St. Patrick's Day (Observed)

Erin Go Bragh!

So here we are - the second greatest holiday of the year (let's be real, here - it's hard to top Christmas.)  As you all know full well by now, we Houghs tend to love ourselves some good ol' fashioned St. Patrick's Day shenanigans.  For serious.  The music, the culture, the traditions - we're big fans of it all.  This goes waaaaay back, too - from the days when Kris and I, as kids growing up in Clare County, used to line McEwan Street for Clare's annual Irish Fest.  Of course, in the years that followed, Clare - and notably the Doherty - still remained at the center of St. Patrick's Day.

Of course, Clare isn't in Florida, so for the last eight years, Kris and I have been forced to improvise. For the last six years, we've driven out to Melbourne for Meg O'Malley's annual St. Patrick's Day Festival.  Like home, the city of Melbourne also features a parade (better than Clare's, actually), live music, traditional dancing, authentic Irish cuisine, and - of course - plenty of beer vendors.

Alas, this was to be our last go-'round in Melbourne, as next year the Houghs shall once again be celebrating their Irish heritage, rightfully so, in Clare.  Fortunately, this one last time in Melbourne, we were able to come full-circle, and do and see everything we wanted to.

A fitting end, indeed, to our Irish exile.

Check it out:

My St. Patrick's Day weapon of choice.

Breakfast of Champions

Every morning before my lazy-ass roommates wake up, I spring out of bed, make myself a green breakfast Jameson, and put on my favorite St. Patrick's Day-themed episodes of The Simpsons - Homer vs. the Eighteenth Amendment.  It's twenty-three minutes of pure awesomeness. . . before whiny kids wake up and start dragging their heels around the house.

Green eggs and ham - the most Irish of Dr. Seuss breakfasts.

Green, shamrock-shaped pancakes.  You seein' a pattern, here?

They suck at this.

Abby's new favorite pose.

Belting out the classics (. . . or not.)

Alayna showcases her trademark photo joke. . . and Abby, once again, can't tear her face away from flowers.

Cruising down 17-92, en route to Melbourne (we've found this route to be considerably faster than taking the Turnpike.)

We couldn't shake this van, which followed us, passed us, fell behind us, passed us again, etc. all the way from Hunter's Creek to Melbourne.  Approximately 90 minutes, thereabouts.

We arrived in Melbourne around 10:10am.  We had rushed around the house and felt that we were going to miss the start of the parade. . . but, coincidentally, the parade started at 11am instead of 10am.  Which meant we had to sit around and kill time for about 45 minutes, lest we lose our premium parade vantage point (right in front of Meg O'Malley's - the epicenter of all things Irish in Melbourne.)  Cowabunga.

Dancin' in the Street

The only folks who had better seats than us were the Lions Club/WWII Vets/Masters of Ceremony/etc.who had an elevated stage directly in front of the pub.  I was pleased with this.

Some vintage throwback mural on the side of another bar, close by where we were standing.

Absolutely no idea why Kris has her 'I want to murder Brian' face on. . .

Still waiting for the parade to start. . 

Running amok.

Green beer tie?  Yes.  I went formal this year.  

Duck Duck Dad.

The parade kicks off with. . . . whoever the hell these guys are.  Purple-caped warriors with weird-ass hats.

Saint Patrick.  The real one.

This guy looks miserable.

Of course, I wasn't about to tell him that, seeing how he was carrying a frickin' sword (how is that legal, by the way?!)

Pipers

AARP Fire Fighters Brigade (. . . 'cause you can never have enough old people in a parade.)

. . . or old cars.

. . . or pipers.

We decided to leave the parade early - once it got to the part of the parade where local insurance providers were rolling down the street in their early 2000's, bright-red convertibles - in order to get food and a table in the pavilion before the crowds bum-rushed it.  After a mandatory bathroom break inside Meg O'Malley's (pictured here), we fought our way through the legendary pub to the fenced-off lot out back.

The main food tent

Meg's backside.

Kris always gets a plate of corned beef and cabbage and a corned beef sandwich from these guys.  It feeds a family of four (well, it feeds our family of four, considering two picky girls and a dad that sustains himself on Guinness.)

Annoyed face.

Corned beef.  Holy deliciousness.

Chowin' down (that lady behind Kris looks pissed.)

Bounce housin'

This is how Hough girls roll. . . er, slide.

Over the course of the last six or seven years of us coming out to Melbourne for St. Patrick's Day, we've run into this guy several times.  In fact, if you head over to the Archives section off to the right sidebar of this page, and scroll down to any year's St. Patrick's Day post, there's a good chance you'll see a picture of this dude with a much younger version of either one of our kids.  It had been a couple years since we last got a picture with him, so this was awesome getting one last group pic in before we say goodbye to Melbourne for good. . .

 This pizza could taste like absolute shit and I wouldn't even care - I'd still be a life-long patron.

Kris talks shop with the photo booth lady.  We've gotten photo booth pics a few different years, but they didn't have them last year.  Once again, we were glad to get another tradition in one last time.

This year there seemed to be a lot of dogs walking around the festival area, and our kids could be relied on to hunt them down and pet them obnoxiously.  This guy here ended up being from CMU.  Small world.

Kris parties hard on St. Patrick's Day.

One of these ladies is having a blast.

Watching a troupe of middle school girls in traditional clothing dance some sorta Irish jig-thing.  The girls were really into it.

The elderly seem to gravitate towards festival stages like moths to a light.  And where there's the elderly, there's camping chairs.

Wouldn't be St. Patrick's Day without a photo op with this dude.

The Meg O'Malley's leprechaun totally photo-bombed our picture of the girls in front of this giant inflatable dude.  We were cool with it.

If there be dirt on hand, Abby will surely rummage through it. . .

We spotted this guy once again this year.  I don't know what it is, but every time I see this guy, I want to punch him in the back of the head.

At one point, we asked a stranger to take a picture of our family in front of the inflatable leprechaun.  At the same time, another stranger asked me to take a picture of her in front of it as well.  The first stranger apparently thought this lady was with us, so we ended up with this picture on my camera.  And now I'm sharing this random lady with the world.  You're welcome.

This may be the shittiest picture of a family posed in front of a giant inflatable leprechaun I've ever seen.  Half of the background is made up of a back lot, and you can't even tell the inflated object at the right is a leprechaun in the first place.  And she shot us at this bizarre 45 degree angle, which makes little to no sense at all.  All around a horrible picture, and the stranger only took one - seriously, one picture.  It's a digital camera, lady, you can fire off a few rounds without having to worry about the cost of developing film at Walgreen's.  See - this kind of crap is why I hate people.

Trying our hand at more crappy kids games.  The kiddie carnival area was located across the street from Meg O'Malleys' back lot festival area, and - much to my horror - they wouldn't let you take your drinks across the street.   So this was pretty boring for me.

Snacking on plunder.

You can imagine what happened when the girls saw that they had ponies in the carnival area. . .

This cost a ridiculous $10 per kid to go around in a circle three times. . . but we figured 'what the hell,' seeing how we don't own ponies ourselves.

These handlers seemed to love their job.

After four hours in bright sun and blistering heat, the girls were starting to get worn down. . . so we let them color in the shade for awhile.

MAN DOWN

Kris critiques some local street art. . .

It's a camera bag.  Shut up.

Heading back towards the festival. . .

Bathrooms on wheels.  I love this thing.

Some more traditional Irish music (also, I'm hoping someone made out with that elderly woman on the left, taking her shirt into consideration and all.)

Heading back to the car, around 3pm - that's about all these kids can handle.  College Brian is surely rolling in his grave.

More murals in Melbourne - this would make an awesome tattoo.

After eight years in Florida, I can finally say I've seen a swamp boat firsthand.  I'm now ready to move to Michigan.

A large, resin bust of a deer, hanging out in the back of some guy's pickup.  Who knows why.

Erin Go Bragh!

- Brian