Actually, I cut my hand at work on a wire braiding machine so the cause of my wounds is not really that exciting. And while I'm in confession mode I might as well tell you I am not drinking today... because I drank all my beer on Saturday and Sunday. Ah feck it, I may as well keep digging my own grave here... I hate cabbage too, can't look at the crap. I'm the worst excuse for an Irishman, ever.
While leaving a moderately upscale St. Paul coffee shop yesterday evening with Martha and the youngsters I grabbed a copy of the Irish Gazette (LINK). It's not a bad free rag at all and does a decent job of communicating reasonably interesting and relevant snippets of information from the old country. Lest we start making comparisons to the New York Times let me make it clear that this publication is dangerously cheesy, but in an innocent and likable kind of way. My favorite section is "News from Ireland" (LINK), not for the content but for the practically derogatory illustrated character that appears at the top of the page.
Paddy's house/hut
Shure, tis no more than a thatch cottage. The thatch looks decent but the lack of chimney, door or window is worrying. I know damn well there is a fireplace in there, so how does he deal with the carbon monoxide issue? Is he so tough that he is immune to toxic fumes? Nobody is that tough. Perhaps there is logic to the absence of door or window and the fumes leave the dwelling via those holes. But if that is the case how does he keep the rain and thieves out? The answer is simple but twofold; he has nothing worth stealing and he doesn't give a shite about the rain, it only makes him stronger (but emotionally weaker). No, that can't be it, doesn't add up. I give up. Like Paddy himself, the house is an enigma covered in pig shite.
Paddy's street
Badly paved road or depressing river of mud? Did the British take the road? I can't tell. Those wavy lines imply some kind of rutted mud track suitable only for ass and cart.
Paddy's attire
The quintessential Irish farmer's multipurpose suit. In that suit this man can bale hay, go to mass, fight, converse on ecumenical matters with the parish priest, down a half barrel of stout, dance like a lunatic, flawlessly impersonate Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad (LINK), fix the PTO on a tractor, pick up women, beat women, herd cattle. Wait a second... tailored suit + heroics = James Bond!
Paddy
Standard Irish cap (in the process of being tipped to bid a neighbor/enemy a good day), big hands, twine possibly being used for a belt, full beard, one thick eyebrow, nervous demeanor, shy, legendary tea maker, poet, lover, work machine...
And now back to readin' me paper.
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