The Horkin' o' the Green

"When I drink whiskey, I drink whiskey. And when I drink water, I drink water." Barry Fitzgerald, "The Quiet Man"

I don't like to go out drinking on St. Patrick's Day.

It's not that I don't like drinking. Oh, no. Anybody who knows me knows that I like to throw back a few and could share epic sagas of liquor-induced antics:

Like the time in college when, after attending a party where the drink of choice was pink lemonade mixed with grain alcohol, I chucked off the Belmont subway platform on what is now known as the Blue Line.

Or the many evenings spent debating literature, eating Tombstone pizzas and playing whichever pinball machine wasn't broken at the Step-Hi Lounge on the corner of Harrison and Wabash (don't bother looking for it--the city long ago paved "paradise" and put up a parking lot).

Or the time I screamed "MONKEYS!" at the top of my considerable lungs on Clark Street at three in the morning (a long story, but one which involves, appropriately enough for today's topic, Baileys Irish Cream).

Or the evening I spent bar-hopping with a tall, pale vegetarian who I had an enormous crush on, but remained only friends with...that is, till I wrecked the friendship by accidentally sending her an e-mail detailing what a tool I thought her boyfriend was. (Note to self: always check the "To" line in e-mail before hitting "Send").

Or the many evenings spent in Cardozo's, a subterranean bar near City Hall, with multiple friends, including another whose friendship I lost through errant e-mail. (Yes, I'm an idiot--why do you ask?).

Drinking while having a great time (or in certain cases, a time I'll likely repeat for eternity when I wind up in Hell, as I almost certainly will) is one thing, as long as it's not a thing I do, say, every day. And trust me, I don't. I don't even get drunk every time I go out drinking. (This has always been a point of concern for me because, as noted on these pages before, my father was an alcoholic, and it wound up sending him to a premature end.)

But most folks who go out on St. Patrick's Day--and, for that matter, New Year's Eve--do so for the specific purpose of getting gassed. And the prospect of tossing back green-dyed beer for endless hours appeals to me about as much as the prospect of tossing up that same beer, that same green dye, and every other unholy thing in my stomach up for endless hours does.

In fact, I can only recall two occasions on which I've gone out on St. Patrick's Day. The first came when a friend was fired from his job at the publishing company we both worked at in Evanston. He was hooking up with a friend from out of town, and he had a serious need to drown his sorrows. So we three went to the late, lamented Everleigh Club on Halsted Street, ate corned beef sandwiches, drank beer (NOT the green variety), watched Bob Knight's Indiana basketball team lose in the first round of that year's NCAA Tournament (hmmm...a Bob Knight team getting kicked in the first round...what a shock) and solved the world's problems over the course of the evening.

The other occasion also involved the same friend and Indiana basketball. Again, going out to get drunk wasn't the main point of the evening. Again, Bob Knight got his ass handed to him in the first round of the Tournie.

For every other St. Patrick's Day, I've been at home. Sometimes, I have a drink or two. Sometimes, I don't. But at least I don't have to step over puddles of other people's dinners the way I did one New Year's Eve spent at Goose Island Brewery. I don't have to deal with drunken teenagers with plastic bowlers on their heads and shamrock temporary tattoos on their reddened cheeks. I don't have to fight my way through crowds covered in varying shades of green.

So this year, I bought a sixer of Guinness and a pizza and watched The Quiet Man (mmm, Maureen O'Hara). There's something peaceful about watching Guinness settle in a pint glass--like watching one of those sand sculptures you see in gift shops, only you can drink it when it's done. And there's something comforting about watching The Quiet Man--okay, I know Ireland isn't really like that and fine colleens can't be readily spotted crossing the fields with the light of the sun dancing in their hair (were it that such were true), but it sure looks great in Technicolor, doesn't it?

In short, I had a quiet night. There's a lot to be said for that. And the cleanup afterward is so much easier. A pint glass, a plate, a pizza cutter. And not a pool of puke in sight. Just the way I like it.