podcast. The train is packed and we’re jostling around. There’s something touching my leg, but there’s always something touching you on the train in the morning. You zone out and just calculate how many days until retirement. Just as you do.

The train goes about 5 or 6 stops with us all pretty much in our same configuration when I finally look down to shift a bit. And I realize what had been hitting my left leg. Or, rather, who. It was Peter Dinklage.

Now, my first thought was, “HOWDEADISJONSNOW???!?!TELLMENOWTELLMENOWTELLMENOW!!!!”

And then, my second thought was “Realized that guy must hate St. Patrick’s Day even more than I do.

Erin Go Home. You’re Drunk.