It didn’t hit me until a couple of days ago that we are, once again, in the season of the Irish. St. Paddy’s is right around the corner and green stuff is showing up in stores like crazy. On top of that, the squeezle and I are seeing Flogging Molly tonight and the Dropkick Murphys in a little over two weeks.
Where’s the month full of German “culture.” When do I get to put on my lederhosen, slam down boots of beer and jam to Kraftwerk and Rammstein. Octoberfest doesn’t get that kind of attention here in the states. You want to know why that is? Germans don’t put on drunken parades. I swear that post-Valentines/pre-Spring should just be called “Boston season.” If it weren’t so damn miserable and cold up there I’d probably spend that month wandering around Cambridge, drinking Harpoon and throwing the munch at the Barking Crab. Back in college I used to go to Boston every February and it was horrible and awesome at the same time.
Now, in my “advanced” years, I sit at home, drink my Irish whiskey and wait for the Boston to come to me. If the Red Sox were smart they’d do a national tour during “Boston season” just to kick their revenue bucks up a couple million or so.
Instead, I get the Texas version of “popular” Irish. Tonight I’ll get to deal with hipster highschoolers while they dance around to music that can only best be appreciated with a couple of pints of something in you and sing about “Drunken Lullabies” when, at the most, they’ve taken a swig from stepdad’s Coors Light or managed to pay a guy to pick them up a bottle of Boones Farm.
It’s enough to get a guy drinkin’.