Going on the Account: An Bhfuil Tu Do Fior?

I’m not looking forward to Tuesday, which is a hell of a thing for someone from an Irish family from Buffalo to admit aloud.

Yes, Saint Partick’s Day is supposed to be a day of Irish heritage, though as I was growing up I watched it get referred to as “Amateur Night” by people who noticed that the drinking aspects of the day  was being embraced bu folks of all backgrounds a bit inappropriately, as in “felony assault” level embracing.

Which could be lived with if things stayed at that sad level.  Over the last few years, though, there’s been an effort to get people to buy beads to wear as you go out drinking.

St. Patrick’s Day beads.

Yes, you read that right.  Saint.  F’n’.  Patrick’s.  Day.  Beads.

When in the hell did they go and turn this holiday into “Shrove Patrick’s Day”?

It reads a lot like the scene from the last week of the Passion, when Jesus chases the moneylenders out the temple.  Part of me would love it if on some bar that night, Denis Leary would pull an epic take-down of some frat bros weighed down in beads and call them what they were; since we’re trying to show a little decorum here, I’ll leave the particulars as to what he’d call them to your imagination, which much like a nasty fate in horror or a good sex scene in any genre is always better imagined than displayed…

As for me, I’ll stay away from stuff that the oltoiri trom will cast away in a haze that’s likely by Easter to find itself part of the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.  I’ll have a few drinks on my own, honor the Irish who came before and made the world a better place, folks like Grace O’Malley (of course), maybe put on some music, a little CLancy Brothers, some Black 47, throw this one into the mix…

Because there’s way more to that day than an excuse to get sheit-faced.

And there’s no excuse for those f’n’beads!

Going on the Account: What a Sick Dude

It could be all the antibiotics I’ve been taking this week talking, but I want to revisit some of my old plague fiction.

If I were a bit more subject to assigning purpose to an event’s timing, I’d say my bronchial misadventures this week were Nature’s way of asking me to look outside my normal wheelhouse.  All the coughing, the two-hour-a-night sleeping sessions with nothing to show from those overnight experiences except for a large plastic grocery bag fulled with mucus-encrusted tissues, the multiple visits to the doctors before I was prescribed something where drink plenty of fluids should not mean rum-and-cokes (or in my case rum-and-diet colas, or “R&Ds”) once I started on those, all the time in the world before me but unable to do any writing because of the hacking wheezes every few minutes…

Stuff like that can color your perspective.

Once upon a time, I wrote a few pieces to share in a writer’s group I was in; the first comment I got was, “Congrats on re-writing The Stand.” Not sure if he was kidding, thought it was a compliment, or why he chose that comparison over Camus’ The Plague, but any event, the comment stuck.  And I suppose other than pirates, sickness has been been a go-to point I’ve had for a lot of my stuff.

In fact, I did between fits of blowing my nose think about something that manages to combine the two, along with a few other elements.  It’s not high on the list right now, it’s very preliminary, but it’s something that may get a little more attention when I hit a few walls and want a break on some stuff.

Right now, it’s good to be able to say that I tried to write something and got this produced.  For the first time in a week, I got to run my fingers over the keys, without having to then interrupt myself to get a Kleenex to wipe up the snot that I just spewed all over the screen.  Keep this up, I may be able to call myself productive in ways that don’t involve bodily fluids…

Now, where’s those pills marked with letters that scream DO NOT TAKE WITH ALCOHOL…?