Releasing You Inner Leprechaun

About this time every year a lot of people drink a few green beers then publicly show off their inner leprechaun. Even people with names like Johansson and Garcia are suddenly proud Irishmen. We used to just call that celebrating St Patrick’s Day but now I think they call it “self-identifying an alternative cultural heritage,” which sounds like a load of shite to me.

My mom’s maiden name was Coy and, trust me, my grandpa never claimed to be Italian on Columbus Day. Grandpa was a stereotypical short cocky hard drinking, bar fighting, hard luck Irishman of the first order and I’m pretty sure he never drank a green beer in his life…unless someone else bought it.

I inherited my share of grandpa’s genetic code; I’m short and I avoid buying green beer. I’ve never seen myself as Irish, part Irish or even Irish American…even on St. Patrick’s Day. The men from my dad’s side of the family are big barrel chested guys whose ethnic heritage has never been clear to me… except that they too show little interest in green beer.

The fact is I know exactly what my cultural heritage is…I’m an American. I’m your average, run of the mill, if you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all, garden-variety blonde haired, blue eyed white middle class American. Not a mutt, my pedigree is pure American, I’m the son of sons of soldiers, sailors and convicts…we were deplorable before it was cool.

Even though I’m a short disfigured guy with a tendency to wear funny socks and weird hats I’m nobody’s leprechaun. I was raised in the heart of “flyover” country in the 60’s and 70’s so, late at night, then the moon is out and the music is playing I become the All-American long-haired leaping gnome that I was born to be…and I’ll pass on the green beer.

There are many differences between a leprechaun and a leaping gnome; first an All-American leaping gnome is more likely to be found smoking the “clover” than hiding among it. We’re way more apt to be singing along with Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold” than to be searching for a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Still the main difference is that, unlike leprechauns, longhaired leaping gnomes actually exist…I’m living proof of that.

Don’t get me wrong I have nothing against St. Patrick’s Day, or amateur night as it’s known among leaping gnomes. Heck, I even have an old pin stashed somewhere that say’s “Kiss me, I’m Irish” and I’ve been known to steal the occasional kiss from a drunken lass who wanted to “catch me lucky charms” so to speak…but that was back in my misspent youth, of course.

While I don’t drink green beer or observe the traditional American celebrations of St. Patrick’s Day, I am a big fan of Saint Patrick himself. I did a little research on the history of St. Patrick and learned that he was born in Roman Britain and his name was originally Patricius…which is pretty freakin’ cool. As a teenager he was kidnapped by Irish pirates… which is off the charts cool. Seriously, Irish pirates, can you imagine how cool those guys were? Ginger Beard and his crew of green rum drinking hooligans…no wonder he became a saint, after you’ve partied with Irish pirates any other debauchery would pale in comparison. Sainthood seems almost inevitable.

Historical accounts of St. Patrick’s life vary and don’t provide a lot of detail about his good works but he’s a Catholic saint, is venerated by the Anglican Church and is considered “equal to the apostles” by the Eastern Orthodox Church so I’m guessing his record was pretty impressive.

Legend has it that ol’ Patricius chased all of the snakes out of Ireland, while skeptics say there is no real proof that ever happened, to this day there are no snakes in Ireland. Coincidence? I don’t know but I do know that, because of St. Patrick, once a year guys named Horowitz and Hashimoto become Irishmen for a day and that’s pretty bloody miraculous in my book.

So while this longhaired gnome won’t be leaping on the green beer bandwagon tonight, I might just down an Irish Car Bomb or two. This is the night to release your inner leprechaun and I can always blame my grandpa’s genes for the mess I’m almost certain to make. Oh, and if they ever have a holiday to celebrate Ginger Beard and the Irish pirates…count me in!