I'm writing a lecture outline for something about Psychoactive Drugs. Oddly enough, as I'm working my way through the stimulants section, I find myself falling asleep. Irony worthy of Alanis Morisette? Perhaps not, because this is actual irony.
Oh sure, I expected to nod off a bit while working on opiates. But while writing about crystal meth? Jeez, I thought I'd at least be able to lift a car. Or is that PCP? I get my drugs confused.
Oh well. I'm doing Club Drugs next. I have a sudden urge to listen to a repetitive rhythm and touch strangers.
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Gertrude’s First Romance
When she returned from Diana’s on Friday, she was refreshed and revitalized. She had a great time and adjusted rather quickly. It was a warm day, so she spent part of it outside playing. Better yet, Diana had hermit crabs! They were very fun to watch as they let them play in the water in the bathtub (though probably not the recommended care environment).
We were all happy, it was a gorgeous day. I had promised to share my dinner with my reluctant toddler and so we all debated on where to go for a celebratory dinner. We tossed around a variety of small pizza joints in the area until we settled on a pasta restaurant just down the street. We had a good coupon, which is how we make all of our dining decisions. If we don’t get a significant portion of the bill reduced or something of equal or lesser value for free, we don’t go. Plus, we have a variety of coupons for local merchants thanks to Matilda’s good grades. It seems in our municipality your intelligence is rewarded with a lesson in binge eating and morbid obesity through a stack of free cheese garlic bread coupons.
At the restaurant, we were greeted by a very nice server who quickly engaged with the kids.
“How are you today,” she asked innocently.
“I’m good,” shouted Gertrude. The server tried to speak again, but Gertrude continued. “It was warm today. I didn’t need a coat! I played on the swings and went down the slidey board at Meemee’s house. The puppies nipped at me but Great Grandma’s cat licked me. His name is Anthony. He smells like kitty pee pee.”
Stunned, the server again tried to ask us a question, but Gertrude was taking control of the situation. “I would like a drink,” she informed the server.
“What would you like,” she asked, bemused by this goofball.
“Soda.” We overruled her and opted for milk instead. A few minutes later the server was walking back down the aisle with our drinks. When Gertrude saw her she yelled, “HERE COMES THE LADY!” This theme was repeated throughout the evening. Where is the lady? There is the lady. The lady brought me more milk. The lady looks confused. Hi lady, would you like a pizza ball?
Both of the kids opted for a personal sized “Kid” pizza. It’s roughly the size of a Frisbee and very thin. Mom and I had more adult fare in the form of pastas with impossible names. To be honest, the names were so stupefying, we weren’t even sure if we were getting linguini with Italian sausage or fried porcine tendons drenched in the sweetened snot of a boar. Whatever it was, it was good.
Gertrude quickly polished off her pizza and started in on mom’s unidentified pasta after a few bites of salad that she sucked the moisture out of, spitting out the dried remains on a bread plate. Thank God we were in the corner.
About her pizza eating. She didn’t actually finish the pizza. The pizza was cut in squares and, with surgical precision, she excavated the middle of each piece, leaving a scarred, squared “U” on her plate. When she had collected all of her “U”s, she then squished them all together to form a discarded pizza ball which, to her credit, she offered to every person in the restaurant.
Then she turned around. In the booth behind her was a boy. A real boy, who was staring at her with dark, mysterious eyes. In a moment not unlike when Davy on the Monkees would meet a girl, their eyes met and sizzled with excitement.
His name was Noshua (yeah, we don’t know either) and he was from Texas. He was three. He blithely asked Gertrude how old she was, disregarding common sense about asking a woman her age. But Gertrude complied and explained she was two.
Noshua told his mother that Gertrude was cute. He continued to work his magic, literally. He grabbed a napkin in one hand and held up one finger on the other. Covering his extended finger with the napkin, he made it disappear. He then looked at her with his eyebrows pumping up and down like Groucho Marx on Viagra, much to Gertrude’s delight. His wily ways were working.
But wait, Gertrude grabbed a napkin and performed the same trick, but hers was impromptu. Noshua was a bit taken aback. And yet, oddly intrigued. Was there nothing this captivating girl couldn’t do? In a moment of overwhelming emotion, a moment that he may regret later in life, he expressed his love for Gertrude. He then invited her over to his house. In Texas. Though he thought otherwise, Noshua was firmly wrapped around Gertrude’s finger. He’d do whatever she said.
But it was not to be. He was flying home that night. There was no time to get to know each other well enough to make that sort of commitment. Dessert was over. It was time to go.
I paid the bill. Noshua’s family paid their bill. The two crazy kids said their goodbyes in the parking lot and were duly buckled into their car seats. And off into that dark night went Noshua.
Gertrude knew he was gone. She told us that he was going to “fly in the sky”. A reference to his departure.
Or perhaps a poetic description of the place her first love will hold in her heart.
Discuss
We were all happy, it was a gorgeous day. I had promised to share my dinner with my reluctant toddler and so we all debated on where to go for a celebratory dinner. We tossed around a variety of small pizza joints in the area until we settled on a pasta restaurant just down the street. We had a good coupon, which is how we make all of our dining decisions. If we don’t get a significant portion of the bill reduced or something of equal or lesser value for free, we don’t go. Plus, we have a variety of coupons for local merchants thanks to Matilda’s good grades. It seems in our municipality your intelligence is rewarded with a lesson in binge eating and morbid obesity through a stack of free cheese garlic bread coupons.
At the restaurant, we were greeted by a very nice server who quickly engaged with the kids.
“How are you today,” she asked innocently.
“I’m good,” shouted Gertrude. The server tried to speak again, but Gertrude continued. “It was warm today. I didn’t need a coat! I played on the swings and went down the slidey board at Meemee’s house. The puppies nipped at me but Great Grandma’s cat licked me. His name is Anthony. He smells like kitty pee pee.”
Stunned, the server again tried to ask us a question, but Gertrude was taking control of the situation. “I would like a drink,” she informed the server.
“What would you like,” she asked, bemused by this goofball.
“Soda.” We overruled her and opted for milk instead. A few minutes later the server was walking back down the aisle with our drinks. When Gertrude saw her she yelled, “HERE COMES THE LADY!” This theme was repeated throughout the evening. Where is the lady? There is the lady. The lady brought me more milk. The lady looks confused. Hi lady, would you like a pizza ball?
Both of the kids opted for a personal sized “Kid” pizza. It’s roughly the size of a Frisbee and very thin. Mom and I had more adult fare in the form of pastas with impossible names. To be honest, the names were so stupefying, we weren’t even sure if we were getting linguini with Italian sausage or fried porcine tendons drenched in the sweetened snot of a boar. Whatever it was, it was good.
Gertrude quickly polished off her pizza and started in on mom’s unidentified pasta after a few bites of salad that she sucked the moisture out of, spitting out the dried remains on a bread plate. Thank God we were in the corner.
About her pizza eating. She didn’t actually finish the pizza. The pizza was cut in squares and, with surgical precision, she excavated the middle of each piece, leaving a scarred, squared “U” on her plate. When she had collected all of her “U”s, she then squished them all together to form a discarded pizza ball which, to her credit, she offered to every person in the restaurant.
Then she turned around. In the booth behind her was a boy. A real boy, who was staring at her with dark, mysterious eyes. In a moment not unlike when Davy on the Monkees would meet a girl, their eyes met and sizzled with excitement.
His name was Noshua (yeah, we don’t know either) and he was from Texas. He was three. He blithely asked Gertrude how old she was, disregarding common sense about asking a woman her age. But Gertrude complied and explained she was two.
Noshua told his mother that Gertrude was cute. He continued to work his magic, literally. He grabbed a napkin in one hand and held up one finger on the other. Covering his extended finger with the napkin, he made it disappear. He then looked at her with his eyebrows pumping up and down like Groucho Marx on Viagra, much to Gertrude’s delight. His wily ways were working.
But wait, Gertrude grabbed a napkin and performed the same trick, but hers was impromptu. Noshua was a bit taken aback. And yet, oddly intrigued. Was there nothing this captivating girl couldn’t do? In a moment of overwhelming emotion, a moment that he may regret later in life, he expressed his love for Gertrude. He then invited her over to his house. In Texas. Though he thought otherwise, Noshua was firmly wrapped around Gertrude’s finger. He’d do whatever she said.
But it was not to be. He was flying home that night. There was no time to get to know each other well enough to make that sort of commitment. Dessert was over. It was time to go.
I paid the bill. Noshua’s family paid their bill. The two crazy kids said their goodbyes in the parking lot and were duly buckled into their car seats. And off into that dark night went Noshua.
Gertrude knew he was gone. She told us that he was going to “fly in the sky”. A reference to his departure.
Or perhaps a poetic description of the place her first love will hold in her heart.
Discuss
Monday, March 22, 2004
Tomorrow
Gertrude's first romance.
Today: I have to get my glasses fixed. The good news is, with broken glasses everyone in the world looks like David Niven.
Or maybe that's bad news.
Today: I have to get my glasses fixed. The good news is, with broken glasses everyone in the world looks like David Niven.
Or maybe that's bad news.
Friday, March 19, 2004
For Those Who Care
I've added an RSS feed (well, I've always had one, I just havne't made it public). It's over there on the left. It's the one called "RSS". That's spelled, phonetically, "Are Ess Ess" for those who are a little slow.
If you know what it is, feel free to use it and give me some feedback. I'm not giving the full post out on RSS. Right now it's just a small piece because, well, I want people to come here. But I'm new to feeding you strange people so if you don't like the chow, let me know.
If you don't understand what RSS is . . . you won't need the link. So don't worry about it. But if you want to learn, be my guest. But I can't explain it to you very well. Either because I don't understand it very well or because I'm pissy today.
Most likely it's because I'm pissy.
S'Okay?
Riiiiiiight.
If you know what it is, feel free to use it and give me some feedback. I'm not giving the full post out on RSS. Right now it's just a small piece because, well, I want people to come here. But I'm new to feeding you strange people so if you don't like the chow, let me know.
If you don't understand what RSS is . . . you won't need the link. So don't worry about it. But if you want to learn, be my guest. But I can't explain it to you very well. Either because I don't understand it very well or because I'm pissy today.
Most likely it's because I'm pissy.
S'Okay?
Riiiiiiight.
Let’s Discuss This Rationally
“I don’t want to go to Diana’s,” she says plaintively, her big blue eyes staring up at me with a mixture of pain, sadness and longing.
“It’s Friday,” I say. “It’s movie day at Diana’s. Dylan and Austin haven’t seen you in a while and they are looking forward to playing with you.”
“I don’t want to go,” she says, looking quietly at the TV, hoping that Jo Jo would break from the script and support her.
“Why don’t you want to go honey,” I ask. But I already know the reasons.
“I want to stay home with my mommy and daddy.”
“But Mommy and Daddy will be at work, honey. They won’t be able to play.”
“I can go to work with you,” she responds, her hope rising, as if this was the most brilliant idea she’s ever had. Of course, this would work! Everybody gets what they want!
“Well honey, I’m afraid it would be boring. And daddy wouldn’t be able to play.”
“But,” she says, “I will miss you.” Her eyes grow wider, more pleading. We sink back into the episode of Jo Jo’s Circus. Poor Goliath learns he’s too little to do Tiger Tricks. Bummer.
“I will miss you too, sweetie.”
We’re quiet for a few minutes. I have an idea.
“I don’t want to go to work,” I say.
“It’s okay,” she says.
“But I will be sad,” I say.
“You be okay Daddy. You will be safe at your work.”
“Really? I will”
“Sure,” she says, betraying her vast vocabulary. “You will be safe.”
“Really,” I ask one more time.
“I promise,” she says, looking at me with real concern in her eyes.
She hops down off my lap and walks over to Mommy. Without any real warning she blurts out to her, “I love my daddy.” I feel good. Those words meant that my plan was working and she doesn’t hate me.
So she climbs back up on my lap and we go through our morning ritual of putting her shoes and socks on. Her left foot, you see, is afraid of wearing socks, so it hides. Each morning we have to coax it out with promises that the sock will be warm and soft. Once the foot is happy with the sock, we have to convince it that the shoe is really a foot car that Little Foot can drive around. She provides the foot’s voice, with adequate smallness and fear mixed in the voice.
Today, I can’t help but think that this little game has a deep subtext.
“Will I really be safe at work,” I ask.
“Sure,” she says. “When you get home I will share my dinner.” I’m not sure where this came from, but to her it’s a huge gesture. To her, this will make me more secure and easy with my day.
Mom is packing up the car, so we start to head for the door to get her coat on. I have another idea.
“Is that Goodnight Bear,” I ask. “I think she’s crying.”
Gertrude runs over to the bear, who was laying face down on the floor as if she were discarded in mid-play scenario. Her position has that sadness of a forgotten toy. Gertrude picks her up and brings her back to me.
“What’s wrong little bear,” she asks.
“I’m scared,” I say for the bear.
“It’s okay,” Gertrude tells Goodnight Bear.
“I don’t want to go to Diana’s,” Goodnight Bear tells her.
“Diana has movies,” Gertrude tells her. “You can watch a movie.”
“I’m still scared,” Goodnight Bear says.
“We will have fruit snacks,” Gertrude tells Goodnight Bear. She said “we”. That’s good.
“Will you come with me and take care of me,” pleads Goodnight Bear.
“Sure,” Gertrude says. She picks up Goodnight Bear and gives her a big hug.
“I love you,” Goodnight Bear says.
“I love you too,” Gertrude says.
Confident in my parenting, we head off to get her jacket on. I feel as though she’s rationalized the whole thing in her head. She understands, I keep telling myself. She gets it.
As we’re walking down the hall we encounter Mommy who has finished getting the car loaded. She’s heard everything and is ready to do her part. “It’s time to go to Diana’s,” she says cheerily.
Gertrude stops in the hallway. She shoots me a look of betrayal and sadness. “But,” she starts to say as Goodnight Bear is flung to the side, her pain and suffering forgotten like Elia Kazan naming names to the House Un-American Activities Committee, “I don’t want to go to Diana’s.”
Throughout this whole thing, she never cried. She only looked at me with sadness. She appealed to me. She beseeched me. But it was to no avail. Daddy kept her home from Diana’s last week. And the whole point of going to Diana’s was to get her playing with other kids and used to being around people who aren’t family.
Mommy had to take her and do the hard part. She had to separate with her. Gertrude told Mommy she would miss her, with glassy eyes and watched her out the window as Mommy pulled away.
I’m sure she’s okay. I’ll bet she’s enjoying herself, playing with the kids. Diana is great with her and all the kids love her.
Still, when she gets home . . . I think I’ll share my dinner with her.
Discuss
“It’s Friday,” I say. “It’s movie day at Diana’s. Dylan and Austin haven’t seen you in a while and they are looking forward to playing with you.”
“I don’t want to go,” she says, looking quietly at the TV, hoping that Jo Jo would break from the script and support her.
“Why don’t you want to go honey,” I ask. But I already know the reasons.
“I want to stay home with my mommy and daddy.”
“But Mommy and Daddy will be at work, honey. They won’t be able to play.”
“I can go to work with you,” she responds, her hope rising, as if this was the most brilliant idea she’s ever had. Of course, this would work! Everybody gets what they want!
“Well honey, I’m afraid it would be boring. And daddy wouldn’t be able to play.”
“But,” she says, “I will miss you.” Her eyes grow wider, more pleading. We sink back into the episode of Jo Jo’s Circus. Poor Goliath learns he’s too little to do Tiger Tricks. Bummer.
“I will miss you too, sweetie.”
We’re quiet for a few minutes. I have an idea.
“I don’t want to go to work,” I say.
“It’s okay,” she says.
“But I will be sad,” I say.
“You be okay Daddy. You will be safe at your work.”
“Really? I will”
“Sure,” she says, betraying her vast vocabulary. “You will be safe.”
“Really,” I ask one more time.
“I promise,” she says, looking at me with real concern in her eyes.
She hops down off my lap and walks over to Mommy. Without any real warning she blurts out to her, “I love my daddy.” I feel good. Those words meant that my plan was working and she doesn’t hate me.
So she climbs back up on my lap and we go through our morning ritual of putting her shoes and socks on. Her left foot, you see, is afraid of wearing socks, so it hides. Each morning we have to coax it out with promises that the sock will be warm and soft. Once the foot is happy with the sock, we have to convince it that the shoe is really a foot car that Little Foot can drive around. She provides the foot’s voice, with adequate smallness and fear mixed in the voice.
Today, I can’t help but think that this little game has a deep subtext.
“Will I really be safe at work,” I ask.
“Sure,” she says. “When you get home I will share my dinner.” I’m not sure where this came from, but to her it’s a huge gesture. To her, this will make me more secure and easy with my day.
Mom is packing up the car, so we start to head for the door to get her coat on. I have another idea.
“Is that Goodnight Bear,” I ask. “I think she’s crying.”
Gertrude runs over to the bear, who was laying face down on the floor as if she were discarded in mid-play scenario. Her position has that sadness of a forgotten toy. Gertrude picks her up and brings her back to me.
“What’s wrong little bear,” she asks.
“I’m scared,” I say for the bear.
“It’s okay,” Gertrude tells Goodnight Bear.
“I don’t want to go to Diana’s,” Goodnight Bear tells her.
“Diana has movies,” Gertrude tells her. “You can watch a movie.”
“I’m still scared,” Goodnight Bear says.
“We will have fruit snacks,” Gertrude tells Goodnight Bear. She said “we”. That’s good.
“Will you come with me and take care of me,” pleads Goodnight Bear.
“Sure,” Gertrude says. She picks up Goodnight Bear and gives her a big hug.
“I love you,” Goodnight Bear says.
“I love you too,” Gertrude says.
Confident in my parenting, we head off to get her jacket on. I feel as though she’s rationalized the whole thing in her head. She understands, I keep telling myself. She gets it.
As we’re walking down the hall we encounter Mommy who has finished getting the car loaded. She’s heard everything and is ready to do her part. “It’s time to go to Diana’s,” she says cheerily.
Gertrude stops in the hallway. She shoots me a look of betrayal and sadness. “But,” she starts to say as Goodnight Bear is flung to the side, her pain and suffering forgotten like Elia Kazan naming names to the House Un-American Activities Committee, “I don’t want to go to Diana’s.”
Throughout this whole thing, she never cried. She only looked at me with sadness. She appealed to me. She beseeched me. But it was to no avail. Daddy kept her home from Diana’s last week. And the whole point of going to Diana’s was to get her playing with other kids and used to being around people who aren’t family.
Mommy had to take her and do the hard part. She had to separate with her. Gertrude told Mommy she would miss her, with glassy eyes and watched her out the window as Mommy pulled away.
I’m sure she’s okay. I’ll bet she’s enjoying herself, playing with the kids. Diana is great with her and all the kids love her.
Still, when she gets home . . . I think I’ll share my dinner with her.
Discuss
Thursday, March 18, 2004
But What About Green Acres?
A brilliant analysis of the Batman theme. So brilliant, in fact, that my brain is boiling with jealousy for not thinking of it before. Good old Geek Press is to blame for showing me my inadequacies. Damn you Paul Hsieh!
Discuss the Greater Meaning of Other TV Theme Songs
Discuss the Greater Meaning of Other TV Theme Songs
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
St. Patrick’s Day
Ah yes, it’s St. Patrick’s Day. The one day of the year where it is acceptable to do something utterly horrifying to a glass of beer: by coloring it green. Of course, in the U.S. most of us drink such crappy beer it probably improves the taste. If you’re out there celebrating the day, try one of the Irish beers: Guinness, Beamish, Wexford Irish Cream, Murphy’s or, if you are too much of a wimp, grab a Killian’s. It’s not Irish, but at least it’s based on an old Irish recipe.
But that brings us to the celebration of this day. I’ll be honest, I can’t stand it. Why? Well, as Bill Maher said, “If you’re going to get drunk on St. Patrick’s Day just get drunk. Don’t blame the Irish.”
Brief history: St. Patrick was an Englishman who was kidnapped from Great Brittan by marauders from Ireland where he was enslaved. He escaped several years later and returned home to begin studies as a priest. According to legend he was instructed by God to return to Ireland to convert the pagan Irish to Christianity. Which he did. Apparently pretty well. Legend has it that he used a three-leaf shamrock to teach the Irish about the trinity. And, of course, he was credited for driving the snakes out of Ireland. Most people take that literally, and assume that the snakes then moved the U.S. to become corrupt politicians in the early 20th century. In reality, the snake is probably simply a symbol of the pagan religion being driven out of Ireland. It’s a pretty easy symbol. I mean, the whole snake thing is in the bible.
In Ireland, the holiday also marked a one day breaking of the Lenten fast for Catholics. You’d go to mass in the morning, a parade in the afternoon and in the evening it was the one day during Lent you were allowed to drink and dance. Children wore shamrocks on their sweaters, referencing St. Patrick’s teaching of the trinity.
Let’s move over to North America. St. Patrick’s Day was first celebrated in the US in 1737 in, of course, Boston. I imagine that in the late 1800s and early 1900s that St. Patrick’s Day was all that popular, considering most people despised the Irish in urban areas, due to the mass influx of immigrants.
But, somewhere along the lines, a religious holiday turned into a celebration of all things Irish. Even if it isn’t Irish. The wearing of the Shamrock turned into wearing green in general. And if you don’t wear green, you get pinched.
Of course. Because the Irish pinch everyone. It’s an old Irish family custom.
Naturally, on St. Paddy’s day (as we like to call it here) everyone is Irish! That’s right, one and all, you are Irish! How do you demonstrate that you are Irish? First, eat corned beef and cabbage. Never mind that corned beef and cabbage aren’t exactly national foods of Ireland and that most Irish haven’t exactly eaten them. Unless, of course, you were very poor and lived in the rural areas of Ireland. Then you might have eaten corned beef at the end of Lent. But, that’s like everyone eating Collard Greens in Europe to celebrate America.
Now, you have your food down pat. How do you celebrate? I mean, you’re Irish today, right? Why, you get completely shit faced and puke in public! Why not? You’re Irish! Be proud of that! In fact, if you could get into a fight too! Irish people fight. For good measure, urinate on a public building too. That’s a way of showing your Irish pride. And listen to “When Irish Eyes are Smiling”. You know why? Because it says Irish in it. Get it?
Oh, and do you know what you drink on St. Paddy’s day? Beer! Not Irish beer, of course. Your regular, watered down, crappy tasting Mich Dry. Dyed green! Get it? GREEN! It’s Irish.
And, of course, we’ll plaster everything with little leprechauns. Because that’s Irish too! We’ll take a little, short caricature of something out of Irish culture and assume that it represents all of Irish culture! Forget about the rich Irish folklore, history and literary tradition of Joyce, Wilde, O’Brien, Shaw and Beckett. Screw that, we’ll take Frank McCourt and River Dance.
Look, I don’t think it’s wrong that people enjoy St. Patrick’s Day. I don’t even care that they insist that they are all Irish. I just wonder how actual, born and bred Irishmen feel about how we trample their culture on this day. Consider if we decided to celebrate the Jewish holiday of Purim. Rather than acknowledge what the holiday is about, we’d all dress like Hasidim, say we’re cheap, drink Manishevitz wine and say things like, “You Purim I’ll drink ‘em!”
Yeah, that wouldn’t happen. In fact, people would hate that because it celebrates stereotypes and tramples a religion and culture. But having the National Symbol of Ireland be the alcoholic is A-OK!
Ah, screw it. It’s 10 a.m. on St. Patrick’s Day. Time for a beer.
Or, as we say in the O’Brien house, “Just another day!”
Discuss
But that brings us to the celebration of this day. I’ll be honest, I can’t stand it. Why? Well, as Bill Maher said, “If you’re going to get drunk on St. Patrick’s Day just get drunk. Don’t blame the Irish.”
Brief history: St. Patrick was an Englishman who was kidnapped from Great Brittan by marauders from Ireland where he was enslaved. He escaped several years later and returned home to begin studies as a priest. According to legend he was instructed by God to return to Ireland to convert the pagan Irish to Christianity. Which he did. Apparently pretty well. Legend has it that he used a three-leaf shamrock to teach the Irish about the trinity. And, of course, he was credited for driving the snakes out of Ireland. Most people take that literally, and assume that the snakes then moved the U.S. to become corrupt politicians in the early 20th century. In reality, the snake is probably simply a symbol of the pagan religion being driven out of Ireland. It’s a pretty easy symbol. I mean, the whole snake thing is in the bible.
In Ireland, the holiday also marked a one day breaking of the Lenten fast for Catholics. You’d go to mass in the morning, a parade in the afternoon and in the evening it was the one day during Lent you were allowed to drink and dance. Children wore shamrocks on their sweaters, referencing St. Patrick’s teaching of the trinity.
Let’s move over to North America. St. Patrick’s Day was first celebrated in the US in 1737 in, of course, Boston. I imagine that in the late 1800s and early 1900s that St. Patrick’s Day was all that popular, considering most people despised the Irish in urban areas, due to the mass influx of immigrants.
But, somewhere along the lines, a religious holiday turned into a celebration of all things Irish. Even if it isn’t Irish. The wearing of the Shamrock turned into wearing green in general. And if you don’t wear green, you get pinched.
Of course. Because the Irish pinch everyone. It’s an old Irish family custom.
Naturally, on St. Paddy’s day (as we like to call it here) everyone is Irish! That’s right, one and all, you are Irish! How do you demonstrate that you are Irish? First, eat corned beef and cabbage. Never mind that corned beef and cabbage aren’t exactly national foods of Ireland and that most Irish haven’t exactly eaten them. Unless, of course, you were very poor and lived in the rural areas of Ireland. Then you might have eaten corned beef at the end of Lent. But, that’s like everyone eating Collard Greens in Europe to celebrate America.
Now, you have your food down pat. How do you celebrate? I mean, you’re Irish today, right? Why, you get completely shit faced and puke in public! Why not? You’re Irish! Be proud of that! In fact, if you could get into a fight too! Irish people fight. For good measure, urinate on a public building too. That’s a way of showing your Irish pride. And listen to “When Irish Eyes are Smiling”. You know why? Because it says Irish in it. Get it?
Oh, and do you know what you drink on St. Paddy’s day? Beer! Not Irish beer, of course. Your regular, watered down, crappy tasting Mich Dry. Dyed green! Get it? GREEN! It’s Irish.
And, of course, we’ll plaster everything with little leprechauns. Because that’s Irish too! We’ll take a little, short caricature of something out of Irish culture and assume that it represents all of Irish culture! Forget about the rich Irish folklore, history and literary tradition of Joyce, Wilde, O’Brien, Shaw and Beckett. Screw that, we’ll take Frank McCourt and River Dance.
Look, I don’t think it’s wrong that people enjoy St. Patrick’s Day. I don’t even care that they insist that they are all Irish. I just wonder how actual, born and bred Irishmen feel about how we trample their culture on this day. Consider if we decided to celebrate the Jewish holiday of Purim. Rather than acknowledge what the holiday is about, we’d all dress like Hasidim, say we’re cheap, drink Manishevitz wine and say things like, “You Purim I’ll drink ‘em!”
Yeah, that wouldn’t happen. In fact, people would hate that because it celebrates stereotypes and tramples a religion and culture. But having the National Symbol of Ireland be the alcoholic is A-OK!
Ah, screw it. It’s 10 a.m. on St. Patrick’s Day. Time for a beer.
Or, as we say in the O’Brien house, “Just another day!”
Discuss
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