It should come as no great surprise that St. Patrick's Day is my most cherished holiday of the year. The day I hold my head highest as I stroll into a bar while the benighted masses trudge off to another day of work. Those poor sods might look forward to overpaying for a Solo cup of Bud Light with green dye in it after the sun has set-- fair-weather revelers, at best. For me and the small handful of other stalwarts in town, who take "you can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning" as a rallying cry, proper reverence is paid with a few pints over the morning paper. And so it goes from there, completing our heroic campaign while the poseurs are still on conference calls or massaging their spreadsheets. Sorry, boys-- there's no greatness left to be had for you, we claimed it for our own, had our way with it and abandoned the carrion hours before you came along.
The morning ritual is my own, but lunch is at 11:00 at Stag's Head Pub on Richmond and Shepherd. You have to eat lunch anyway, so come be a part of something this week. Something greater than us all.
