March 17th, 2018

hasui hirakawa morning

St Paddy's Day is come...

Aye, Caesar, but not gone.

Hopefully the Chinese winebottle collectors have collected the winebottles from my front lawn so there's nothing for the Poorly Behaved Students Drunk Off Their Asses to smash in their merry glee. See, this is why I won't buy a house in the Annex even if I win tonight's 7 million 649. Fraternities have held on to the buildings they bought when the area was a rundown location for rooming houses, so you may sit in your 3 million dollar refurbished Edwardian mansion on Huron and still be assailed by loudspeakers from three different locations in a one and a half block radius.

Also the shopping in the Annex is punk.

But since it was Saint Paddy's Day, my aunt's retirement home had a concert for the residents, where a bubbly cheerful woman sang blandly cheerful Irish-American songs (not Irish: note the difference, please) and bullied people into singing along to Toora loora loora. Posh as the place is, I should hate to be subject to that kind of holiday camp jackbootery in my dotage. (Responded by singing sotto voce in my corner, Tora tora tora/ Tora tora lai/ Tora tora tora/ We're the se-eh-ven samurai.)

I said to my aunt, bad-temperedly, that traditional Irish songs are beautiful, so why give us the vulgar likes of When Irish Eyes Are Smiling or My Wild Irish Rose or I'll Take You Home Again Kathleen, all transposed into a swing rhythm to make it worse. She opined, mildly, that people like them. Yes well, they like I'll Be Home For Christmas too, possibly because they've never heard the Coventry Carol or Quem Pastores. Give them some of those sad songs Chesterton talked about, or even Come by the Hills, and maybe they'd prefer them.

Well, no matter. I came home and put on Loreena Mckennitt and finished several bits of housekeeping I'd been postponing for months if not years, that aches and wanhope had held me from, and gave the kitchen floor a good wash afterwards. So peevishness has it uses.