I am currently living in Savannah, Georgia, home to the second or third largest St. Patrick's Day celebration in the world. This place goes NUTZ for about a week surrounding St. Paddy's Day. Businesses close. Schools are not in session. About the only businesses that stay open are bars and restuarants. There is quite a bit of "show us your tits" going on and plenty of showing, too. It's the only place on the planet where the bushes kick back. The parade is an afterthought. Everything is green: beer, grits, hair, skin, scrambled eggs, the stripe down the street, one year we dyed the Savannah River Green. The population swells from about 165,000 to over 350,000 on St. Paddy's Day. I don't have to do anything for St. Paddy's Day but be in Savannah. It's sort of a contact phenomena, like a contact high. It's gotten to the point where the craziness is over the top. Think Mardi Gras in a much smaller city, but with the same craziness.
Usually on St. Patrick's Day, I get in my car and go down to the Okeefenokee Swamp and hide out until things quieten down a smidgen. Or I just hole up at home. When I was a top 40 DJ in town, I rode in the radio station's van at the front of the parade broadcasting local color. It was fun then. No more.
I can't tell you what a thrill it is to have some drunken 17 year-old kid throw up green beer on your shoes at nine o'clock in the morning. Especially if he's been eating green scrambled eggs. No thanks.
But if you want to experience St. Paddy's Day as obsessive compulsive disorder, you couldn't do better than to come to Savannah. (At this late date, you'd better bring a tent. There are no motel room available in a radius of about 150 miles.) And be ready to party!
francois