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John Palcewski's Journal

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How It Is, How It Used To Be
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Twenty years ago, when I lived in New York, I'd set aside St. Patrick's day as my tribute to my Irish ancestry. I started the morning drinking, and by the time the parade started I was very nearly incoherent. One year's parade I woke up, disoriented and covered with my own vomit, literally in the gutter. A cop nudged me with his nightstick. "Come on, pal, get up and get outta here." I wondered how in hell he knew my name, or at least part of it.

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