By Stanley Bing
March 17, 2010

I miss the politicians in the street.

I miss the guys on the train at 8 in the morning with a beer bottle on their bellies and a “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” tee shirt stretched to bursting.

I miss the crowds of drunken idiots clogging every corner.

I miss folks saying to you, “Hey! Why aren’t you wearing any green?” at business meetings. Out here, I’m more likely to be asked why I’m not wearing any Brioni to brunch.

I miss green beer. Green Chardonnay just isn’t the same.

I miss the parade that shuts down Fifth Avenue for hours and hours as waves of High School bands and crazy fraternal organizations march by, filled with color and pride.

I miss the throngs of people streaming in and out of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral looking dazed and excited.

I miss the palpable sense of danger, as the pleasantly inebriated gangs of morning turn to the ugly thugs of noon.

I miss the rivers of vomit that run in the street by nightfall, even. But not that much.

It’s a day like any other here in Los Angeles. The sky is blue. The air is heavy with the smell of honeysuckle and lilac. The agents are on the wing. But on this day, I think of home. May the road rise up to meet you as you go, my friends.

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