Oh is it ever. I know this, because after the Hoboken parade I found myself waking up at 9 in the morning on a Sunday next to a girl that I wasn't supposed to, with my heart pounding harder than the headache in my brain.
But oh my, do I love it.
The bagpipes, the music, and the church services should not be drowned with copius amounts of Irish whiskey, but more with the memories of all of those who have come before us.
It's for of all the sons of Erin who came over to this strange new place, covered in fleas and dying of starvation, and built this country up by the labour of their hands and the force of their will. It's for all those who stepped up and carved out their little corner of the American Experiment.
For all of them who stepped straight into the Civil War, and fought to end a form of slavery that mirrored their own oppression in the Old Country. For those who owned liquor stores and bars in Jersey City, for those who became the first Catholics elected to positions it was thought only a born American could have. For those who got on the big boats and sailed to France, and slept in sodden trenches while working the artillery in the Great War (slainte', James Lynch). For those who loaded up again 20 years later, and fought in every theater of the war that nearly ended the world.
It's for Jack Dempsey and JFK and Mickey Featherstone, the Molly Maguires and Micky Ward and every O' or Mc who ever wore a policeman's badge in any city. It's for every union leader that ever fought for his workers, and for the Paddy Murphy and the Dead Rabbits and the 69th New York. It's for every firefighter from 9/11 whose only remains were in the form of the countless claddagh rings found in the rubble.
It's for all of us who share that common ancestry, who came here long ago or just yesterday, but share the blood of that small, green island that defeated one empire and helped to build another.
To all you motherfuckers- slainte'.
And of course... some whiskey don't hurt.