Mark! The Drunken Irish Jew (on St. Pat's day that is)

I’m as Irish as Leprechaun 4: Leprechaun In Space and to celebrate that fact I went to a Mexican restaurant with Ingrid for drink. Real Irish people in Ireland go to church on this day (PS Ireland never had snakes!) and I didn’t want to act like the millions of New Yorkers who use this occasion to drink green beer and puke green vomit. Somehow the drink Ingrid and I had became a couple of margaritas followed by tequila shots. I realize this is nothing for most of you, but my paternal, tea-toddler grandmother can drink me under the table and she’s dead. We wound up on the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central park until my butt got too cold from sitting on the bronze statue and proceeded to chase a couple of duck and then yell at the nearby Hans Christian Andersen statue for giving girls such a hard time, before splitting the world’s worse veggiburger. After that I met up with Cory to see a burlesque show that a friend of his was in. I’ve never seen one and the metal bar we were in was pretty cool (I’m not going to mention names here in order to protect the innocent). The idea of burlesque seems great: it’s a performance piece and women get partially naked, and yet, inconceivably, I was disappointed. I realize they were amateurs, but they were using the idea that they were going to take clothes off to excuse the lame performance and the performance to justify not being a stripper. Maybe I was just angry because when I bought a raffle ticket to support the group I asked for the Jack of clubs as my tix and was given the ten. Guess which card won? To complete the bizarreness of the evening I talked with some woman who was going to NYU. Was she associated with the burlesque group? No, she was just friends with them. Oh, and what did she do for a living? She was a dominatrix; it’s prostitution without the sex. Fascinating, take a step away, and what does she study at NYU? Psychiatry. Now is it me or do so many of the crazies take that major? More to the point does any pysch major ever read that chapter about what happens when daddy doesn’t hung his baby girl enough? Or too much? So to sum up: Got drunk, acted inappropriately in public, saw people take off their clothes while claiming to be participating in an artistic expression, and had a conversation with an idiot. I guess I really do celebrate St Patrick’s Day.