I love music. And I spend an unhealthy amount of my non-salary on it. In the past week, for example, I’ve purchased songs by Neko Case, The Lonely Island, Van Morrison, Bishop Allen, Kelly Clarkson, U2, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Lisa Hannigan and Phoenix. So, can you guess which song I’ve been singing the most? If you guessed, “Gimme Back that Filet-O-Fish. Gimme that Fish.” then you win the coveted prize of feeling proud that you had the correct answer. And I thought I was finished with commercial jingles when I finally got “Five. Five Dollar. Five Dollar Foot Lo-o-o-ngs” out of my head. They c-c-c-caught on.
Anyway, this weekend officially launches the commencement of drinking season. Sure, you practiced for it during your holiday parties on New Year’s Eve, the Sunday before Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, and Pulaski Day, but now it’s time to put that training to good use. Saturday is the Downtown St. Patrick’s Day Parade, Sunday is the South Side Irish Parade and Tuesday is the “Let’s Walk to the Next Bar” Parade.
I don’t drink very often, but when I do, I enjoy a nice pint of Guinness during these colder months. Against my better judgment, I decided to give up Guinness for Lent. Of course, I could have given up beer altogether, but just like foregoing premarital sex is to Bristol Palin, it’s unrealistic. Thus far during Lent, I drank Guinness once because I forgot that I was giving it up, enjoyed a Black and Tan (half Guinness and half Bass Ale), and ordered a Smithwicks, which is the closest thing to Guinness you can find. Yet, I remain vigilant and plan to continue the, um, sacrifice(?) until Easter.
A friend suggested that I just give up drinking Sunday – Thursday, since I rarely drink on those days, but I explained that while I like to do things half-assed, that would be doing something half-assed, half-assed. So quarter-assed, I guess. And Pete Zimmerman does nothing quarter-assed! Luckily, I’ve already decided what I’m giving up next year, and it’s going to be that new wine that Sting is producing. I think it’s going to be called, “Message on a Bottle.”
So, back to the upcoming holiday. As has been discussed over the past couple of weeks on The Brendan and Pete Show, my parents are German, and celebrating St. Patrick’s Day was always a little weird for me. Growing up on the South Side of Chicago (actually, Southwest Suburbs, bitches.), my friends had last names like: Doyle, Reidy and Boyle. My first crush was on a girl whose last name was O’Brien.
There were so many of the Irish persuasion in my neighborhood, in fact, that a family on my street named Grabowski chose to go by Gray to fit in better. And this was after Mike Ditka joined the Bears. Yet, when I’d leave the house wearing a green t-shirt on St. Patrick’s Day, my parents would look at me and just shake their heads in disgust. “How come you can’t be more proud of your heritage?” they would ask. And I would say it has nothing to do with heritage. Heck, I’ve worn a shirt made entirely of hemp, an inflatable parrot on my head, and a sombrero as an excuse to do some day drinking.
So whatever you are, whoever you pretend to be, or wherever you are from, enjoy a safe weekend, and Slainte. Or prosit, as the case may be.
Leave a comment