Oh bandwidth, how I loved thee, how I loved thee!
There are only a very few must-not-go-to-work days in the calendar. St. Patrick’s Day is solidly at number one on that list. For the past several years, as my resources and madness have increased I’ve taken to doing rather interesting things on the Holy Day. I’ve been to New Orleans, marched in the New York City parade, drank beers with cops in Jim Thorpe and this year travelled to Boston to see the Dropkick Murphys in their hometown on the Day of Days.
Along the way I saw some sights and stayed for the parade. Enjoy you wankers.
After kicking up my heels on the Holy Vigil with my main party connection in south-central Pennsyltucky I winged it north to the land of Puritans, Kennedys and baseball fans. A pilgrimage was in order.
Followed closely by more pilgrimaging from this fine viewpoint and Guinness in cans for the love of fecking Christ, Mother Mary and Holy Saint Patrick!
But to save my carefully metered bandwidth, you’ll have to click to see the rest. Hah!
Friday I was on my own and determined to go to Quincy and commune with the spirits of John, Abigail, John Qunicy, Henry, Charles Francis and any other Adamses I could come across. Sadly, the sites were all closed due to an Adams codicil mandating their closure from mid-November until Patriot’s Day but I still got to see the Birthplaces and . . .
“The Old House” – Peacefield
Most trips north involve one tourist attraction or another, this time I picked the Aquarium. Naturally if going to a Zoo or Aquarium it’s best to go with an animal lover and give her the camera.
We followed these turtles around for a long time hoping for a half decent shot.
We amused ourselves with the penguins even longer.
The big day, Day Four of this delightfully insane little odyssey was the day of the South Boston Saint Patrick’s Day parade. Even the damned guineas were Irish Sunday.
Hell, even Imperials were Irish on Sunday.
Isn’t he a little short for an Irishman?
Take five. Smoke ’em if you’ve got ’em.
Being an old accustomed parader I was not at all surprised when these cats asked for and received beer from the heavens. At least we wasted the English beer on them.
My favorite part. Cops and firemen from a real city showing these mealy-mouthed, “r” dropping fools how it’s done.
Go on lads, admit it. The thought of a Women’s Tackle Football league filled with chicks that can whup your arses is your sort of thing. Right? Right?
All I kept thinking was, “Christ, wait until we see the fecking dog.”
The ould bugger himself.
I hate these fecking guys. Remind me sometime to tell you the story about threatening them and their little toy cars with bayonets.
One of our party was enamoured of this – bloody thing. So, we yelled for a pose. Very scary.
I hate these fecking guys too. Everywhere you go, goddamned World War Two gits. It gets old.
And finally, not content with their own, far longer, drunken festival someone let the germans into the parade. And they didn’t bring beer! Schwein!
Add a couple of long days, multiple pints drunken in several odd places and yet another flight delay together and you get one sleepy dude this week. Oh, but the rain’s helping. Oh yes.