Irish Proverbs

Since I haven't done any Bullshit Facts lately, I thought on this most holy and sacred day, to put up Bullshit Irish Proverbs. In the interest of scoring cheap Google hits, I didn't put 'bullshit' in the title. But I think they are true, anyway. It's not like I can make this stuff up....

The Irish don’t “black out” we take “wee naps” to recharge

Man I call best friend is the man who pays my tab

The ladies pop their gladdies when the lassies shake their assies

A shot of Jamison adds an inch

A shot of Tullamore adds a cup size

No matter how much we drink, U2 still blows

The only worse offense than drinking green beer is spilling green beer

Alcoholism is a made up disease; like depression and homosexuality

Scottsmen do wear skirts

Get the Mexicans outta here. Their holiday is 2 months away

Cabbage regenerates the liver

May the bottom of your glass come before the empty of your wallet

Guinness is the fuel of the world

You can tell the Irish bar stools by how good they look from underneath

July 4th is just another day

There be three levels of intoxication; drunk, FUBAR and MacGowan

Getting a kiss from a redhead is getting a kiss from God

May the wind rise to keep the vomit out of your hair

May you be a half hour in bed before the bartender realizes you skipped out on your tab

Hangovers are God’s way of letting you know you had a good time

Beer is an ugly man’s best friend

May the road rise to meet you as you fall to the gutter

Put silk on a goat, and it is still a goat. Ditto your wife

Sobriety always thwarts drunkenness

Marry a mountain girl, and you marry the whole mountain. Kinky

A bored man is not a drinking man

Better you plow a field by day than plow into a field at night

May your son marry a beautiful fair skinned redhead; my your daughter marry someone far more manly than that girly lad Michael Flatley

A bar that does not have at least two Irish brews on tap is a bar no one goes to

Are you looking at me? ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME?

The Wildwood Story; Sun By the "C"

The time is almost upon me. My first foray into the world of literary…literariness is just about to be unleashed upon the masses. I will spare you the agony of rewriting and reediting the “piece” (as us authors like to call these things. Kind of like how directors call movies “pictures”.) Upon reading it aloud (something that sounds really fey, but actually works) and poring over it for the 50^th fucking time, there is always something that can be done over/better/away with. I can only liken it to the agony of a parent debating what to name their first child. If you fuck it up, you are screwed for life. And who knows if I will ever be ‘published’ again, so this may very well be my only shot, so I better not fuck it up. And this is also why we don’t have kids, because I’d want to name it Supreme Being. Boy or girl.

OK, so I guess I lied about sparing you, my bad.

Anywhoo, I will remind you of the Charlie Brown analogy I used in a previous Wildwood Story post. Now, the ball is teed up and I am approaching. My article will be online the first weekend of March, with the print version following the next week. I start to run to the ball. On Saturday, I check the site, and sure enough, the first paragraph of my story is on the front page. Only 4 stories make the front, and mine is good enough (or least sucky, depending how you look at it). Wow, this is wicked cool. Sure, all of my stuff up to this point has been online, but this is a new and wider audience. I am now full speed, ready to kick the winning field goal at the Super Bowl. Even that skank Lucy has a look of sour acceptance on her face.

I have a superstition. I really don’t want to read it online. For some motarded reason, I think that is bad luck. Yea, I know, don’t ask me why, I just do. But it’s OK to peek. I click to just scan the article. Foot just about to make contact with the footba….

I click my story, only to see another story pop up in its’ place. YOINK! Lucy pulls the ball out at the last possible moment, prompting a cartoon like head over heels swirl as I crash into the ground.

You have got to be kidding me. I get this far, only to have the wrong story pop up? Just my damned luck. “It’s OK, Charlie Brown,” Lucy tells me, “you can try again. I promise I won’t take the ball away this time.” I dust myself off, and wonder how GD loaded I must be to be hallucinating Lucy.

OK, this is a minor, albeit it totally unforeseen, setback. After all this is the internet, and can easily be fixed. I track down my story within the website. I start to approach the ball again. The article opens up. There’s my title! I am gonna kick the ever loving shit out of this ball now. There’s my na…

YOINK! With the accuracy and precision only a spiteful broad can have, Lucy pulls the ball away again.

Kecvin. My GD name is spelled wrong.

Kecvin.

Really? Seriously? Kecvin?

In reality, it’s an easy mistake to make, the c key is right next to the v key. Just one simple slip of the finger and my name is spelled wrong. I am lying on the ground after another cartoon worthy tumble. Lucy comes up to me, laughing with ball in hand. Then she kicks me right in the nuts. I realize now this is an analogy; Lucy is really life kicking me in the nuts.

Did I really just a say a cartoon character is an analogy for life? I don’t know what I’m smoking, but I want some.

My immediate worry now is that my name is misspelled in the print version as well. Again, the Net is an easy fix, print not so much. I am sure there is only one run of the paper, and that’s it, I’m signing autographs as ‘Kecvin’. OK, that’s a lie. I’m signing autographs ‘Supreme Being’.

I reluctantly email the editor of these glaring omissions. When they are fixed, I’ll put the link up so you can baste in all my literary badassedness.

The Wildwood Story; I Oughta Be in Pictures

“I would like to use a picture as well.” A bit surprised, I say, “Uh…I will have to check.” As my story nears daylight, this is the editor talking. “Yes, I always like to use pictures in the stories. Do you have any from when you were here as a kid?” I know I don’t, and I highly doubt any of my sisters have any pictures of me during those fabled Wildwood weekends. Which, I am actually OK with.

As you peruse my FB site, you will, for the most part, notice a lack of pictures. It never fails to astound me that some people have over a thousand fucking pictures on their FB account. I don’t think I’ve even been in a 1000 pictures in the last 10 years. Hell, I’m only in four in my wedding album, and that’s just because I was pulling a ‘that guy’ in the background. The fact of the matter is that this Wildwood story is striking at one of my neurosis.

I don’t like myself. No, not in some haughty taughty, self help section Borders dweller type of way. I am OK with the broken mess I am these days. I am actually very hyper-critical about how I look. Yes, I know, I can hear you saying, “But, Kev, you usually look like shit. Or hungover. In fact, when I think of underemployed loser, the face I see is yours.” Looking back now, maybe that’s why I’ve always favored my ‘caveman’ look. Grow hair from every possible place to cover all the flaws. (These days, apparently I have a lot of flaws in my nose and ears.)

I am not thrilled with this prospect. I have been diligent over the last few months asking my family if they have any pics of me from that era. I guess they all knew I was ugly back then, because no one has any. Truth of the matter is I would actually prefer a picture from that era. At least readers could say, “Geez, I sure hope he got better looking when he grew up.”

The paper will even take a current day picture of me in Wildwood. Problem again here is that I don’t have any. I took a bunch from this trip as well as the first time we took Bauer down there. It’s a shame the paper won’t take a picture of Bau whizzing on the beach, ‘cause I got like ten of those shots.

It appears the only solution is to go down to Wildwood to take a new picture. And while I may groan at the 2+ hour trip down to take just one picture, I am actually excited about having a real reason to see the beach again. As much as I would enjoy it, I am also freaking out. Because I know there is no humanly possible way I could ever be happy with any picture. There’s just so many things I would/could hate.

First of all, I would have to look presentable. And the freaking beach in February doesn’t exactly lend itself to summer attire. And I wouldn’t want to wear something too uptight, nor too casual. Christ, this is way too tough for me. I’m going to have to be Madonna and bring like 10 ‘ensembles’ down just to be happy. Can you say high maintenance?

I would freak about my hair. Not that I have as much as I used (or want) to. But an ill wind can make a barely passable hair day into a birds nest from hell. Unfortunately, until I perfect my wind control machine, I am at the mercy of the mighty blow. I can just feel the wind conspiring against me.

Plus, what look am I supposed to do? I hate my smile. I just feel it’s blatantly fake and obvious. I can’t see how I could smile and not have it say anything but “cheesy”. So then do I try to sport a serious look? Maybe the tortured writer look? Maybe try to sport that small, knowing smirk that seems to be all the rage with action heroes today? Ugh, how do real authors do this kind of thing? I suppose I could try the realistic way I look when I write. But I don’t think they would appreciate the astounding amount of empties that I pile on my desk to write these Klogs to entertain you. Plus, I would totally have to minimize that window with all the naked chicks.

And where would I go to take this snapshot? The beach and Boardwalk seem the appropriate, if not obvious, choices. What do I do? Look at the beach? Yea, maybe the picture will be of me looking away from the camera as opposed to looking into the lens. Maybe a nice shot of me gazing into the ocean? Or a shot of me casually sitting on the rails of the Boardwalk? Maybe even on the steps of the beloved house. That last one might actually constitute trespassing.

The picture will be in black and white. 90% of my wardrobe is black, so I should actually wear a different color. Nor should I wear my ‘liquor in the front, poker in the rear’ shirt. I yi yi, this is not very enjoyable now. I would much rather the story runs with no visual. I know I would totally drive T nuts with my wild and unpredictable mood swings. Which is funny, because it’s usually the other way around. (ZING! I can say this because I know she doesn’t read this. So no one go ratting me out, eh?)

As it stands now, nature and life might prohibit this from even happening. Wildwood got walloped with snow. And I don’t think a picture of me sitting on a pile of yellowed snow as high as the boardwalk would serve the purpose. It’s almost like the cosmic balance of nature has stepped in to save me.

The saying goes we all suffer for art. While it’s debatable if this article is “art”, I can tell you I got the suffering thing down pat.

Epilogue: A few days ago, I email the editor that I just can’t produce a picture. She tells me she’s running it without a picture. D’oh!