Klaus Nomi (gotta love the bowtie)

I checked my “search stats” today and one caught my eye:

‘beer or smoke – which one is worse for you’

Hmmm . . .
I’d have to say neither.
What’s way worse is too much Klaus Nomi . . .
Too much Nomi will eventually fry your brain.
It’s Charlie Chaplin meets Gary Numan
And then some . . .
Yoiks. (or Yolks)
Happy Easter, folks.
No happy and snappy eggs for you. Sorry.
Hopefully, I’ll see you all back here next week.

peace, out . . .

~m

One Happy Mick

Our sense of smell is acute and amazingly discerning allowing us to associate aromas and smells with our seemingly unlimited banks of memory.
How about the smell of a box of crayons?
Yeah, that’s a good one.
How many wonderful memories can you come up with there?
I thought so.

I think the holidays tend to elicit the strongest evoking power for obvious reasons.

  • Christmas = peppermint, balsam, sweet baked goods and . . .
  • Thanksgiving = roasted turkey, cranberries, cinnamon,
    clove and . . .
  • Easter = floral scent (Easter lily), marshmallow peeps (yes, they have a scent), hard-boiled eggs (alright, not so good)
  • Saint Patrick’s Day = corned beef and cabbage

When my mother was alive and well no Paddy’s Day went by without her making the Irish dish.
I’ve missed riding out to the house knowing full well my mother would have a pot full of it on the stove and delight in stuffing me silly.
Her corned beef would be cooking all day long and truth be told it must have taken weeks to get the cabbage stink out of the place.
It’s remembering days like those when I really start to miss her.

I worked the entire weekend and had no time to stink the fill the house up with those sacred aromas (you’re welcome, sweet Irish daughters ‘o mine).
It looked like I might go without this year and I must say it thoroughly depressed me.
Murphy + Saint Patrick’s Day = Irish Turkey and a freshly poured Guinness Stout
There’s a restaurant in Boston called Jacob Wirth’s and it’s said to be one of the oldest in the city. Someone mentioned that they may possibly be serving the traditional dish. (Check their link and read the menu. Yeah, huh?)
I called and sure enough, it was on the menu.
Knowing how popular this restaurant is, I had my doubts as to whether I’d actually get a seat.
I opened the old creaky doors and spied an open spot at the bar and immediately sat down.
Perfect, I thought. (And ironically it was right in front of that beautiful Guinness spigot)
The bartender promptly brought me a menu which I politely pushed away, “No need for that; Corned Beef and Cabbage, please.”
I asked for a large ice water but changed my mind when I saw him pour a Guinness with a 2″ frothy head.
He served me my dear Stout and I raised it slightly to the heavens and toasted my Madre for the many years of awesome corned beef and cabbage dinners.

My meal came minutes later and I dug in.

If you’re wondering how my lunch was, it wasn’t like my mother’s but the last place I wanted to go was back to work.
I wanted to stay at Wirth’s forever.

As they say, all good things must come to an end.

I left Jake’s with a stomach full of Irish Turkey and one heavenly Guinness under my belt.
And I was one happy Mick . . .

~m

A wee bit o’ the Irish Humour

“The Brothel”

Two Irishmen were sitting at a pub drinking beer and
watching the brothel across the street.
They see a Baptist minister walk into the brothel, and one
of them says, “Aye, ’tis a shame to see a man of the cloth
goin’ bad.”

Then they see a rabbi enter the brothel, and the other
Irishman said, “Aye, ’tis a shame to see that the Jews
are fallin’ victim to temptation as well.”

Then they see a catholic priest enter the brothel, and
one of the Irishmen says, “What a terrible pity …one of
the girls must be dying.”

“Irish Cemetery”

Three Irishmen, Paddy, Sean and Seamus, were stumbling home
from the pub late one night and found themselves on the road
which led past the old graveyard..

“Come have a look over here,” says Paddy, “It’s Michael
O’Grady’s grave, God bless his soul. He lived to the ripe
old age of 87.”

“That’s nothing,” says Sean, “here’s one named Patrick
O’Toole, it says here that he was 95 when he died!”

Just then, Seamus yells out, “Good God, here’s a fella
that got to be 145!”

“What was his name?” asks Paddy.
Seamus stumbles around a bit, awkwardly lights a match
to see what else is written on the stone marker, and exclaims,

“Miles . . . from Dublin.”

“Irish Last Request”

Mary Clancy goes up to Father O’Grady after his Sunday
morning service, and she’s in tears.
He says, “So what’s bothering you, Mary my dear?”
She says, “Oh, Father, I’ve got terrible news. Me husband passed away last night.”
The priest says, “Oh, Mary, that’s terrible. Tell me, did he
have any last requests?”
She says, “That he did, Father…”
The priest says, “What did he ask, Mary?”
She says, “He said, “Please Mary, put down that damn gun.”

“Lent”

An Irishman moved into a tiny hamlet in County Kerry.
He walks into the local pub, orders three pints of Guinness takes them to a table and proceeds to drink them taking his time.
He repeats this two times and then leaves the pub.

A few nights later he returns to the pub, orders three pints of Guinness, takes them to a table and drinks them taking his time. He repeats this two times and leaves the pub. He continues this for several weeks.
Soon the entire town is talking about the “Three Pint Man.”

Finally, one day the pub owner on behalf of the entire town broaches the subject to the man. “I don’t mean to pry, but folks are quite curious why you order three pints each time you come in .”

The man replied, “I have two brothers – one in America and one in Australia. When we parted ways we all promised that each time we had a drink, we would order an extra two pints as a way of keeping up with each other.”

The pub owner and the entire town thought this was wonderful and were pleased that the brothers meant so much to each other. “The Three Pint Man” became a celebrity not only to the town but to the surrounding area.

One day the man came into the pub and orders only two pints of Guinness. The pub owner poured them with a heavy heart knowing in his soul that something dreadful must have happened. The news spreads around town and people are offering prays for the “Three Pint Man.”

This went on for a few weeks and the pub owner says to the man, “I want to offer our condolences due to death of your brother. We are all heart broken. You know the two pints and all.”

The man ponders this for a few minutes and replies, “You will be glad to hear that my brothers are alive and well. It’s just that I, meself, have decided to give up Guinness for Lent.”

“Vat O’ Guinness”

Brenda O’Malley is home making dinner, as usual, when Tim Finnegan arrives at her door.

“Brenda, may I come in?” he asks. “I’ve somethin’ rather important to tell ye.”

“Of course you can come in. You’re always welcome here, Tim.” says Brenda. “But where’s me husband, Shamus?”

“That’s what I’m here to be tellin’ ye, Lass. There’s been a simply tragic accident down at the Guinness brewery…”

“Oh, God no!” cries Brenda. “Please don’t tell me…”

“I must, Brenda. Your husband Shamus is gone. I’m dreadfully sorry, Lass.”

Finally, Brenda looks up at Tim and tearfully asks, “Please tell me how it happened, Tim.”

“Aw, Lass, it was terrible. Poor Shamus fell into a vat o’ Guinness Stout and drowned.”

“Oh my Sweet Jesus! But please tell me true, Tim. Did he at least go quickly?”

“Well, no, Lass… not exactly.”

“No?”

“No, fact is, he got out three times to visit the men’s room.”

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day, folks!

And a tip o’ the hat to this Lass
For tomorrow is her birthday (39! . . . same age for the past five years!)
Breithlá sona duit!

~m

 

New

Working all day today and gigging tonight leaves me little to no time for blogging.
I wanted to wish all of you a safe and happy new year.
May you find peace of mind, spirit and soul.
For all those on my blogroll, I thank you for yet another awesome year of blogging.
A special thanks to Maureen (DownUnder), Annie, and Evyl for helping me in ways they will never know.
You guys are extended family.
A Happy New Year to all . . .
~m

Snow

I’m sitting here on Christmas night with not much of anything to blog about but I’ve had a wonderful Christmas and I can’t help but wonder why.
I’m thinking it’s because I am loved.
The girls and Pamela are watching “Hairspray” and laughing and all things considered, my life is good.
I am the richest man in town at this moment.
I thank all of you dearly for leaving such wonderful comments.
Tomorrow is a very special day.
21 years ago tonight, I was driving my lovely and very pregnant wife to the hospital for the birth of our first little girl.
Sarah is 21 tomorrow.
Good God, time flies . . .
Please leave a warm wish or some sage advice for her.
Merry Christmas everybody!
And yes, it’s snowing on my blog tonight.
How apropos is that?

peace,
~m

Happy Birthday, Sas!

What is the square root of eggnog?

It’s always around this time of the year (December 20th, to be exact) that my brain goes into this bizarre auto-hibernation cycle.
I can’t hear “Jingle Bells” or “Merry Christmas, Darling” by the Carpenters simply because my brain refuses to latch on, refuses to release the adequate amount of acetylcholine needed to make my synapses “see” the connection.
Maybe it sounds Grinch-like, but it’s not.

Around every corner lurks some crazy bastard that thinks I should be incredibly happy, that I should embrace the “wassail ‘n eggnog” mentality of a holiday I’m still trying desperately to understand.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t understand it, maybe I’d enjoy it more but sadly I cannot.
I don’t watch much TV but when I do I inevitably see a Kay’s Jewelers commercial and I’m pretty sure that ‘every kiss begins with Kay’s’.
Ughhhh.
Hey Kay’s! I’m holding some wicked mistletoe over my yuletide ass.
You guys can start there with a big, wet smooch.
Gag me with an unrealistic, smarmy and overtly utopian commercial.

Avaricious companies like this prey on the materialistic and compulsive nature of nincompoops foolish enough to believe that some diamond-studded placebo will make all their holiday dreams come true.
My God, what unadulterated bullshit.

There is a major reason for my somewhat apathetic attitude towards the holidays and maybe it’s because I’m just beginning to understand that it has little to do with shiny and expensive things.

But there will always be another commercial, another misguided Christmas song and another 100 reasons for me to hate the things that society thinks will make my holiday grand.

I’m thinking that maybe that’s okay.
And I might just make it through another Christmas without the help of Kay’s . . .
As far as the answer to the square root of eggnog, maybe it’s 42
Though I may have to ask Sarah’s roomate, Kat . . .
I hear she’s pretty good with math.

~m

On Writing

“If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time or the tools to write.”
~Stephen King

I’ll be posting sporadically until sometime after Christmas.
Retail kicks your ass and to be honest, I need to do some serious reading.
I’ve dusted off the King book for another go through.
At this time of the year, I just can’t do it all and reading is much needed sanctuary.
I will be visiting my favorite blogs though.
For some new blog reading be sure to visit Grimm, NurseMyra, Other Side & Sulz, several new blogs that I’m currently enjoying the hell out of.
Until next time, I wish you all peace.

~m

Some Children See Him

It was many years ago on a Christmas night that I paused to look in on our girls before I went to bed. They were sleeping and hopefully dreaming of sweet things.
At the time, we’d put a radio in their room so they could drift off to dreamland to some soft music.
Though this Christmas night was very long ago, I remember it vividly.
As I turned to make my way to our bedroom, my ears soaked in whatever was playing on their radio.
It was a beautiful solo piano piece.
Standing there mesmerized, I realized I had goosebumps up and down my arms.
(a rarity for me, musically speaking)
This song, whatever it was, was something special.
When the song finished, I went back downstairs and called the radio station in Boston and actually spoke to the (obviously) lonely DJ.

“What was the last song you played? That solo piano thing?” I asked.

“Yeah, man . . . wasn’t that beautiful? It’s called, “Some Children See Him”, by Dave Grusin.
It’s off the first GRP Christmas Album. Nice stuff.”

I wished him a Merry Christmas and told him he’d just made my holiday.
I think he liked that.

Fast forward to tonight.
I’m sitting on the train listening to my Ipod when this song comes on.
It’s James Taylor singing Some Children See Him.
Goosebumps, folks.
The sad realization came to me that I never really ‘listened’ to the song.
Tonight was a very different story.
Hence, this post.
Here are the lyrics . . . (much nicer if you have the tune to listen to)

Some children see Him lily white,
The baby Jesus born this night.
Some children see Him lily white,
With tresses soft and fair.

Some children see Him bronzed and brown,
The Lord of heav’n to earth come down.
Some children see Him bronzed and brown,
With dark and heavy hair.

Some children see Him almond-eyed,
This Savior whom we kneel beside.
Some children see Him almond-eyed,
With skin of golden hue.

Some children see Him dark as they,
Sweet Mary’s Son to whom we pray.
Some children see him dark as they,
And, oh . . . they love Him, too

The children in each different place
Will see the baby Jesus’ face
Like theirs, but bright with heavenly grace,
And filled with holy light.
O lay aside each earthly thing
And with thy heart as offering,
Come worship now the infant King.
‘Tis love that’s born tonight!

For me, the holiday season can be summed up in the very last line of the song:
‘Tis love that’s born tonight’.
Christmas has very little to do with gifts, Mistletoe, jingle bells or EggNog;
there’s so much more that we may never see or feel simply because we’re all too busy Christmasing the way we “think” we’re supposed to, the quintessential celebrations we unknowingly try and mimic based on oh so many HDTV and jewelry commercials.
Yes, some children do see Him but it’s through eyes that understand the true nature of the Christmas holiday.
It’s never been about ‘the stuff’.
It’s about offering your soul, granting forgiveness and selfless acts of the heart.
I pray that my eyes will see Him for who He truly is.
I pray the same for the commercially blind living in this surreal marshmallow world.

~m

Creamsicle Moon

A creamsicle moon frosts the twilight treetops somewhere in the distance . . .
a dark and serene sky, the canvas
I need a sliver of this star-filled tranquility for thousands of reasons
and my soul sleeps

It’s at the corners of Solace and Hope
that I realize the Boulevard of Dreams is gridlocked, my mind cries out for home
searching desperately for an avenue out . . .
and my snow-covered soul sleeps on

A dying creamsicle moon gives birth to the ever-reddening dawn
and somewhere a candle flickers, a baby cries and
an already fragile world offers up a ray of hope that shines on my soul,
still fast asleep
but searching for that elusive sliver of tranquility
and a reason to finally believe . . .

~m