We're all a little Irish. . . Pt. 1

It’s March 17th, 2006 and I’m dressed in more green than I’ve worn since Halloween ’97 when I was the Sociopathic Green Giant. Except for the Jameson, I’ve got no Irish in me. None. Ashkenazi Jew with roots all over Eastern Europe. A Fourth Generation New Yorker, great-grandson of Old Man Ellis, but no Irish, none.
Some random statistic I picked up said that 40% of all Americans can trace at least some roots back to Ireland. The Gothic Emerald Haven, with it’s intricate spiderwebs of stone masonry around two daunting spires, staring down Atlas himself on 50th and 5th bringing him in all his stoic bronze eminence down on one knee. The globe upon his back lowered more in symbol than substance across the avenue where the cross rests on high.
The Erin born, emerald clad, with skirt and knee-sock, pipes pressed on pursed lips. Pale, freckle-faced college kids tumble on to the E train at 1pm stopped at 34th st. Shamrocks a’blazin! “Ginger-ale” bottles passed between them claiming the day’s better than Christmas. I discreetly produce a thin steel screw-top tucked in my jacket pocket and have a nip. I guess we’re all a little Irish on St. Paddy’s Day.
On New Years, I told myself I’d quite drinking for the month of January. The holidays always get bombarded with more food and booze than any liver and intestinal should have to deal with in a three month period. I figured after New Years, 31 days dry would do me good, start me off right, eat better too. More vegetables and healthy food. The diet stuck (mostly). I made it twelve days drink free and congratulated myself for the effort.
Now it’s the turn of spring and I’m glancing at my watch, sometimes the sun’s angle for when it’s time to kick back and “start the evening”. Keeping close track of the happy hours in each neighborhood I might be in around 5 pm is a bad sign of progressive thinking. I check the open-bar website now almost as often as my email. At least the ink’s flowing again.
Shit, Edna lived a dozen live