From the Jill Schwartz Memorial Library here in Sultry, Savannah, this is obscure.

Season 4 in American Tragedy.

I'm your host, your friend, your ear lover, and literary mansplainer-in-chief Michael Ian Black.

It's St. Paddy's Day here in Savannah, Georgia.

It's a Monday on this St. Patrick's Day, and people are often surprised to learn that Savannah is,

what I'm told, is the hosts the third largest St. Patrick's Day celebration in the nation

after New York and Chicago. It is a lively, festive, obnoxious, drunken mess here in Savannah on St. Patrick's Day.

The revelries really begin, I would say, the weekend before and build to a crescendo

up to St. Patrick's Day itself when the city squares, and there are many park-like squares that dot the city, become occupied

with residents setting up tent, tending, and chairs, and trays of food and bags of Doritos,

as the enormous St. Patrick's Day Paray wends its way through the downtown.

And so what you have are tourists dressed in their greenest finery, stumbling around, drinking

beer, cheering on the marching bands and the floats and the various

city officials and officiants, all of whom are celebrating their Irish heritage, most of whom probably

do not have Irish heritage.

If you've never been and you're somebody who likes outdoor drunken revelries, then this is

the place to come.

The weather's fine.

You know, it's a little bit chilly today, probably in the low 60s, but I don't know what it's like

in the colder climbs up north.

I suspect not as nice as this.

And so we have just a fine, festive time here in Savannah on St. Patrick's Day.

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