Chocolate Martinis at Duder's House: A Photo Essay

There was also wine. Red and white. And steaks, and mussels. Music DJ'd by me. And several obnoxious comments by yours truly as well.

I had barely left the house in a week, after working on Heroes and Villains for most of my spring break, so I was ready for some adult company. And booze. Booze was needed as well.

I didn't move a whole lot on Saturday.

Céad míle fáilte

The other night, at The Pogues show, I got talking to some guys in the audience, and they started talking about Jimmy Buffett. What his concerts were like, the atmosphere, the lifestyle, and so on. You know it: the Hawaiian shirts, the laid-back vibe, the big outdoor shows and everyone drinking margaritas. It's never been my scene, but hey, a lot of people like it, so that's fine.

But then I got thinking: isn't everyone at this Pogues show pretty much doing the same thing? We're singing along to a batch of well-worn favorites, drinking our specialty drinks (Guinness or whiskey), and more or less proclaiming to be part of some sort of special subgroup in America: Pogues Nation, or Shaneheads. The pseudo-descendants of the Irish diaspora.

And tomorrow is our big day, the day the tricolor gets pulled out and the green clothes and the mumblings of "Danny Boy" or "The Wild Rover" filter through the air.

And it's not even my day, or my group, so to speak. There might be some Irish on my dad's side of the family, but beats me if I know how much. I'm mostly Scottish and German and some English, so my predilection towards all things Celtic is pretty much a sham.


So what's the big deal with the Irish? We could all be victims of marketing. That's what Pete McCarthy struggled with in his book McCarthy's Bar. We could be swilling the Guinness at the Authentic Irish Pubs that dot the suburban landscape because that's been the latest craze, where before that it was Hawaiian tiki lounges in the 50s and 60s.

But can you adopt a lifestyle that isn't your own by rights of ancestry? Is being "Irish" in America no different than being a Parrothead? I think the millions of true Irish-Americans across the country would disagree. Those with actual families back in West Cork or Dublin or Kinsale. I wonder if they get a little cheesed off at the appropriation of a genuine ethic background, especially on St. Patrick's Day, when "everyone's a little bit Irish."

I suppose St. Patrick's Day, and the Irish experience in America, has become the shorthand version of everyone's immigrant past: poor families escape starvation and tyrannical rule to come to America, struggle, and eventually make good. Plus it involves drinking, which helps. And everyone likes a good protest song sing-a-long. So we take our own ancestral immigrant background and celebrate it on Paddy's Day.


I've been traveling to Ireland for several years now, to get myself past my original concepts of what "Irish" is and isn't. It certainly isn't corned beef and cabbage; it isn't craggy-faced old men singing "Danny Boy"; and it isn't a land made entirely of green fields and little white thatched-roof cottages.

All of that stuff is there, of course, for those that come over and want the "authentic" Irish experience. (Except the corned beef and cabbage; I've never once seen that on a menu in Ireland. I'm guessing that's a New York-Irish immigrant thing.)

For a while Ireland was, for me, the rowdy music of The Pogues; the poems of Yeats; and the Guinness in the pubs. Three things I took to immediately. But they don't exactly tell the entire story. That's why I keep going over there. I want to keep pushing past the familiar, well-trotted-out bits of what supposedly makes Ireland Ireland, and understand the place on a deeper level.

After six years of travel over there, I feel like I've just barely begun to understand the place. The stuff I used to know, like the songs and the legends and the troubled history, it's all there, and it's definitely a part of Ireland. But that's like saying that the U.S. is nothing but bluegrass and John Henry and robber barons.

It still intrigues me endlessly. The more I know, the more I want to know. And I know I'm not alone in that sentiment, considering the massive amount of attention paid to Ireland and Irish culture here in America. But if my fascination were merely a Parrothead-style appreciation for whiskey and The Chieftains, that wouldn't do the place and the people proper justice.

It's more than that. What that is, I don't quite know, but I love this long, slow process of finding out.

Happy Paddy's Day, everyone.

Like Butter Scraped Over Too Much Bread

I was talking to my Uncle earlier this evening, and I realized that I haven't seen much of my family in a while. Haven't seen a lot of people lately; head's been in the thick of it lately. Lots of theatre, lots of teaching.

I've been stretching myself a bit too thin, however. Been fighting various versions of viruses that have been floating about in the ether, which may or may not be apparent in the photo above. The strained, weary look comes from two days of nonstop coughing and preparation of sub plans.

When you think that teachers have it easy, just remember this: it's more work to call in sick than it is to just suck it up and go to work. True story.

Did sub plans for two days, and limped back to the classroom today. The subs always say the same thing: "you have a very interesting class." "Quite the personalities."

It's all code for the fact that they're a challenging bunch. I love 'em just like any other class I've had, but they've really tested me this year. And that's all that needs to be said about that.

One more week, and then a glorious week of spring break. I plan on spending the week locked in my study finishing up graduate classwork and really pounding out the guts of the play I've been working on. Part of me plans on disappearing somewhere isolated and distraction-free for that week just so I can get some real work done.

So if I don't answer my door or return any phone messages, consider this the explanation.

Indiana Jones

While I've been a bit ambivalent about the new Indiana Jones film coming out, and have spent several months meditating on the whole Hero-Story Overkill we've had in pop culture, I have to admit: this made me smile a bit. Just a bit.

Ahh, 1047, Zombie Laird, Muttley, and the rest: we're old, and our lives our filled with regrets and tears. But we'll always have Belloq's melting face.

The 14th

HOLY. SHIT.

(Go read the link and then come back here. It won't take long.)

The 14th Congressional District was my district growing up. Western suburbs and small towns. Denny Hastert was the perfect symbol of the type of Republican I saw around me. Affable and overweight, enjoyed a cup of coffee at the local diner. Liked sports. Midwest Republicans, who favored small government and avoided scandals and corporate influence, for the most part.

Never met the man, but you couldn't go very long without hearing his name, even before he became Speaker. I teach in the 14th now, and he graduated from high school there, and then taught and coached wrestling in another nearby town, before entering politics. He now lives a mile or so from my parents' house. He's Denny, you know?

I live in another district now, but like the 14th, it's always been "reliably Republican." Although over the past ten years or so I've seen Democratic voting numbers slowly climb higher and higher. You see it across Illinois, as well. (We are the state that sent Barack Obama to Washington, you know.)

Here's what's kind of funny: the "annointed replacement for Rep. Hastert, the guy running for the Republicans, is named Oberweis. Big dairy dude around here. Lots of ice cream shops and milk that comes in glass bottles. He's a Class A chess player and he works with the Boy Scouts. As far as Republicans go, around here they're not so bad.

But the guy has tried to run for Senator, Governor, and now Congressman of the 14th. And he's lost every single time.

So the 14th now has a Democrat serving in Congress. A physicist with a degree from Harvard. Quite the change.

The voters of the 14th will go back to the polls in November to vote again, and Oberweis will get one more chance.

This ain't the place it used to be, folks.

Pogue Mahone

Tomorrow I get to spend the night with The Pogues.

And I'll get to hang with the man some call Duder, whom I have not seen in some time.

Because I'm busier than Uncle's Night in a whore house.

I didn't make up that line. I think David Lynch did.

But yeah, I'm busy. Was dating this cool girl, but I don't even have the time to be a proper Dating Man. Too much to do.

The play, it's all about the play....


A quick aside:

Please America, don't pick Hillary Clinton. I don't think she's a ball-busting bitch, but I just want to move this country forward. I fear that electing Senator Clinton will be an acquiescence to Machine Politics and another decade of divisional politics.

And I don't want to see the presidents listed as Bush Clinton Bush Clinton in my textbooks. It's a bit too War of the Roses.

Someone else used that phrase, but I can't remember. So credit to whomever.


Been thinking about summer. About theatre, and travel. I'm looking forward to both, of course.

Check the tickets to Dublin about once a week, and get my heart broken a bit every time. So very, very expensive this year. What happened? Fuel prices? Falling dollar?

While it has been expensive, it has always been worth it. A week or so in Dublin, Galway, or Sligo. Trains and pints and some good friends. Budget tells me that it isn't a good idea to go this summer, but I keep holding out for the financial miracle.


I like Irish things.

Better Dead Than Red

The other day I was eating lunch with some of my co-workers, and they were talking about someone on American Idol. I guess he was good--sang "Imagine" by John Lennon.

A substitute teacher, a mom in her late-40s, chimes in: "Oh, 'Imagine'--that song's so [shudder] communistic!"

After lunch we practiced Atomic Bomb drills and then I made the minority students drink from separate drinking fountains. Because apparently I teach in 1957.