Erin Go Bugger Yourself

I set foot in our worthless neighbor to the south, Rhode Island, for the fourth and hopefully last time this weekend. The motive: celebrating our most pointless holiday with the Jeffreys. The activities: harmless dinner and drinks at an Irish bar on Friday night, while we watched more snow pound New England as mercilessly as Syracuse pounded Connecticut, followed by boisterous renditions of various North American national anthems on the streets of Newport, the city that never shuts the hell up.

Saturday brought more snow; a siren-soaked parade, (which was awful, even for a parade), slush, sitting in a tent outside of a pricy club on two separate occasions, hoping futilely to be serenaded by distant bagpipes; hours at the only smoke-filled club in an otherwise smoke-free state (no, none of us smoked); and the highlight of the trip, a college bar with- get this- a Dave Matthews cover band. It was here where we met and adored Keith, an unemployed townie who called Jill ugly, Joe fat, and me shy.

Today is a new day, Selection Sunday, perhaps our most underrated holiday. By tomorrow, brackets will be flying around schools and workplaces, and the debauchery of the land of shamrocks and corned beef will be forgiven. Slainte!