Holy
crap in a Bundt pan...
Due to the
recent well-publicized shortage of
amateur websites produced by assholes who consider themselves to be
clever, I
have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and I’m an
Ugly American living
on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, PA. And I’m here to
serve, baby.
The
State of My Fat Ass A journal of
sorts, updated every once in a while.
--
The annual St. Patrick's Day parade is one of Scranton's crown jewels.
It's supposedly one of the biggest such events in the country, and the
city is proud, proud, proud of it. It also has a reputation for being
quite wild, and for featuring all manner of drunken debauchery.
In fact, on Parade Day every year the bars are allowed to open at 7 am
-- and are reportedly full. I can't even imagine such a thing. The only
time I've ever started drinking at 7 am was after working a
midnight shift at the old Dunbar Toll Bridge a few times, and didn't
much care for it. There's just something unnatural about cracking open a
Schlitz during Coffee Time.
But on that one day every year in Scranton, all such rules go out the
window, I'm told. And, of course, things get crazy. Having young kids, I
never felt comfortable attending this so-called parade, and have stayed
away. I had visions of the gutters running wide with vomit.
This year, however, we decided to go. I think it was Toney's idea. She
said we need "distractions," and I'm all for that. Wallowing
in despair can take a lot out of a man.
We parked beside a Ukrainian church, or something similarly confusing.
The guy there charged us ten bucks, and told us we'd have to be gone by
four, because the church is having a "supper." Not a problem,
I said, I have a feeling we'll be gone long before the cabbage roll
cutoff. I hoped none of us would be stabbed.
We walked on muddy, uneven, and collapsed sidewalks toward downtown, and
our shoes were covered with what looked like black soot from a factory
furnace by the time we reached level ground. As we walked, the number of
people increased until we found ourselves in the middle of a seething
crowd.
In addition to public intoxication, one of the traditions of the parade
is apparently novelty headgear; it was wacky hats as far as the eye
could see. There were big green Dr. Seuss top hats, three feet tall and
tilting in the wind, knit caps with the words "Kiss My Irish
Ass" lovingly sewn into front, and great eruptions of sparkly
shamrocks on sticks, then attached to the skull. I felt woefully
underdressed in just my Brooklyn Dodgers cap. It doesn't blink off and
on, or anything.
And t-shirts, there were also plenty of
interesting t-shirts. Some said "Kiss Me I'm Shitfaced,"
others read, "Irish, drunk, and horny," and lots referenced The
Office with "Ain't no party like a Scranton party, 'cuz a
Scranton party don't stop!" In fact, The Office has now been
fully-embraced by the local population. When it first appeared there was
some grumbling about Hollywood making fun of the city, but that's all
gone now. It seemed like every other person at the parade was sporting a
Dunder-Mifflin shirt.
I told the Secrets to assume everybody is drunk, and to act
accordingly. I'm not sure what I meant by that, but it felt like good
advice. To my surprise though, it seemed like only about a quarter of
the crowd was under the influence. Huh. Who could've predicted such a
thing?
We found a spot near a corner, past where the parade would soon be
passing. The congestion was a bit thinner there, so we decided it was a
decent place to stake our claim. An old woman shoved a shopping cart
past us, full of what looked like pretzels she'd cooked in her own oven
at home, and sandwich bags full of Cheetos (blechh). She told everyone
to get the hell out of her way.
People were everywhere, and most were dressed like mental patients: huge
glasses, big feathery boas, ludicrous necklaces, jackets that made
noises.... I've never been to the Mardi Gras, but feel like I have.
To be fair though, we had no problems. In fact, everybody seemed to be
in a good mood (heh), and I only saw one small argument break out. A
teenage girl and a suburban mom got into it, and somebody called
somebody a "fatass." But it was over pretty quickly, and
didn't amount to much.
The parade itself seemed never-ending. A piece in the newspaper said it
took three full hours for it to pass by -- three hours! There were
thousands of people involved in the thing, and many thousands more
watching. Supposedly the equal of the entire populations of several local counties
was in Scranton on Saturday. It's one big-ass "parade."
But we didn't stay for the entire three hours, not even close. About
halfway through, I'd guess, the boys started complaining, and we left
early. On our way back to our parking spot we saw some doucheketeer with
his hat on sideways driving on the sidewalks, spinning his wheels, and
yelling out his window for no apparent reason. He went across a yard,
almost took out a newspaper box, then fishtailed on down the street.
I think we got out just in time.
Here again are some of the pics I snapped.
Hopefully they'll give you a feel for the cluster-fuck that is
the Scranton St. Patrick's Day Parade.
And I need to cut this one a little short, my friends. I'm driving down
to Allentown again, to meet with a headhunter. <sigh> Thanks to
everyone who contributed to the Surf Report cause yesterday and today, either with
cash, or by spreading the word. I appreciate it, sincerely.
For a question of the day... how about drinking before ten in the
morning? Have you ever done it? Under what circumstances? Tell us about
it, won't you?
--
The annual St. Patrick's Day parade is one of Scranton's crown jewels.
It's supposedly one of the biggest such events in the country, and the
city is proud, proud, proud of it. It also has a reputation for being
quite wild, and for featuring all manner of drunken debauchery.