Born to dance the funky Caeligh...upside down in a cold mind

Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, don't they look like prison guards, or cops?

Funky Céilí

One of my O'Blogo brothers sent me this plug and bit of insight from Helen Rittlemeyer of The Cigarette Smoking Blog and  thought my response needed to be posted. I'm interested in the book, since I remember Pat Moynihan well, giving everybody hell and doing it in a way that combined poetry, wit and a steel trap of a mind. Politically, I'm pretty far to the other extreme from Helen or where she claims to be, and I never saw nuns gathered around smoking back in the day as her b&W blog header shows. But then again, they were secretive old bats and I suspect that more than a bit of nicotine mixed with some Irish and a bit Pabst Blue Ribbon lit up some of the cold nights.  I'll visit occasionally in the future.

Anyway, as the designated Irish Guy -- the dumb Irish guy from upstate New York who had to join the Army to get his first pair of shoes -- my affinity for Patrick Moynihan runs deep. Moynihan, politically and intellectually, channeled the advice of Warren Buffett before the wizard gave it -- be cautious when others are fearless, be fearless when others are cautious. And yeah, at a certain level I agree that being Irish can give you a leg up on the heartbreak if you're honest with yourself. Else you're just a poseur wearing a shamrock  or a wannabe on St Paddie's Day.

I never wear green on St Patrick's Day. That's for Jews and Italians and WASPs who don't want their lunch money taken, or the Irish not sure of themselves, or those who want to run for office. Back in the glory days of Irish Machine politics, and I suspect in certain parts of the country still, the last group would include a stellar crew of hacks, bar owners, lawyers, insurance guys and undertakers.

Although this year I  might  get a Black47 T shirt and wear it under a white sweater with an orange-tinted tweed jacket. Be a walking Tricolor... My heart broke when Bobby Kennedy died, my first true love left me for another woman, and when I realized I was never going to pitch for the Yankees...never since. Never again. No surrender.

A fellow alum, actually a sister alum from the Jesuit West Point, recently told me something interesting in a Linked In exchange that I never knew -- in Gaelic, there are no words for yes and no. I'm not sure about that -- I thought yes was Shure'tis and No was, Fuck you. Rather, she said that in Gaelic, you would respond to the question by rephrasing it. So, "Is it snowing" could rebound to us as "Would I be carrying this umbrella if it was, you blithering idiot." Guiness and blood would then flow.
We are a contentious group, on the whole.

So, in my semi-annual plug for Black 47, here's a classic:

Black 47 :: Desperate from Richie Madden on Vimeo. 

Comments

[drip]

So it's maybe a 15 years ago, I'm at Mick O'Shea's to see a Baltimore City Councilman play with his good-enough Irish band. I'm bearding my secretary who has the hots for the pol. A tall girl starts dancing salsa to the out of town guys playing Rocking the Bronx. The band picked up the rhytmn and kept going. Martin O'Malley is governor; my secretary moved to Nashville; I married the girl; and Larry is still rocking in Times Square. Good stuff.

[Elec Cig]

I guess it's anyone freedom to smoke if we take basis on the sister's picture. LOL! Some people can't really avoid that thing then better find an alternative.

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