American Fez

Named And Shamed

On Saint Patrick's Day, after work, we encounter shamrock-tattooed Ben tying himself into Celtic knots to affirm his Irish ancestry.

"My grandparents came over on the boat from Dublin," he explains while wiping a beard of Guinness foam from his distinctly swarthy and unfreckled face, which glares defensively from beneath a Tweed newsboy's cap worn at the jauntiest of angles. 

Not that possession of pale and pointillistic skin are any definite indication of a true son of Eire, to be sure, but I would've put money on Ben's surname being Ridicuolopous or even something vaguely Levantine. 

He is actually called Ben Mills, he confesses, which my friend Terry (Byrne, born Galway 1972) unkindly whispers is no doubt a shortened form of Milosevic, no doubt changed at Ellis Island. 

I enquire if Ben knows what type of mill his ancestors operated to earn their supposedly Irish but almost ersatz-English sounding family name.

He doesn't.

This disappointing response engages Terry's sotto voce skills once more: I bet it was a bullshit mill, he mutters, they ground up sacks of pure crap all day long. 

From the barroom's malodorous, miasmic stew of human sweat and corned beef and cabbage, a friend of Ben's emerges wearing a green plastic bowler hat and a spangled necklace of green beads, crudely signaling and shouting at the weary bartender, demanding three more "Irish car bombs."

Good grief. That must be the most appallingly named cocktail devised by those we must now call mixologists since, well, I can't recall any worse named concoction of any kind.

And, I think, with apologies to Yeats, what rough beast, its round come at last, slouches towards the bar to get drunk.

As for Terry and I. We are done here. It's time we were going home.

Oh Brother

Talking to Dumb Dave is tough going. His cognitive skills are not good, hence his unkind nickname.

It's like the painstaking procedure of typing a memorandum on an old, manual QWERTY typewriter with a single, sprained finger. Click-clack, I stab those clunky, awkward keys. Sometimes the hammers get stuck. Sometimes the ribbon jams. But a smudgy word finally appears on the metaphorical blank piece of paper that is Dumb Dave's mind. 

Then I fantasize about slapping Dumb Dave on his left ear to return the ribbon carriage to begin a new line, or of sticking two fingers up his nose and lifting if a new paragraph is required. (Not recommended)

Eventually, after much application of mental white-out and the smoothing of imaginary crumpled A4, a short if ungrammatical sentence emerges on Dumb Dave's brain paper conveying my message, just about readable despite the irregular margins and haphazard spacing between the letters.

Congratulations to me. I have successfully communicated a simple thought to Dumb Dave. It's been arduous and extremely messy work, often frustrating, but I think he will grasp the general concept because I didn't use too many multisyllabic words this time. 

It's always a good idea to slip communications to Dave into a make-believe manila folder with a fantasy red tab, then drop them into the old-fashioned, single-draw metal filing cabinet that serves as Dumb Dave's memory. And I deliberately place that make-believe manila folder in the front of the cabinet or else he will surely forget what I've typed into his head and all my hard work will be for naught.

So rarely do I talk to Dumb Dave if such strenuous activity can be avoided. I talk to myself instead. After all, my mind is sharper than his.

I just need to let my word processor warm-up for half an hour before I can begin.

School of Thought

There is a school of thought that claims individual consciousness does not emanate from the human brain. It believes, instead, that brains merely act as receivers for consciousnesses residing elsewhere, somewhere "out in the ether" as old-time folks used to say. 

So I suppose you can imagine your brain as some sort of transistor radio, or perhaps even a ghetto-blaster depending on the size of your skull. 

If this school of thought is correct, and my radio analogy appropriate, then our individual understandings of reality are obviously predicated upon the particular consciousness station on the subjectivity dial to which our brains are tuned: Voice of Atheism, Jesus World Service, Commercial-Free Buddha Cafe, Islam Talk-24, or just static for some sorry souls. 

Are you a short-wave conscious, a long wave conscious, an FM or AM conscious? How strong is the signal? How easy or difficult is it to change the consciousness broadcast you're receiving? And more importantly, if our consciousnesses do not abide in our heads, then where do their transmissions come from? 

Are they just random entities floating around in the atmosphere like mobile disc jockeys spinning their favorite Akashic records? Or are they cosmic beings seeking experiences in the material world that only flesh and blood incarnations can provide?

Alas, I doubt we shall discover the truth until it's time for each of us to trade in our corporeal consciousness receivers for newer models, if, indeed, such an exchange scheme exists.

March In New England

March, according to weather-obsessed aphorists, comes in like a lion and leaves like a lamb. It's a quaint zoological simile describing the long-awaited transition from biting winds to balmy breezes, from predatory winter to frolicsome spring. 

But it's the middle of the month already, and so far this March has been nothing but sunless tundra and relentless cold with no sign of those promised green shoots or pastel blossoms. I guess that proverbial lamb is still just a twinkle in its currently impotent father's eye.

Apparently, this particular March wants to provide a showcase for all kinds of inclement weather. Indeed, I'm typing in the middle of what the news insists on calling "Storm Stella," a fearsome mix of snow, sleet, freezing winds, and, to add insult to injury, probably even a block of frozen urine falling from a passing plane destined for sunnier climes.

Which, since we're on the subject of animal similes, is enough to make you as mad as, well, as mad a March hare I suppose. In fact, so blustery and turbulent are current conditions that you might reasonably claim this particular March has arrived like a rabid dog and will eventually exit like a hyena. 

It is so extremely soul destroying for we sun-worshippers because, as I recall, last March came in like an ostrich and left like a kangaroo. Such a pleasant antipodean experience was, despite being highly unusual for the time of the year, a lot more bearable that today's grueling arctic extravaganza as you might imagine.

I had hoped those mild temperatures were indicative of an annual warming trend in New England. Rising sea levels are, after all, a small price to pay for being able to bar crawl in nothing but a light jacket on Saint Patrick's Day, I'm sure you will agree. But, alas, it appears to be not the case.

You Can Tell A Lot About A Man From His Shoes

The trendy shoe store in town only sells three styles: shoes suitable for walking on the surface of the moon, shoes suitable for competing in the Abu Dhabi decathlon, and shoes suitable for monastic seclusion.

This pair looks like a haggis wrapped in velcro. This other pair were apparently fashioned out of Sherman tank tire treads and the cut-off sleeves from a yellow Sou-wester. And this pair seems to be just two pieces of dirty string knotted together and glued onto a perspex base.

'I'm looking for a pair of tan brogues. Size 9," I tell the extravagantly bearded assistant, who sports grubby canvas slippers that possibly once belonged to Chairman Mao. 'The sort of thing you might wear on casual Fridays,' I add by way of explanation.

He stares at me with complete bafflement, as if I'd said 'I'm going back in time and need footwear appropriate for the court of the Sun King. They say Versailles can be quite warm this time of year and I'll obviously be on my feet a lot dancing minuets so breathability will be a key factor in my decision.'

Brogues? I'm clearly speaking a foreign language to this person. I try a different tack: 'Do you have any light brown leather shoes with laces for men?' 

The assistant glumly leads me to a corner of the store where he indicates what could be two fillets of trout with their guts hanging out. They're on sale for $200 and come with free rubber insoles. 

It's tempting. I could wear them at Hallowe'en as an essential component of my "man who accidentally stepped into an aquarium and trod on the fish" costume. 

But I ultimately decide against a purchase, sidling out of the trendy shoe store in the direction of Gruber's Footwear, which only sells a single style: a normal looking shoe suitable for actually wearing on everyday occasions. 

Strange Sounds From The Overhead Bins

They haunt the airports of the world, prowling the departure gates with a dog-eared dossier of papers in their hands instead of a boarding pass, grim countenances etched with anxiety, self-importance, and suspicion. 

Behold, the aggrieved ghosts of passengers from delayed and canceled flights, doomed to wander the terminal concourse in search of an airline representative who might know something about the next plane to Albuquerque connecting via Arkham and Sleepy Hollow. 

These phantoms are not wreathed in chains but in carry-on bags and last month's magazines. Those are not their severed heads under their arms, it's a neck brace support pillow for the long haul. 

At least I assume they are the spirits of lost souls. I mean, surely no sentient living being can be that flustered and disorganized by travel logistics, even at our TSA crippled modern airports?