Wednesday, March 18, 2009
BoTToM O THe MoRNiN To Ya
As you all know, St. Patrick's Day was yesterday. Go here to find out your leprechaun name: mine is Greenie Bottlesipper.
St. Patrick's Day in NYC can be quite loverly. The air is filled with the sound of bagpipes and jolly people in funny hats stand outside of Irish pubs drinking green beer. It is magically delicious.
Once upon a time, we lived on the Upper East Side. (For those of you unfamiliar with Manhattan, that is where George and Wheezy mooo-ooved on up to.) The Upper East Side is traditionally where many of New York's finest police and firemen gather after the big St. Patty's parade to get their drunk on and sing Danny Boy. One St. Pat's, some time ago, Sexyhusbandomine and I were returning from work in our car and turned a corner, nearly colliding with a drunken man who had stumbled into the crosswalk against the light. He looked at us for a moment, reached into his waistband and pulled out a gun, and aimed it right at our windshield. He then continued to stumble across the street, made it to a corner mailbox and threw up in it.
Ah, St. Patty's Day in The Citay: almost as good as New Year's Eve.