Missing St. Patty's Day

Yesterday was Saint Patrick’s Day, which I forgot to celebrate for a number of reasons. First, I’m not Irish; second, I believe that beer should only be green when it’s regurgitated; and third, the annual South by Southwest (SXSW) Geek-Nerd-Hipster Festival is going on in Austin, and I’m too annoyed by that to celebrate anything.

(A special note to you SXSW attendees: If one more of you assholes steps in front of my car while obliviously texting away on your smart phone, I’m going to go out-of-control Prius on your ass. Consider yourselves warned.)

Yesterday a woman I work with berated me for not wearing green. I found this odd because Sylvia is Hispanic, a fact that I politely reminded her of. “What do you care? You’re Mexican,” I said delicately.

Yes, she replied, but she’d spent several years at Saint Patrick’s School for Snakes and Children (or something like that), which apparently left some indelible green imprint on her. That’s when I realized that for some time now I’ve thought of Saint Patty’s Day strictly as an excuse to dress like a leprechaun and drink till I puke, conveniently forgetting its Catholic origins. Duh!

On a side note, I used to work with another Hispanic woman who alternately called herself Lisa or Veronica, and who would always take vacation time on Saint Patrick’s Day and the day after. I always thought that nothing screamed, “I’m an alcoholic!” like taking those particular days off, although perhaps Lisa/Veronica was just a devout Catholic. But I doubt it.

I’m of Welsh ancestry. I’ve never visited Wales, but that tiny isle has a reputation of being a cloudy, dreary place populated by gloomy, surly alcoholics. Kind of like Ireland, without the charm. Sounds like I’d fit right in. The great actor Richard Burton was Welsh, as was the poet Dylan Thomas. On the other hand, Prince Charles bears the title Prince of Wales, which may indicate that generations of alcoholism may lead to children with enormous ears.

I always figured that the closest thing the Welsh have to their own saint is the crotch-stuffing singer Tom Jones. But I checked Wikipedia, and Wales has quite a few saints, with Saint David (Dewi Sant in Welsh) being its patron saint. The Welsh celebrate March 1 as Saint David’s Day, but you don’t hear about it here in the U.S. I must admit that Saint Patrick’s miracle of driving the snakes out of Ireland is a bit more impressive than the one performed by Saint David. According to Wikipedia:

The best-known miracle associated with Saint David is said to have taken place when he was preaching in the middle of a large crowd at the Synod of Llanddewi Brefi. When those at the back complained that they could not see or hear him, the ground on which he stood is reputed to have risen up to form a small hill so that everyone had a good view.

Hmmm. The Welsh must be easily impressed. Maybe it’s unfair to compare Saint David to Saint Patrick. It’s probably like pitting Criss Angell against your run-of-mill birthday party magician. But still.

Henceforth, I’m going to try to increase my awareness and knowledge of saints. Not for religious reasons, but because I’m always looking for an excuse to celebrate. But wait—I just read on Wikipedia that there are more than 10,000 Roman Catholic saints! If I celebrated them all, I’d have Larry Hagman’s liver. His previous one, I mean.

Maybe I’ll just celebrate All Saints Day on November 1, which, as you can tell by the name, pretty much covers them all. I can start partying the night before on Halloween, at which time I can dress like a leprechaun and drink till I puke, in addition to scaring small children with my terrifying high-pitched fake Irish brogue. B’gosh and b’gorra! and all that.

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