Category Archives: Pointless Nostalgia

Oirland, Pointless Nostalgia, Tuneage

Waving the Green Flag

lep.jpgOkay, St. Patrick’s Day, I call a truce. I’ve spent way too much time being angry at you for reasons I don’t even fully understand. So I’m not going to write any more angry anti-St. Patty’s Day screeds. In return, if you could make sure that my stoop doesn’t have puke on it when I get home from work, then we’re cool.

I inherited my resentment against the holiday from my father, who had wildly schizophrenic views on his homeland. He lived the first 10 years of his life in an Ireland that was extremely poor, extremely repressive, and just overall depressing. I think he blamed Ireland for the misery of his early years, and the issues of his later ones.

Mind you, he had a healthy amount of pride about being Irish. But he also couldn’t stand a lot of phonus balonus that goes along with Oirish-American celebrations. He loved to cite historical instances of the Irish getting the shaft from world, but he also hated when Irish people would insist on the MOPE Syndrome (that they, and only they, were the Most Oppressed People Ever).

He loved to point out famous/accomplished Irishmen, and also loved to point out that a large number of them had leave Ireland to get any measure of success (or at least not be stoned to death). Conversely, he was a huge fan of English comedy in general, but when he was offered a job at Reuters, he scoffed, “I can’t work for them–they’re an English company.” This statement was notable for its lack of sarcasm, as my father rarely said anything not sarcastic.

I’ve spent much of my life mimicking his stances on Ireland, St. Patty’s Day, etc. But I now realize it’s more of a burden than anything else. I’ve been to Ireland a few times, and it’s nothing like what it was in his youth. In other words, I’ve been carrying around his resentments so they can live on somehow, even though they’re resentments for a place that doesn’t exist anymore.

So you wanna get shitfaced on St. Patrick’s Day even if your last name is Lewandowski? Knock yourself out. I shan’t take part, but who am I to keep you from destroying your liver?

I should be grateful that I’m part of an ethnic group that is so assimilated into American culture that it can totally revel in all of its unsavory stereotypes. When people joke about how the Irish are drunks and fight all the time, what do Irish people do? Laugh, usually. They know it’s true, and they don’t have to waste any time defending themselves, because they no longer have to fight true, institutionalized discrimination.

That’s my wish for every ethnic group: That one day you shall be able to freely give vent to the worst aspects of your character, and everyone will think it’s hilarious.

If you’re in the mood for some green-tinted Haterade, peep these two posts from years past:

The Calvinball of the Emerald Isle, 03.16.07

The Quare Fellows, 03.17.06

Meanwhile, as part of my peace offering to St. Patrick’s Day, I offer some tunes from Hibernophile rocker Ted Leo.

“Biomusicology”, The Tyrrany of Distance

“Dirty Old Town”, Tell Balgeary Balgury Is Dead EP

“A Bottle of Buckie”, Living for the Living

“Fairytale of New York”, live on WFMU, 2007

And a video sampling from the recent WFMU Marathon, Ted doing a solo version of “Timorous Me” (with Tom Scharpling on claps).

Pointless Nostalgia

The Rest of the Story

pharvey.jpgHello, Americans. This is Paul Harvey. Stand by for news from the hoary nether-regions of the afterlife!

Did you know: many of the best Americans are dead Americans? It’s true! George Washington, Henry Ford, Van Johnson–all dead! Sure, most of them weren’t dead their whole lives. In fact, most spent the vast majority of their existences being not dead! They only turned out dead at the very end of their lives. Food for thought, isn’t it?

Speaking of food, are you not as regular as used to be regular? Try Old Grandpa’s Fiber Tablets. One a day and your colon will be whistlin’ “Dixie” once again! And now, back to the show.

It’s been pretty busy in the afterlife. I was one of several thousand new arrivals when I got here, and it seems like every minute there’s another several thousand shuffling through the gates. At first, I had to fill out a lot of paperwork and so forth. I thought I’d died and gone to the DMV!

But after that, things cooled down a bit. When you have until the end of time to do things, you tend not to rush anymore. Things are nice and simple here, like in the old days.

I’m up in cloud 7.657.34-09, in between a former insurance salesman from Missoula and a former housewife from Topeka. Right across the hall, though, I have a bona fide celebrity. None other than Aldo Ray, co-star of a little film you may remember called The Green Berets. So if you’re in the neighborhood and you’re dead, stop in and say hi! We’d be glad to see you!

Dateline, the far side of eternity: Apparently there are more clouds over there. Big, fluffy clouds.

Dateline, a piece of eternity slightly closer, although the word ‘closer’ has little meaning within the context of something endless like ‘eternity’: More clouds.

Once, there was a little boy who dreamed of being on the radio. He loved to hear announcers on his favorite shows like Jack Armstrong and Little Orphan Annie, and he said to himself, “I want to do that when I grow up!” And so he grew up, and he worked his way onto the radio. And then one day he died.

And that little boy who grew up and died was…Scott Muni. Let that be a lesson to you!

This is Dead Paul Harvey, bidding you…good day!

Pointless Nostalgia, Tuneage

RIP Antoinette K Doe

A few weeks back, I relayed the sad news about the passing of Stefan Lutak, the proprietor of The Holiday Cocktail Lounge, one of my favorite joints of all time. Now another one has been taken away from us–Antoinette K Doe, proprietress of The Mother-in-Law Lounge in New Orleans.

millounge.jpgAntoinette was the widow of Ernie K Doe, who had a big R&B hit back in the 1960s called (wait for it) “Mother-in-Law”. She rescued Ernie from a decades-long alcoholic funk and helped him open the aforementioned bar on Claiborne Avenue, where Ernie entertained into the wee hours and performed with himself (via jukebox).

The Mother-in-Law Lounge was a little like the Holiday Cocktail Lounge, in that its operating hours were determined by the whims of its owners, and it seemed to exist for the enjoyment of its patrons and its proprietors, rather than to make money. But it was even more of a cottage business because The Lounge was literally Ernie’s living room. And when you were there, you totally felt like you were just having some drinks in a friend’s living room.

I never got to see Ernie there, sadly, but I did go a few times in the years after his death, when Antoinette carried on his legacy via The Lounge. The ceiling hung with cardboard cutouts of stars, each containing the name of a star who’d passed into the great beyond–everyone from Buddy Holly to Frank Zappa.

One time I went to The Lounge, I was completely beat from a combination of lingering jet lag and New Orleans-induced party exhaustion. I didn’t want to chump out on hanging out with pals, but another drink would’ve totally leveled me. Antoinette–who always manned the bar–seemed to sense this without me saying a word (maybe it was the enormous bags under my eyes).

So she offered me some coffee, then refused to let me pay for it. “I got it on anyway,” she said. I left a generous tip on the bar.

I hope someone keeps The Lounge open, but even if they do, it won’t be the same without her.