Ah, the day the patron saint of the ancient land of my ancestors allegedly died, probably not having had anything to do with snakes.

Here in the hinterlands there are streets with names like Geary and Gough and O’Farrell from a nice history of Irish folk going for gold and land grants from Mexico or just partying it up in San Francisco’s brothels and casinos. Back in the day, according to the internet, the Hibernian Savings and Loan was a big deal and folks were doing all right out west.

Apparently, there’s a big parade down Market Street or thereabouts in San Francisco. I haven’t seen it. For me, Irish Americans and parades in March are South Boston and drunks. I’m not actually a big fan of either South Boston or its drunks.
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Tonight, there was some streets closed or something by way of celebration. I haven’t seen that either. Although, the beau, clearly not Irish-American in so many ways, he was drinking O’Doul’s near beer among equally non-Irish-American co-workers in the thick of things, while I watched our boiled dinner bubble in the crock pot.

By way of reconciliation and recognition of my heritage, he came home in time for dinner a bit later than normal his arms laden with trinkets. Among the swag was an oversized green cloth hat and many, many strands of Mardi Gras-style beads anchored by foaming beer mugs and gaudy shamrock leaves. As a side note, he told me I looked good in the oversized hat. He’s clearly blinded by my many charms.

What all of this means, ultimately? It means next year on Chinese New Year’s, I’ll be out drunk and then come home with a coolie hat and a long braid.

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