The Holy Day has arrived, and I am giddier than Kirk Cousins’ real estate agent.
Before I rant and rave about the Lucky 17, I gots a top five non St. Patrick’s related thoughts in ‘me noggin this morning.
1- I picked up a shake for my son at Mickey D’s yesterday and I gotta say. It is not a designer shake if all you do is add whipped cream and charge an extra buck for it. It’s just not.
2- When I say hello to someone and they walk right past me as if I’m not there, I always think back to Bruce Willis in Sixth Sense.
3- I’m sorry, Ms Stormy Daniels, but if you sleep with a guy like Trump . . I have zero sympathy or interest in your story.
4- I found a local place that makes the famed panzarotti. It’s a Jersey thing, but Imma take the plunge and try it manana.
5- You might as well stop watching the NCCA tourney now, because the 16 seed Retrievers beating the 1 seed Cavaliers is as good as it’s gonna get. I mean . . UMBC? I thought maybe that stood for University of Media and Broadcasting or something . . .
As for St. Patrick’s, this here is ‘mah day. It’s a wheelhouse proposition chock full of rowdy behavior, questionable decisions and Gaelic curse words dressed all in green. It is twenty four hours of negotiating your next lease with the heavens above whilst the landlord downstairs tugs at your fledgling common sense.
For yours truly, this day has become the standard by which all other holidays be judged. It is my annual springboard into the deep blue sea of more agreeable temps- where sugar blossomed gardens, frosty bottles of happy, grill nights and provocative fashion replaces earth tones and warm drinks and the less imaginative garb of winter.
The poetic advancement of precious hours will find me bending the elbow with miscreants and rascals, as we play the timeless role of fine young cannibals inside a day made for just such a thing. We shall steal the risen mercury, bastardize the most solemn of thoughts and make Wilde and Beckett and Joyce wish they were around to loose one more shooting star from their mighty quills.
The party will be dressed in shamrock and it will roar as if the progeny of those rolling hills across the sea have joined us for the purpose. The moments will dive into a mayhem whose charter lives for today, and it will dovetail snugly into the grace of simple wishes. We shall scale the frost tipped stars for dreams unkempt and we shall rage against the darkness, whose terrors will not deter our merry march.
And we will dance to the music of a world whose ransom is wicked and whose bill is severe; never minding tomorrow when today is so much more worth it. We will have no reason to beg or borrow or steal, because we will be plenty satisfied with what we have in the right here and now of things.
We’ll toast to heaven while raising some hell. We’ll be proprietors of impropriety; merchants of debauched goods which carry no guarantees except for the ones whose province is a fallen angel’s sonnet.
We will sublime in the ordinary, revel in the same old and plunder all those things into something else entirely. And we will not apologize, not ever. Because you always play the friendly hours as late ones, and you always treat unkindest cuts as reasons, and you never say you’re sorry to what is already here and gone.
Peace, love and harmony