The Lepre-con

by Patrick Alexander

St. Patrick’s Day is one of my favorite C-list holidays. It celebrates the Irish culture, which is one-fourth of my background (I also have Scottish, Italian, and Hungarian in there—I’m a mutt of Europe). What’s even better than the cultural aspect of March 17 is that it’s a day that’s universally recognized as a drunken holiday. If you aren’t out on St. Patrick’s Day getting a pint of green beer, you are either very old, very uptight, or in rehab. Perhaps all three. On this particular holiday everyone wears the green, becoming a little Irish for one day.

Some people already have Irish in them, like me. If they don’t, they will by the end of the night if they drink enough beer with Irish men (trust me on this one).

I call St. Patrick’s Day a C-list holiday because, while it’s widely recognized throughout North America and while it has crappy decorations and greeting cards made in its honor, it doesn’t have the commercial success of other A-list holidays, like Christmas, Halloween, and Thanksgiving.

The B-list holidays, like Valentine’s Day, Easter, and Mother’s Day, celebrate the wonderful guilt of not honoring your lover, your religion, or your parents all year. B-list holidays help alleviate some of that tension by warming a relative’s heart and warming postal carriers’ joint and muscle pain.

However, the C-listers are the pointless “we just need a holiday to get through this terrible, terrible month” brouhahas that still inspire a few to action. St. Patrick’s Day is the king among them. This holiday is the drunken uncle at the family reunion that tells the best dirty jokes, sexually harasses your new girlfriend, and smokes a joint in your garage thinking no one will notice.

What I love about St. Patty’s Day (or as I call it, ‘The Lepre-Con’) is that, like New Year’s Eve, it gets people together simply to drink, party, and be social. There are no awkward family dinners or present-exchanges; no stress over finding the right gift for your lover, no tedious church services or weird rituals to perform. All you’re required to do is wear that one piece of green clothing that you own but never wear (and we all have at least one) and tip a glass in honor of a saint. Everyone sings a slurred and off-key version of “When Irish Eyes are Smiling,” which never really goes past the first line anyway.

Try to think of the second line. I dare you. Without a pint of Guinness it’s damn near impossible.

Booze, singing, leprechauns. What’s not to love?

Despite the revelry and cirrhosis of the liver that ensues, there is a downside to this day. The most annoying thing is how everyone tries to mimic Irish culture by trying to actually drink like an Irishman and, subsequently, talk like an Irishman. They’ll spit colorful phrases like “Erin Go Bragh,” which I think has something to do with some girl named Erin and her bra. It’s a valiant attempt, but the weak and non-Irish keg warriors soon crumble under the stress of competitive binge drinking—with only a trail of vomit and an angry girlfriend as reminder come March 18. In my experience, if you really want to drink like an Irishman on March 17, you’ll have to start at noon—on January 4.

After all, what makes the Irish so lucky? Religious turmoil, civil war, potato famine—these people are not known for their lucky breaks. You don’t look at Colin Farrell and Sinead O’Connor and think, “Lucky bastards!”

If you want lucky charms, buy the cereal. If anything, I believe the Irish don’t drink enough considering what atrocities they’ve faced in history.

I am proud to be Irish, and I am proud of my rich heritage. So if for no other reason, go out this March 17 to laugh, relax, have a green beer, and watch strangers on the cusp of alcohol poisoning try to see who has the bigger Shillelagh.

Cheers everyone. Tip a pint and touch me in the clover.

© 2007 Patrick Alexander, All Rights Reserved.