I'm all Irished out and it ain't even March 17

So I am standing at an Internet jukebox in a semi-Irish bar, surfing for Pogues music and a Van Morrison song or two. Suddenly I am standing next to Elton John - if Elton John were a drunk middle aged woman in shamrock shaped sunglasses, which, come to think of it... Anyway, she wants me to spend my money on playing "Fat Bottom Girls," by Queen.

I tell her there is no way in hell I will pay for her request. First, it is a horrible song, stupid in that 70s way. And I bet you don't even get the irony of it, I, through my Smithwick's glaze, tell her. I mean, come on! Freddy Mercury was gay and here he is professing his love for chubby women. And, besides, it's not an Irish song.

(And besides, I had my transcendent Celtic musical moment earlier that Saturday evening: while crawling through local watering holes, at one usually frequented by AARP drinkers, there was a classic rock cover band with a bearish, red-bearded, kilt-wearing guitarist shredding out Black Sabbath's "Paranoid.")

Huh? She is confused and walks away. Why won't I play her song? Why should I want to hear Celtic music?

Next to her is a guy, by himself, with long hair and out of style glasses. He could be a drug dealer or a cult member there for finding a drunk for a thrill kill. You know the type.

Yes, it is St. Patrick's Day weekend in Chicago, that special time where people passed out on sidewalks are helped to cabs by concerned bartenders. I wore no green - but a shirt Saturday, that said Hurling, which really is a sport.

Actually it started on March 9 on the South Side, because March 17 falls during Easter Week this year. Saints cannot compete with the Passion of Christ, so the South Side parade, typically the Sunday before the Irish day, got pushed way up to a cold day.

Still, the mooks lined the streets, drinking "Pepsi." They may be junior alcoholics, but they are smart enough to know cops only make you pour out drinks that look like booze. If you tell them it's a soft drink, and you aren't stumbling or punching anyone, they let you imbibe.

Can't blame the cops. They had fights to break up, like the one I saw where a bull of a young guy got his pickup truck stuck in an alley. Idiots started kicking the truck, so the guy got out and went after a couple of the kickers. Then there was a moose walking about, proud of the blood trickling off his forehead.

That part of the parade is like some stupid movie from the 80s, like Bachelor Party, or some other cocaine-inspired work of comedic genius. You can avoid it if you have friends who live nearby and once you get passed thinking that public drunkenness is awesome, dude! that is why you go. That's to say, it's an Irish American Thanksgiving, where you meet up with old friends, swap stories, and meet new people.

I got to talk with a Scotch master from Bushmills, sample some fine labels, and even learned that Plainfield, Illinois, of all places, is where they make Gordon's Gin and Schmirnoff Vodka. I always knew there was something about that town - the most honestly named place in this state, by the way, at least until they started putting up $500,000 vinyl sided not-quite mansions.

Those are still cheaper than the median house price in Dublin, Ireland, which is about $367,000 Euros, and with the shrinking dollar, propably more that $700,000 as I write this.

I learned that last week as I asked around about how Ireland is like America. They also can't smoke in the pubs anymore - and they recently changed their DUI laws so all it takes is about one pint in you to be get arrested!

I have a friend heading there to teach the bartenders to make mixed drinks. And you're just as likely to find Bud and Miller product as Guinness there now, too. Just like you find those schmatzy Irish balladeer specials playing endlessly on PBS this time of year for pledge drive - Ireland gets our mass produced suds, and we get their sudsy music.

I didn't ask about green beer being available in IRL, which would be wrong - unless it has asparagus in it, which would make you pee green or smell, which would be sort of cool.

The St. Pat's parade in Dublin is different - more artsy fartsy than the revelry here - but changing a bit with the influx of American tourists who want to drink.

Ireland also has immigration issues similar to here, albeit Poles and Africans instead of Mexicans. And the aforementioned overpriced housing market is undergoing a correction of its own, too.

My own Irish friends were busy this weekend selling their wares at holiday related events. I joined them for a bit Friday night, in part to sober up from drinking too much Heineken at an Irish gathering on Navy Pier. It was a beautiful night out on the lake, the water dead calm, the sunset misty and pastel, the dome of the Grand Ballroom resplendent and worth staring at because you can't hear anything when the band's sound bounces about the hall.

So I left for the Hilton by Kitty O'Shea's. Some lady tourists from Washington, D.C., took my picture with them - and me in a goofy hat with pony tales which made me look like a biker in drag working in a Wendy's commercial. The other highlight was two local politicians' wives buying $20 leprechaun costumes, which they implied they were going to make their husbands wear later that night, which made me laugh and shudder at the same time.

I actually took a break from all the Irishness Saturday afternoon, hanging out with a buddy, going music shopping (yeah, people still do that - amazing as it sounds); hitting a Polish grocery store; and getting some gelatto at a place called Bellezza, which was heaven in a cone on Harlem Avenue.

Heading back to my car from my pal's place, an elderly couple was unloading groceries from their SUV. The woman was using a walker, slowly moving into the building so I offered to bring in the bags. The husband at first said he didn't need help, but I did it anyway, bringing the plastic bags into the hallway, where I saw that the woman had to sort of crawl up the stairs to their second floor dwelling.

That really has nothing to do with partying for St. Patrick's Day or being idiot Irish for more than a week - and you're not supposed to brag about doing good deeds, either, being lapsed Catholic and all. Still, something about that moment at least offered a karmic, "My Name Is Earl" chance for me to counter some of the silliness done in the name of Ireland.

Heritage is thicker than Guinness.