These words were spoken by Mel Gibson‘s Fletcher Christian as he led a mutiny against Anthony Hopkins‘ Captain Bligh in Roger Donaldson‘s The Bounty (’84). They were also silently muttered to myself as I trudged through mobs of St. Patrick’s Day revelers today at the Farmer’s Market and The Grove. For some reason I can walk amongst tens of thousands on the streets of Manhattan or London or Paris or Dublin and not blink an eye, but outdoor shopping mall crowds are different. Not a pestilence but certainly worth avoiding if at all possible.
They’re too plentiful, for one thing. Shuffling along at even slower rates than usual and obstructing anyone trying to stride around with any sense of purpose. They walk around like 85 year-olds (it’s called the “mall meander”) and are always stopping for gelato and or congregating in groups of four or five or six as they wait to get into the Cheesecake Factory. Plus St. Paddy’s is a day of drink and that means a lot of noise and giggling and live bands (some even attempting to play a semblance of traditional Irish music) that no one’s listening to. I learned a long time ago when I was a New Yorker to stay indoors in St. Patrick’s Day — too many drunks. Now I know it’s the same here. I’ll never go St. Paddy-ing in Los Angeles ever again.