by JOHNSON CUMMINS

It’s been said that you don’t have to be Irish to celebrate St. Paddy’s Day—but it definitely helps to be a borderline alcoholic. I’m not quite sure what St. Patrick is the patron saint of, but judging by what I’ve seen—and partaken of—during previous St. Patrick’s Day celebrations, he surely must be the saint of getting righteously shitfaced and screaming in a slurred, incomprehensible fashion.

Having been brought up in an Irish/German household, my Irish heritage was suppressed by my teetotaling parents, while every Black Forest clock in the house was painstakingly maintained. Thankfully, over time I have come to embrace the red hair on my chin, my translucent skin, short temper and penchant for taking a nip from the bottle every now and again. As far as my German side goes, well, let’s just say I never took to David Hasslehoff, sauerkraut, leather pants and scheisse porn.

Sadly, in some sort of pendulum effect, I’ve noticed that my surging Irish pride has been countered by an increasingly tepid reaction to St. Paddy’s Day as it steadily slides into decline. Fewer and fewer people have been showing up for the parade, while even less take the time to get decked out in gaudy green attire. In what can only be described as a sad sign of the times, even McDonalds has blotted the holiday off the calendar by deleting the deliciously green shamrock shake from their menu.

Sure, they contribute greatly to the depletion of natural resources, knowingly hide from the 12 billion served the list of chemicals they pump in their food, super-size America’s obesity problem and cheat workers out of pensions and medical programs while grossly underpaying them. But the banning of the shamrock shake is what really gets my Irish stew boiling. Perhaps they want to steer clear of the booze-fest reputation the holiday has earned, but aren’t they really pulling the wool over their own eyes for the one day out of the year that alcoholics all over the world can truly call their own? If anything, they should embrace it and try a little bit of honesty for a change.

Think about it. If Mayor McCheese represents the cheeseburger, the Hamburglar represents the hamburger and that weird purple acid hallucination they called Grimace represents the shake, then surely the shamrock shake could be represented by a cute and cuddly—albeit screaming, punching and red-faced—drunk. Hell, I know Irish pretty boy Shane McGowan could surely use the gig these days.

If you feel the Irish blood running through your veins on at least this one day of the year, and are hoping to avoid the temp secretaries and insurance salesmen packing up the Irish pubs this Friday, then try to get your ass down to Foufounes. They will be throwing one hell of a St. Patrick’s Day celebration, with a tribute to the Pogues care of Corrigan Fest and Farley’s Fury. Don’t miss this one day of the year where an instrument as innocent as the penny whistle can suddenly become a siren wail to the violent and wasted. Happy St. Patrick’s Day to one and all, and remember to keep your dukes up out there.

DO YOU ANY OF YOU LASSES HAVE SOME IRISH IN YA? WOULD YOU LIKE SOME? jonathan.cummins@gmail.com

>> Music Listings