Oh, Saint Patrick’s Day. In Boston. Home of Saint Patrick’s Day revelry. Known affectionately to disgruntled citizens, including yours truly, as a three-day-long amateur hour, topped off with a parade that can cause even the most level-headed denizen to temporarily lose their cool in a sea of Jameson shots and Irish car bombs.
You know the drill. Green beer. Green beads. Green too-tight T-shirts. Green eye glitter. Green Dr. Seuss-style hats circa Woodstock 1999. Green noisemakers. Green paper shamrocks. Green vomit. Green pandemonium.
Subways—in particular, the Red Line—backed up for hours, filled to the brim with drunk (I use that expression lightly) compatriots chanting to the tune of ‘Yankees Suck!’, because baseball season isn’t here yet, but why not? South Boston—all of it—essentially locked down and inaccessible for those who just want to enjoy a day off (as I experienced for the first time last year, when I rode in one of the last cabs allowed to leave my former neighborhood before the West Fourth Street bridge closed to any traffic that wasn’t a participating float). Strangers passed out in strange places, like rooftops that don’t belong to them. Strangers who assume everyone wants to high-five them, and who toss out an acerbic ‘’Yankees Suck!’ when they don’t.
You get my point, I think (I hope?).
Yes, this is another PSA, and it’s really for those who are new to Boston, or at least for those who haven’t yet been to the parade, but are thinking about it, maybe. To which I say: the best way to enjoy it is to just stay home, or at least stay far, far away from Southie, kid. (Last year, my exodus took me to the suburbs, but Brookline will do just fine.) Because after a certain age—let’s call it 21, to be safe—the charade gets old, fast. Or maybe that’s me: too old to enjoy the feeling of a green-tinged Bud Light dumped down my back, and too young to want to waste my time on an event organized by a bunch of bigots.
But, hey—you do you. Just don’t say you haven’t been warned by Boston.com’s resident grandma (who wishes you'd get off her stoop and pull up your pants).
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