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400 years ago Boston was a drop-off point for a religious sect who frowned upon the entire concept of pleasure. But nowadays Bostonians all swear they're from Ireland. I was pretty skeptical they had any Irish ancestry at all until presented with the irrefutable evidence of green socks on St. Patricks Day. Thank God. I thought they were all mad...
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St.Patricks Day
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It's re-hash Wednesday and St Patrick's Day is nigh, meaning that fifth-generation Americans will suddenly announce they've been Irish all this time and go out to Samuel Becket readings or stay in to argue passionately about which among Joyce, Heaney and Yeats provided the world with the most literary description of the potato. See? That was one sentence. It's called brevity, Joyce.
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St.Patricks Day
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I'm in Boston and that means I'm obliged to get falling-down-drunk with friends on St Patrick's Day. Ireland's nationalist movement needs a good, alcoholic kick once a year, and if I have to wake up in a pool of someone else's vomit, so be it. I'll do anything for a good cause. Oh, today's card? Sorry Irish people.
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