So now that the drunken marathon of days and nights of drinking in the name of St. Paddy has come to an end and even though my hangover is creeping up on me, I owe you a report.

Shamrock fest– where to begin?

Well, the indications of a promising day came not when my first Irish coffee was consumed, or upon stepping onto the blue line to see the other emerald clad celebrators. It was when I heard my name called out through the rushing crowd to disover Red and her new beau behind me! What a wonderful surprise! I hadn't seen this woman since a blogger happy hour in 2006! (You look great, btw!)

For the 1% of the DC drinking population that WERE’T at Shamrock Fest, let me sum it up for you. First of all, the weather was AMAZING! As my wifebeater tan lines can attest, my shoulders now carry newly minted freckles from being on black asphault all afternoong with the sun reflecting up and down. It was wonderful – the first real taste of spring, and I can’t think of a better way I could have spent it.

After several trips to the beer carts to refill our mugs, we ventured out into the crowd and experienced the always amazing Synthian, followed by the rousing cover songs sung by Below Sixth all dressed in matching Boston Celtics Jerseys. Soon after, Red and I had the amazing opportunity to interview the band, Carbon Leaf. (Interview to follow).

And while we were by no means the only scarlet haired gals roaming about RFK grounds on Saturday, we each received more than our fair share of redhead admiration - which ALWAYS makes for a good time. And the day went thusly, dancing, drinking, running into random friends. That is until, the sun went down.

Upon sunset, I found myself in the front of the stage of Burnt Sienna, an amazing cover band, that was inspiring some pretty ‘amazing’ behavior from the crowd. Please realize that by this time I had gained and lost my buzz several times over, eaten some alarmingly greasy food, danced in the sun stood in many many lines and lost track of Red! 

Drunken guys are pretty ridiculous in general – showing their apparent intoxication and would be virility. In college, stupid drunken frat boys would set things on fire (this incindiary adventure was usually spearheaded by the Russian). At Shamrock Fest, the boys surfed over crowds, slammed against each other mosh pit style and grabebd girls' asses as they walk by (an ill advised move when one is holding hands with a big tough army man - as the man who tried to manhandle my tusch soon discovered). I expect such angsty fraternal stupidity as I lived with a prime specimine last year. But drunken girls.

Stupid, bitchy girls – was more than I could handle after a day of beer in the sun. Not only stomping – literally stomping on my feet (which would have been bad enough in tennis shoes, but was especially unpleasant Trailer Trash Tammy chose to dress herself like the prom queen in 4 inch stillettos to come to an outdoor festival); the pushing – oh the pushing; the vommiting (not ON me but near enough to make it unpleasant); and last but not least the Drunken falling down on top of semi-sober people, pushing the crowd in all directions.

I've come to the conculusion that I am either WAY too old or was way to sober for this kind of environment.

At this point I limped over to the main stage not because I was especially jazzed about Great Big Sea (who proved to be more than amazing - truly), but because a little bird told me that Russell – be still my heart – arms the size of tree trunks – bad boy all the way – aussie accented - hourse riding- band playin'- do me up against the wall - someone hand me a fresh set of batteries – Crowe was to play with the band.

And so I waited, again, up front, in the crowd though pleasantly surprised to find that that I had left planet 'drunken bitch' and returned back to earth for this was the crowd of ‘normal’ people who weren’t proned to puke, stomp, push, or engage in other such asshole-ish behavior all over you. It was a lovely group of people.

And so even when it started raining, I stood there. My feet hurt, my sunburned shoulders hurt, my head hurt, my hair hurt, but I stood there. In the rain. With no beer. And the band played and played. And I got sober-er and sober-er. 

Finally, he came out and he played a song by Johnny Cash I could hear his voice echo accross the emptying, litterd lot as I walked towards the exit. I admit it. I had given up. Somewhere along the line, about 5 whole minutes before he came on – I couldn’t take it anymore. Because truly, if I had stayed to hear that man who defines all things sexy, the nice, sober, unasshole-ish people around me would have been picking my ass up off the soggy, dirty ground. I had just enough energy to let Army Guy guide me back to the metro and then up the stairs to my apartment, complaining all the way - because I was DONE. 

So I am only sorry Russell, you didn’t come for me when I was younger, more intoxicated, and able to withstand an entire day’s partying and dancing and drunk people. I haven’t outgrown you, my darling it just turns out that there are limits to my love.

Frankly,

 

Since Paddy's is fast approaching boys and girls and my Favorite Irish Boy in Detroit has been gracious enough to provide this annual helpful guide for all of you non-Irish kids.

I am sure that all of my fellow Micks will confirm the usefulness of this material. However, I must warn you - the following contains language of a non-politically correct nature. Read at your own risk.

Slainte,

Dear prospective Laddies and Lassies,

It's almost here again. The happiest fuckin' day of the entire fuckin' year, St. Patrick's Day! The one day of the year when the 2% of us in the world's population that actually are Irish gets the other 98% of ya completely shit-faced.

However, while we appreciate that those of you who are not Irish wish to join us in celebrating the day St. Patrick drove the serpents out of Ireland using only the power of God, a gallon of Jameson and weapons-grade irradiated cobalt, the way most people observe St. Patrick's Day is offensive and disrespectful.

There's nothing more pathetic than some fat Polack swilling seven Buds mixed with carcinogenic green dye drunkenly arguing that INXS is authentic Irish music just before barfing into a plate of corned beef and cabbage.

Let's face it: most people are ill-equipped and in no condition to handle the "all-day drunk" that is St. Patrick's Day. However, if you follow this simple blueprint, you can enjoy St. Patrick's Day with little fear that anyone will think you're not from the 'Auld Sod', even if your name is Ahmed Al Jihad.

Leg 1: 7 A.M. to 9 A.M.

Rise and shine early. Take a long, hot shower, and liberally use aftershave, perfume, cologne, deodorant and powders afterwards, because by 3 p.m., you will be excreting raw alcohol and other noxious toxins, and without proper preparations, you will smell like a three-day dead cat wrapped in a fraternity carpet.

The bars usually open, (and you should be there), by 9 at the latest, so be diligent, and use this time to wisely in preparation for the day.

_____________________________

Side Note #1: Collect the following supplies and put them in a place where you will easily be able to find it in an impaired condition. I recommend the bathroom floor, between the toilet and the baseboard heater vent, since, let's face it, that's probably where you'll end up at the end of the night anyways.

One (1) Quart Spring Water
One (1) Large Bottle Aspirin (800 mg)
Five (5) Pairs Depends Brand Undergarments
One (1) Bottle Percocet
One (1) Gram Morphine Sulphate
One (1) oz. Human Adrenaline Extract
One (1) Pre-Charged Defibrillator
Four (4) Cardiac Needles
One (1) Trauma Surgeon

______________________________

Side Note #2: It's also very important to remember that the final impression you leave on Paddy's is the most important of the day. Visualize your desired result, and the action that must be taken in order to achieve said result. That way, as you are being dragged from the bar later, you will remember to begin screaming at the top of your lungs that you want to take your drink with you.

______________________________

Back to the schedule...

Brew one (1) strong pot of coffee--the stronger the better.

Add nine (9) fluid ounces Jameson Irish Whiskey.

Drink the whole damn thing.

It cannot be stated enough that you must continue to drink coffee liberally throughout the entire day. Us Micks are not as dumb as we look -- there is a damn good reason that we invented 'Irish Coffee'. Unless you ingest ridiculous volumes of artificial stimulants throughout the course of St. Patrick's Day, I can say without hesitation, without hyperbole, and with absolute certainty that you will die.

Arrange to be picked up to be taken to the bar no later than 8:45 A.M. I cannot stress enough that you should not drink and drive. There is no reason to chance losing your license or killing someone in a drunken state when you have plenty of idiot friends willing to take that risk on your behalf.


Leg #2: 9 A.M. to 11 A.M.

Arrive at the bar right when it opens.

Make sure this is an Irish bar if at all possible. An Irish bar in Boston is the best alternative, since 'Boston' in Gaelic means 'West Kilarney'. However, almost every city in America has bars called 'The Blarney Stone', 'McSomethings', or 'The Dirty Fucking Mick'. Just try to ignore the fact that the bar is probably owned by Koreans.

Secure a barstool and do not leave it under any circumstances. The bar is liable to be packed by noon at the latest, and real Irish people do not wait in line for drinks, no matter the consequences.

While I do recommend the use of an adult undergarment to mask unpleasant smells, it really doesn't matter. By noon, you'll be sopping wet with spilled beer anyway, and your mild urine smell will be completely overpowered by the toxic stench of vomit.

I recommend starting out with a few more Irish Coffees to spike the stimulant level, however, you should not order an 'Irish Coffee', as you will be given a fruity little glass mug topped with whipped cream and a fucking cherry -- and either me, or some guy named Seamus will call you a yuppie fucking poseur while putting a cigarette out on your neck.

Ask for coffee with Jameson or Bushmills and ask the bartender to leave the whipped cream can--and not for the coffee. Nothing will add spice to your day like the occasional whippet.


Leg #3: 11 A.M. to 2 P.M.

It's lunchtime!

You may not be hungry, but it's important to eat something, because like the man said in Blazing Saddles: "Man drink like that, without eating, he is going to die."

If you want to maintain your buzz and not get that dreaded, hideous, bloated feeling that could slow down your drinking, there are really only two options as I see it: popcorn or Pop Tarts. Both have the carbohydrates you'll need to give you energy, both will soak up excess bile in your stomach, and most importantly of all, both have names that are hard to slur.

______________________________

Side Note #3: If you start slurring your words too early, you'll hear the most frightening phrase in the English language besides "I'm pregnant", and that is: "You're cut off".

______________________________


By now, you should have already switched off of coffee drinks to beer. You have only one option here: Guinness Stout. You may be tempted to order green beer, but remember: beer doesn't always turn green just because of food coloring.

If that doesn't sway you, remember the fact that I (or Seamus, etc.) will call you a yuppie fucking poseur (again) while putting a cigarette out on your neck (again).

Leg #4: 2 P.M. to 7 P.M.

By now, the bar is definitely crowded as people take long lunches and bail out of work early to tie one on.

If you're doing your job correctly however, the bar should look two (2) or three (3-3-3) times as crowded as it really is.

By now, you may be in conversation with some real fucking Irish people. And, since the person you came with has most likely already been taken away by ambulance, some conversational points to remember when talking to the Irish are:

"Football" really means "Soccer," and you should be more passionate about it than even for your own wife or husband....and...

* The English are all piss-arsed, pig-fucking bastards who should be lined up and kicked into the liffey.

If you remember those two points, as well at least three (3) derogatory names for Tony Blair (and of course, Margaret Thatcher), you can talk to the Irish for hours.

You should continue to drink Guinness throughout this leg, although, keep in mind that if your heartbeat has become irregular, you may want to have another Irish Coffee.

The Home Stretch: 7 P.M. til 'You-Inevitably-Black-the-Fuck-Out'

Your goal, of course, is to be the last person to leave the bar at closing time.

______________________________

Side Note #4: Nowhere in the above sentence do I say anything about remembering that or anything else.

______________________________


Of course, this will be impossible, since a blood alcohol content of .50 equals death, and you should be pushing at least a .35 or .40 by now.

The only way for a true Irishman to leave a bar before closing time (with his honor still in tact) is to be hauled away by the police.

If you absolutely must leave before closing time, do the only thing that any respectable Irishmen would do in that situation: Throw a punch.

It doesn't matter who you hit, or even why; (no one's made any sense since 3 o'clock this afternoon, anyway).

Keep in mind that with this strategy, you will be beaten mercilessly, since your fine motor skills, (having been gone since late in Leg #2), are roughly the equivalent of a shoe -- but it doesn't really matter since that one minor disadvantage is definitely outweighed by the significant advantage that you can't really feel anything anyways.

Depending on your community, the police should arrive within fifteen (15) minutes to scrape you off the floor and clap you in irons.

Once again, the final impression you leave is the most important: as you are being dragged from the bar, make sure you begin screaming at the top of your lungs that you want to take your drink with you. You will be a legend, and by now the friend who took you to the bar should have had his or her stomach pumped, and will be able to bail you out.

By following these simple guidelines, your St. Patrick's Day experience will be one that you would never forget -- if it weren't for the fact that it is physically, and biologically, an impossibility for you to remember any of it.

Slainte chugat,

Scarlett's Favorite Irish Boy

As mentioned in part one of Scarlett's weekend Saga – Friday night I attended (after much cajoling*) the DC blogger happy hour. Where there was much drinking, laughing and later on dancing. After we migrated away from the Big Hunt, Hey Pretty, Velvet and I made our way to an establishement a few doors down that we were told was more ‘low key’ and so visions of tables and pitchers of beer danced in our heads. Velvet exchanged her cookies for our cover at the door (why does that sound dirty?), and we made our way into, well…i'm pretty sure pitchers of beer weren't on the menu. Shots of Whiskey, however, were.

So after my first shot of Whiskey ever(her idea, not mine), HP and I tried to keep up with the dancing queens (i.e. KassyK and Circle V). I’m afraid we lost Velvet sometime between Vogue and Jessie’s Girl but we said farewell to all my new favorite people shortly after.

After that the details of the evening start to get a bit hazy.

I remember being in an Irish bar in Chinatown, flirting with the singer so that he’d play the songs we wanted him to. I remember getting hit on by a guy who was in town for the green convention. He was a snowboarding, vegetarian, tree hugging, northface fleece-clad, only used recycled paper type of guy (who happened to look like eric bana). But I had to tell him, sorry buddy, I’m more of the steak eating, leather wearing, more preservatives, bring on the pesticides kind of woman….so I don’t think this is going to work.

By the end of the night, HP and I were closing down a bar in Capitol Hill, everyone else had called it a night and we were still gabbin away. Guys hovered, bought us drinks, lit our cigaretts but we just said ‘thanks’ and kept right on talking. Isn’t it nice when the company you’re with is more riveting and worth while than any guy trying to pick you up and so you’re so much less receptive to it?

The verdict? HP is smart, pretty, brutally honest, and wildly funny all wrapped up into a compact little package with an attitude to match.

Hello cliché….I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Frankly,

*I-66’s word