Oh, the bed spins! And what’s that sweet, cinnamon and coconut aftertaste lingering on my swollen, velour-clad tongue? Oh yes … candy Irish potatoes.
Oh, the bed spins!
And what’s that sweet, cinnamon and coconut aftertaste lingering on my swollen, velour-clad tongue? Oh yes … candy Irish potatoes.
I seem to recall consuming my entire body weight (and then some) in Irish potatoes. When was that? Was it yesterday? Two weeks ago?
Perhaps I am emerging from a diabetic coma. But no, that can’t be it. Something else …
I remember some things, but my recollections are all out of synch, and the frozen images flash through my mind like a PowerPoint presentation produced by Keith Richards on a bad day:
Blood sausages. And God help me, I am eating one. (Click.)
Yellow plastic-clad dancers tapping up 16th Street. (Click.)
Hairy men in kilts singing “C’mon Eileen” at the top of their lungs. It’s like a bad record. Well, of course it was a bad record. (Click.)
A conga line of drunken people snaking down Second Street. Shiny green plastic Mardi Gras beads are strung about their necks, and they’re wearing T-shirts emblazoned with tasteful slogans like “Bite me, I’m Irish” and “Rub my shamrocks for luck.” (Click.)
A crowd, no, a host of flashing plastic shamrock deely bobbers, fluttering and dancing in the breeze, tossing their heads in sprightly dance. Poetic, yes, but really, really weird. (Click.)
A bagpipe band playing “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?” Hell, no, I don’t! Oh, please, for the love of God and all that is holy, just please stop! (Click.)
Ah, but I do know what this is. It’s all coming back to me. I have been down this road before. And even though I always tell myself, “no, nay, never, no more,” I know I will go there again. This, dear friends, is your brain on the day after St. Patrick’s Day.
As you emerge from the kelly green-tinged haze, you may wonder, as I often have, can I ever become normal again? (Was I ever normal in the first place?) And why is that accordion player staring at me with a knowing grin?
Don’t give up hope. To aid in your recovery, we offer not 12 steps, but 10.
From the home office in Horseleap, County Offaly, the official irishphiladelphia.com Top 10 Ways to Get Over St. Patrick’s Day:
Order Chinese food. Szechuan ham and cabbage is not allowed.
Realize that the road did not rise up to meet you. You just fell down.
Walk into Finnegan’s Wake and order a perky little wine spritzer.
Have your begorrah surgically removed.
Stake out a spot on the Parkway for the Pulaski Day parade. It’s not until October, but you can’t be too early.
Recognize that’s it’s more than just a hangover. It’s PTSD: Post Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ral Stress Disorder.
Seek help for an Irish ballad lasting four hours or longer, as this could be a sign of a serious medical condition.
Watch the worst Irish movie ever, “Far and Away,” starring Tom Cruise. It’ll put you off anything Irish. Because of this movie, Ireland joined the European Union … as Belgium.
Check into the Bog Down in the Valley-O Rehab Center of Malibu, California.
Henceforth, refer to anyone named Seamus as Luigi.
Jeff Meade is one of the founding editors of irishphiladelphia.com. Incredibly, perfectly sensible people have employed Jeff as a writer, reporter, editor and Web geek at several newspapers, national magazines and Web sites. Even more astonishing, Jeff is also a member of the National Press Photographers Association, the Online News Association, and the Society of Professional Journalists. If you would like to contribute to EssayWorks email firstname.lastname@example.org.