Tag Archives: pointless nostalgia

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).

To Dream the Difficult-But-Not-Completely-Implausible Dream…

I love people who go on insane quests. I’m not talking quite at the Don Quixote level. More like completely pointless obsessions whose realization won’t accomplish anything for the dreamer. They just wanna see if they can do it. After a while, they don’t really know why they’re doing it anymore. But to stop doing it would mean that all that work they’ve done already would be totally wasted.

Want an example? How about a man whose goal is to acquire an autographed version of every single 1983 Fleer baseball card? Omar the Scrivener’s twittering alerted me to the presence of this monomaniacal blog, which I find completely fascinating.

For those who never collected baseball cards, Fleer was the line that ran a distant third in popularity behind Topps and Donruss. And as a cursory view of this site will indicate, their 1983 set was designed with an aggressive lack of imagination, even by the standards of the day. (Compare Topps’ snazzier look from the same year.)

On top of all of this, the pictures on the cards don’t exactly give Ansel Adams a run for his money. Like this card, where Reds pitcher Eddie Milner is caught mid-grimace. Or this one, where the Astros’ Harry Spillman looks kinda President George H.W. Bush. Or this one, where Seattle’s Bryan Clark flashes a nice smile but forgot to push his cap down on his head. Or this one, where Yankee John Mayberry looks like he just awoke from a pleasant nap.

So why has this man settled on Fleer 1983, of all brands/years?

Growing up, I collected baseball cards. For whatever reason, I ended up with many 1983 Fleer cards. Now I’m writing to players asking to autograph their card.

That’s it. Then again, do you need any more reason than this? I think not.

As of this writing, he’s gotten 458 signed cards out of a total of 674., just a little over 2/3 of the way home. Godspeed, good sir. May your quest conclude happily.

Understand: I am not mocking this man in any way. I completely understand where he’s coming from, because I have done things just as complicated and pointless in my life. And am probably doing some now. And will undoubtedly continue to do them in the future.

Like when I was a kid, I wanted to get a complete set of Topps baseball cards from the year I was born. But since I didn’t have enough dough to buy the set outright, I would by them individually. Or in those terrible sets that guys at card shows put together that are completely full of garbage, hoping that gullible idiots like 10-year-old-me will blow 5-10 bucks on. Which we always do, of course, because we are morons.

This is how now I have a baseball card album with 17 Oscar Gambles, 23 Kent Tukulves, and too many Jose Cardenals to count.

Jay Mariotti and the Existential Ball Pit of Shame

mariotti.pngJay Mariotti is here, ready to light up AOL Fanhouse with his unique brand sarcastic humor and avoiding locker room confrontation. Where’s my desk? Where’s the cafeteria? Do you guys have a Good Humour vending machine?

tiny.jpgUm, Jay, I’m afraid you misunderstood. When we offered you a job, it wasn’t at AOL Fanhouse, it was at AOL Fun House!

mariotti.pngAOL Fun House? What’s that?

tiny.jpgWhy, it’s only the most radical, awesomest house of all! And here’s the guy who put the fun in AOL Fun House, J.D. Roth!

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