If you hate anyone Jesus doesn't like you. End of.
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A politician who is after a government job by saying the government is evil is as trustworthy as Fred Phelps offering blowjobs to join his church.
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Saying to a trauma victim "Get Over It!" about anything is good way to, at best, lose a friend, at worst experience some trauma of your own.
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Friday, March 30, 2012
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Saint Pat's
Once upon a time I planned to create an occasion-specific outfit for St. Patrick's Day. It was devised in reaction to the BeingIrishMeansBingeDrinking, and other assheaded misconceptions in this country.
I was going to wear a suit of orange, with England flags scattered about.
"green represents the Gaelic tradition of Ireland and the orange represents the followers of William of Orange in Ireland, with white representing peace, or a truce, between them."
"A Protestant, William participated in several wars against the powerful Catholic king of France...Many Protestants heralded him as a champion of their faith."
You can imagine how that suit would have gone over with any true Irish, or anyone who knew their history.
One of the last St. Pats I drank I was in the Press Room at the beginning of Amateur Time. I was at the dartboard end of the bar, with what turned out to be 3 elderly Irish men, all strangers to me and each other, and all quietly drinking, with new and welcome friends. We chatted. An old Dubliner bought me a drink. Men of kindness, and character, all wearing green in understated ways that didn't demand attention, but asserted itself nonetheless.
While none of them liked the way the day was celebrated here, none had any animosity towards the young and stupid, something that puzzled and impressed me with its sharp contrast to my own feelings. We parted as friends, all to their homes about 6:00 PM.
I realized that my Orange Prick Suit would have only offended these men, that no one else in the place would have even understood. I gave up the idea. Regardless of any skepticism to religion I harbor, or how I might prefer history to have gone differently to suit my morality, in the here-and-now (or there-and-then) I had met good people, and my life was better for it.
My Irishness is as remote to me as it is to most Americans. The brief look I've had at my father's family tree revealed a number of Mc's, O's, and Mac's, though many of the Mc's and Mac's are Scottish. None of my Celtic relations are more recent arrivals than the 19th century as far as I know.
However, those three decent men at the Press Room, whose names I've forgotten, impressed on me that there are indeed some great things about Irishness, and they do indeed deserve celebration. Maybe one day this country will know what they are.
I was going to wear a suit of orange, with England flags scattered about.
"green represents the Gaelic tradition of Ireland and the orange represents the followers of William of Orange in Ireland, with white representing peace, or a truce, between them."
"A Protestant, William participated in several wars against the powerful Catholic king of France...Many Protestants heralded him as a champion of their faith."
You can imagine how that suit would have gone over with any true Irish, or anyone who knew their history.
One of the last St. Pats I drank I was in the Press Room at the beginning of Amateur Time. I was at the dartboard end of the bar, with what turned out to be 3 elderly Irish men, all strangers to me and each other, and all quietly drinking, with new and welcome friends. We chatted. An old Dubliner bought me a drink. Men of kindness, and character, all wearing green in understated ways that didn't demand attention, but asserted itself nonetheless.
While none of them liked the way the day was celebrated here, none had any animosity towards the young and stupid, something that puzzled and impressed me with its sharp contrast to my own feelings. We parted as friends, all to their homes about 6:00 PM.
I realized that my Orange Prick Suit would have only offended these men, that no one else in the place would have even understood. I gave up the idea. Regardless of any skepticism to religion I harbor, or how I might prefer history to have gone differently to suit my morality, in the here-and-now (or there-and-then) I had met good people, and my life was better for it.
My Irishness is as remote to me as it is to most Americans. The brief look I've had at my father's family tree revealed a number of Mc's, O's, and Mac's, though many of the Mc's and Mac's are Scottish. None of my Celtic relations are more recent arrivals than the 19th century as far as I know.
However, those three decent men at the Press Room, whose names I've forgotten, impressed on me that there are indeed some great things about Irishness, and they do indeed deserve celebration. Maybe one day this country will know what they are.
Labels:
Heritage,
Saint Patrick's Day,
Tradition
Friday, March 16, 2012
Old Piece of music redone
Conceit
It had synth guitars, and sounded like it had synth guitars. I recorded real guitar parts because, unlike at the point when I wrote the piece, I can.
It had synth guitars, and sounded like it had synth guitars. I recorded real guitar parts because, unlike at the point when I wrote the piece, I can.
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