March Madness

People often speak about "March Madness" as simply the temporary focus of the national attention on the 68 college teams competing this month in the NCAA's basketball tournament.  (It used to be 64, but the NCAA keeps adding to the team numbers, recognizing that there's more money to be made out there if they can add games without anybody paying much attention.  And this by the way, doesn't even count the 'loser's tournament' for those who weren't for some reason invited to the big dance.  By this of course, I mean the 32 colleges of the NCAA 'invited' to the NIT [National Invitation Tournament] as a consolation.)  March however seems to have been a month long infected with both fervor and madness before anyone considered 'Sweet Sixteen' as a phrase that could used in a discussion of sports. 

The Ides of March, for example occur on the 15th, and is famous as the day in which Julius Caesar was assassinated in 44 BC.  Now normally the Ides of any month (usually the 13th - 15th) were marked by the Romans through religious celebrations which concluded with a sacrifice.  In this particular case however, the sacrifice turned out to be their dictator (a term which meant something far different in those days).  The Religious implications of Politics are often rather difficult subjects to understand however; and while normally the elimination of a dictator would likewise be considered a reason for celebration, history remains confused over the elimination of this particular one.  Perhaps it's because so many of us were forced to translate what were considered Caesar's heroic efforts in the "Gallic Wars" during our classical education, and perhaps it's because of Rex Harrison's sympathetic depiction of him during the 1963 classic "Cleopatra".  It could also have something to do with the fact that many of those who replaced Caesar (even keeping his name) were promoted from Roman Dictator (only a nominal king) to Emperor (more in keeping with our current definition of the term), and in many cases were far worse than the original.  It may even be a confused reverance and prejudice against the offences committed by later iterations of the title, 'Kaiser' and 'Czar'.  Then again, there may just be those who simply have a grudge against eating the salad that retains the name.

Two days later on the 17th, many around the world celebrate the feast day of the Patron Saint of Ireland, St. Patrick (except of course for those of us celebrating my granddaughter Maggie's birthday).  This too (as those of you who read my St. Patrick's Day post would have noted) is an event rife with confusion.  Beginning with the concept of a former English slave becoming the patron saint of the nation that imprisoned him, proceeding through a number of falsehoods surrounding his use of the shamrock and the departure of Ireland's snakes, and finishing up with the concept of a religious holiday designed to be celebrated with prayer that's become the secular equivalent of a donnybrook.   There's certainly enough befuddlement in its history therefore to cheefully add it, along with the Ides, as bit of March's mania.  (And at this, I have yet to add my own discomfiture over the consumption of some poor examples of the brewer's art somehow being suddenly found to have become seasonal ambrosia through the addition of emerald-colored chemical enhancement.)

For those of you who might have missed it (unable to see it even days later through the blinding snow that's stretched through the Midwest), next was the arrival of the Vernal Equinox at 7:02 EDT on the 20th; and with it the beginning of Spring.  As for me, I have little doubt that the 6-10 inches of white stuff currently falling at the "Just Blowing Smoke" headquarters in Mission, Kansas is a violation of Nature; and no doubt due to the ongoing 'mad scientist' battle between the forces of 'Global Warming' and the secret weather experiments being conducted by the government 'Military-Industrial Complex'.  ("Haliburton ... you Bastards!" he said, as he readjusted his tin foil hat .)  This of course, leaves local 'Missionaries' complaining about still being trapped in freezing temperatures that only months from now they will long for, when suffering from the soul-sucking heat of another 100 degree Summer.  This weather anomaly in a state where basketball is king creates its own form of madness, as locals who would in no case be venturing too far from their television sets suffer from a bi-polar disorder that finds them curiously discomfited at their climactic entrapment.   

(This is a well-chronicled condition that has something to do with a mental malady that arises from the manic conflict between wanting to be in an adult beverage dispensing establishment with a bunch of strangers, consuming over-priced ethanol-based concoctions vs. doing the same thing at home with ones family at much lower prices, while at the same time not gambling on potential arrest from the process involved with getting from one to the other.  There's an ongoing government study that's sucking up millions in funding for years without yet producing definitive results on the subject.)

Of course for those of us not consumed by the media-generated version of 'March Madness', all of this basketball nonsense is simply that.  Perhaps in my case, it has to do with having played hockey for most of my childhood and a good part of what society considers my adulthood (the latter term being very much subject to interpretation).  The two sports after all have competing seasons, for a dedicated 'puckster' one basketball games looks pretty much the same as another, and even the occasional distraction of current cheerleader uniform styles is not enough to entice me into watch a sporting event that has so much scoring going on that a 20-point lead at halftime is often meaningless to the result of the game.  As for filling out 'The Brackets', I only use brackets to install wall shelving and they don't require any filling out.  (Only filling in when I drill a hole in the wall improperly...)

As far as I'm concerned the madness of March can easily do without the absurdity of colleges I've never heard of playing a game that I don't much care for, all to raise exorbitant sums of money for a higher education system that squanders such funding as quickly as they get it and then looks for more in tuition rates increases that far exceed that of inflation.  I will choose instead to wait yet another week for Easter, and let the intersection of yet another religious / sectarian holiday fight its own lunatic battle between rampant consumerism and ecclesiastical fervor.  I find it far more entertaining, having once had to do so myself, to watch parents deal with the competing ideological battle for attention as my fellow Christians attempt to reconcile their children's conflicts beliefs during another co-opted pagan holiday with serious economic considerations.  I'm fascinated in their attempts to explain the spiritual significance of painted hard-boiled eggs, chocolate bunny rabbits, and jelly beans.  Having suffered through similar uncomfortable discussions for years with my own offspring, I take a twisted solace from the inevitable psychosis arising from attempts to steal the doctrinal thunder of a miracle of faith by the sugar-frenzied distractions presented by its alternative.  

I'm sorry my friends, but quite frankly I have no time in a world far too full of delusion to find a place for the college tournament madness of a sport which I'm not even sure that its inventor James Naismith would still recognize, after the abandonment of so many of his original rules.  There's far too much aberration and absurdity in my life in general and March in particular than I care to deal with, to add this made-for-TV hysteria.  If it's all the same to you, I'd like to skip ahead now to some April showers and May flowers ... thank you very much.

La'Fheile Pa'draig Sona Duit 2013

Posting for St Patrick's Day has become something of a tradition here at "Just Blowing Smoke", and it would seem almost sinful not to continue the custom of taking note of an Irish holy day, even when it occurs on a Sunday.  Now all good Irish Catholic lads (and most of us old codgers) live in the fear of the hellfire that they so richly deserve.  I therefore, will at least make a minor act of contrition and posting once more on a issue of religious relevance (and historical as well) as my normal Saturday offering.

As I did last year, I've included a sample of Kansas City's favorite Irish band "The Elders" from last year's annual "Hoolie", knowing full well that they will be holding this grand event again at the Uptown Theater once again this evening. (Hopefully, sharing their talent with my sometimes growing, but often rather twisted group of readers will meet with their blessing.  If not, I have no doubt they'll be 'wigs on the green' for sure.) 

So now though it seems it was just a moment ago, here we are; and it's time once again for this humble scribbler born of Irish origins to wish all of you that most glorious of annual salutations:

La'Fheile Pa'draig Sona Duit

Now for those unfamiliar with the ancient Hibernian tongue, I have in fact wished you, individually, a Happy St. Patrick's Day in Gaelic. (The phrase is pronounced "La ale-lah pwad-rig son a ditch".)       

St Patrick is of course, the patron saint of 'The Island of Saints and Scholars', more commonly known as Ireland (pronounced 'areland). The Island of Eire, as it's known in its native tongue is also known as the Emerald Isle, from the regular and abundant rains which produce a countryside dominated by the same lovely shade of green as its crystalline namesake. More fortuitously tomorrow on the day for those who celebrate it however, it's the land where Irish monks first created the nectar of the gods more commonly known as Whiskey (probably as a defense against the rigors of their chosen monastic lifestyle); and for the production of the finest offering of the brewer's art ... Guinness. 

(Actually, there's a long standing rumor that it was God Himself who created whiskey; and the monks, to their shame, decided to take credit for it.  For those of you wondering, it's also said that the original purpose of this blessed beverage was to keep the Irish from conquering the world.  Whether you believe the truth of such a tales of not, you have to admit that so far it's succeeded.) 

St Patrick himself is said not to have followed quite so strict a path as his later monastic brethren to their heavenly reward, instead choosing a rather more tortuous one; walking a fine line between angering the Celtic heathens he sought to convert and the incurring the ire of the Church he sought to serve.  And since this is ostensibly a day held in celebration of his labors, it would seem all but rude not to recount at least in brief some of his history.

Patrick is in fact quite curious as patron saints go, even Irish ones. Of course this might have something to do with the fact that he wasn't Irish at all, but English instead. He first came to Ireland in chains as a captured slave (which is the manner in which the Irish are said to be most fond of entertaining their sometimes overbearing British neighbors). He escaped his captivity after some six years however and returned to his home in Britain, eventually becoming a deacon, taking his ordination vows as a priest, and later still becoming a bishop. He then returned to Ireland as a Catholic missionary, working mostly in the north and the west of the island. Very little can be proved of the places where he preached and labored, though legends abound of the places he did his teaching and the miracles he performed while carrying out his chosen vocation. 

This missionary work ultimately proved a successful one, and the country remains largely a Catholic one to this day. And while the model of the Catholic Church that he worked toward did not come about while he was alive or even as a result of his labors, he was nevertheless named the Patron Saint of Ireland by the eighth century.

Now Irish tradition holds that St Patrick used the Shamrock's shape to teach the heathen peoples of the island the Catholic mystery of the Holy Trinity, which may explain its popularity as a symbol today. This tale may be more an example of the Irish flair for the 'telling of a good tale" than one of actual doctrinal education however, as accounts of the use of this three-leafed white clover only began to appear in popular myth centuries after his death.

The noted Irish knack for exaggeration and overstatement might likewise be held responsible for the famous accounts of St Patrick chasing the snakes from Ireland's shores, since there have never been snakes in Ireland. (In defense of such myths, it should noted that the Irish seldom let the truth get in the way of a good story.) 

Regardless of the legendary nature of his time on earth (excused as perhaps no more than a wee bit of Blarney), or the fact that he was never formally canonized by the Catholic Church, we nevertheless celebrate his feast day every year on March 17th, the date believed to be that of his death in 493.  

(Now such a lengthy retelling of St Patrick is enough to make a man's mouth like a dry crust; which is to say that it creates a powerful thirst in a man.  If for no other reason, this alone would no doubt constitute sufficient reason to stop off at the pub for a pint or two. It might even be said that this affinity undoubtedly accounts in large part for the relationship between the festivities being celebrated around the world and fond telling of tales about the man himself.  It could have nothing to do of course, with fondness the Irish have for a pint or a 'touch of the Irish'.) 

As I have pointed out on previous occasions here, March 17th is also the birthday of one of my grandchildren, Margaret Ruth Tipatina Demaria. So in her honor let me say as well, "lá breithe sona Maggie".  "Maggie Moo Kropotnik", will be turning seven on this day of ancestral family revelry if my often failing memory still serves me correctly. Rumor has it that they will once again be holding parades in New York City (near where she lives) and in Chicago (where my own roots are) in celebration of this more recent, but equally blessed event.

Strange as it may seem, you will probably not find me making a pub crawl locally on this traditional Irish 'feast day'. For while personal considerations indeed make it a day worthy of all manner of celebration, as I tend to avoid the crowds often attendant to the occasion for fear of losing my professional standing in the enjoyment of Ireland's ethanol-based treasures (though I admit to being rather tempted to make my way down to the 'hooley'  tonight). 

In the spirit of the myth and the man however, I am persuaded at the very least, to offer an Irish toast for all of you on this the eve of that day of days for the Demaria clan, for the O'hUig'in clan (the ancestral name of the Higgins), and for that paragon of Irish virtue (such as it is) ... St Patrick. It's a sentiment that should speak to all those who've read enough of their history to know how truly lucky they are to consider themselves Irish; and may even have a bit of a message to those who can only feel so blessed during this blessed time of the year:

May the road rise up to meet you

May the wind be always at your back

May the sun shine warm upon your face

And the rain fall soft upon your fields

And until we meet again

May God hold you in the palm of His hand

And may you live in peace and freedom

All of this may be a bit much for those of you who've long sing begun to pickle yourself through the consumption of green Anheuser-Busch or Miller products in what is undoubtedly a heartfelt, but terribly misguided form of Celtic revelry.  Surely then it will be far beyond the comprehension of those of you who have instead graduated to Car Bombs far too early in the day. (A Car Bomb is a shot of Irish whiskey dropped into a pint of Guinness, with the name coming from the effect that drinking such a concoction in one long swallow normally has on the consumer's brain.) 

So for you hooligans let me offer instead a far more simple effort that you're likely still to comprehend:

"May you be in heaven for two hours before the devil knows you're dead!"

Slainte'

Welcome to Holiday Desolation

We may not be even two weeks into the new year, but for those of you who haven't noticed it, we are firmly into the season of Holiday Desolation.  It's not really fair when you come to think of it, especially when you consider that we end each year with four of the biggest holidays.  

Halloween in October is fast becoming the biggest holiday of the year in terms of the decorations that we buy (especially when you add in the personal decorations, better known as costumes).  Add in what we spend on candy for the rug rats, and it's likewise becoming one of the most expensive holidays of the year.

Thanksgiving follows just four weeks later (depending on the vagaries of the calendar and the municipal trick-or-treat rules); and earns its credentials not only through sheer caloric intake, but through bringing families together once a year long enough to remind them of why they don't do so any other time of the year.  Having spent the past couple of weeks gorging ourselves on chocolate confections left over from the previous holiday (mostly because we again forgot to turn the porch light on and let the little beggars know we were open for business), we can now look forward to tryptophan induced somnolence while likewise over-indulging in parades and football games.

Following again just four weeks later is the grandaddy of them all, Christmas.  It's that one that Lucy defines all too aptly in "A Charlie Brown Christmas" as:  "You know, Santa Claus and ho-ho-ho, and mistletoe and presents to pretty girls."  It's the holiday upon which greedy capitalism reaches its excessive real-life realization, not through the necessity of buying Lucy her hearts desire; but through those, "He went to Jared's" efforts that a man makes on his way home from the Lexus dealership.  After all, what way is there to celebrate a pagan, religious, and secular holiday than through automobiles and coal (wait, I thought only bad people got that) which gets put through enormous pressure and temperature (kind of like the credit card payments afterwards).  

Lest we think that rest is ahead, exactly one week later we're joined by an old guy thinking he's at a college toga party and a baby wearing a diaper, black tie, and a top hat informing us that it's last call and extolling us to have just one more cocktail in the hopes that we can spend the first day of the new year trying to get someone to bail us out of jail.  Then what?    

After celebrating for the last three months straight, what do we get in January?  Well there's Inauguration Day, but it's a politician's holiday celebrated only by the people who voted for the guy being inaugurated.  The only people who get the day off are politicians in Washington DC; with exception of incoming president, who has to take an oath and give a speech.  Martin Luther King Jr Day makes an appearance on the day after this year (which is curiously also celebrated as Robert E Lee's Birthday in AL, AR, GA, and MS), but as of yet this holiday barely rates a mattress sale.  (It's not a real holiday if there's not a mattress sale.)   But that's it for the month .... nothin'.

It picks up slightly in February with a ridiculous holiday about a weather-predicting rodent in a town in PA that 98% of Americans couldn't spell without looking it up.  If it weren't for Bill Murray and Andie MacDowell effort (and my son's coming nuptials), few if any would care about it now.  Then along comes yet another New Year, the Chinese New Year (after Jan 1 and the Orthodox New Year); followed by Lincoln's Birthday, which was so important that we've recently dropped it like a bad habit to combine it with Washington's birthday in some meaningless thing called 'President's Day'.  Of course there's always Mardi Gras, but only if you happen to be in the right part of the South. over-serve yourself, and trade the beads that we used to be able to buy entire islands for (like Manhattan) for the glandular exposure that we used to see in National Geographic. (Who may have been the same people we bought the islands from.)

Of course there is one possible holiday entrant in February, Valentine's Day.  Originally named for one of the two Catholic saints of the same name (nobody's sure which),  it has now become little more than a 'Hallmark Holiday" of love and romance in which cards, candy, and of course vast quantities of jewelry are purchased by men for women to make up for the really crappy things that they will undoubtedly do the to them rest of the year.  In a rather twisted association, this day of amorous behavior is also remembered for the 1929 massacre of seven mob guys, allegedly by members of Al Capone's social circle who were apparently not all that fond of them.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I must point out that I married my first wife on a Valentines Day.  I deny the conjecture that has since arisen that I did so in order to avoid having to purchase both a Valentine and Anniversary gift annually; and wish to state that I did so only because a was young, innocent, and a sentimental slob at the time.  I can further state for the record that I am no longer .... young.

With that, February has nothing further to contribute.  Neither does March for that matter.  Oh sure some of the more favored celebrate my granddaughters birthday on the same day that they let everybody dress up in green on the 17th to celebrate an Irish saint that was actually English (Ireland was too poor at the time to afford its own saints).  In a twisted US observance, green Budweiser and Miller is consumed in practices which would in fact considered sacrilege on Emerald Isle. (Drinking Budweiser and Miller is only a venal sin, but dying it green in a misguided effort to make it sacramental or palatable in some way however makes such a sin a mortal one indeed.)  It's not until the end of the month when another pagan holiday that's been co-opted by a religious holiday is celebrated as a secular holiday (confusing, isn't it?) that we get our first real break in the month's of long monotony.  It's the end of May however before we once more resume normal holiday observances (I refuse to accept Cinco de Mayo, Arbor Day, or April 15th's Tax Day). 

Personally, I find the whole concept ridiculous.  What better time to reward citizens and improve their state of mind than with holidays during the gray days of winter.  When are breaks from the mindless tedium of everyday existence required more than during the time of year when we are weary from shoveling snow, depressed from the lack of daylight, and all but suicidal from having filled out our income tax forms.  But no, in typically misguided government fashion, we get far more mandated days off when the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the weather is warm.  

You know, perhaps we could get Congress to pass a law mandating a holiday during this period of holiday desolation.  Who better than they to pass something truly pointless for no better reason than to win approval from voters that who think less favorably of them than of head lice (understandable, when you consider that you can get rid of head lice).  How about the:  Half-assed Ordinance to Lighten Individual Drudgery Arbitrarily and Yearly Act?


           

La'Fheile Pa'draig Sona Daoibh 2012

Posting on St Patrick's Day has become something of a tradition here at "Just Blowing Smoke", and the fact that it falls this year on a Saturday (when I normally post anyway) makes it even easier to continue that custom.  I try to add and/or change a bit of this annual effort from year to year to keep from boring my audience (at least no more than I normally do); and in 2012 I've decided to add a couple of musical efforts from a group of local Kansas City Irish lads that has achieved a good bit of notoriety around the world, "The Elders". (Hopefully, sharing their abilities with my growing, but rather twisted group of readers will meet with their blessing.  If not, they'll no doubt be 'wigs on the green'.).  By doing so, I'm hoping that such music might put you in the proper mood while you read on.  (The one above is entitled fittingly enough:  "Men of Erin".)

And so here it is; time once again for this humble scribbler born of Irish origins to wish all of you that most glorious of annual salutations:

La'Fheile Pa'draig Sona Duit

Now for those unfamiliar with the ancient Hibernian tongue, I have in fact wished you, individually, a Happy St. Patrick's Day in Gaelic. (The phrase is pronounced "La ale-lah pwad-rig son a ditch".  The plural version rests in the title, and is pronounced, "La ale-lah pwad-rig son a jeev".)       

St Patrick is of course, the patron saint of 'The Island of Saints and Scholars', more commonly known as Ireland (pronounced 'areland). The Island of Eire, as it's known in its native tongue is also known as the Emerald Isle, since the regular and abundant rains produce a countryside dominated by the same lovely shade of green as its crystalline namesake. More fortuitously on this day for those who celebrate it however, it's the land where Irish monks first created the nectar of the gods more commonly known as Whiskey (probably as a defense against the rigors of their chosen monastic lifestyle); and for the production of the finest product of the brewer's art ... Guinness. 

(Actually, it's a little known fact that it was God Himself who created whiskey, but the monks decided to take credit for it.  For those of you wondering, it's said that its original purpose was to keep the Irish from conquering the world. ...  and you have to admit, so far it's succeeded.) 

St Patrick himself is said not to have followed quite the strict path that his later monastic brethren were to his heavenly reward, instead choosing a rather more tortuous one; walking a fine line between angering the Celtic heathens he sought to convert and the incurring the ire of the Church he sought to serve.  And since this is ostensibly a day held in celebration of his labors, it would seem downright rude not to recount at least in brief, some of his history.

Patrick is in fact quite curious as patron saints go, even Irish ones. Of course this might have something to do with the fact that he wasn't Irish, but English instead. He actually came to Ireland for the first time in chains as a captured slave (which is the manner in which the Irish are said to be most fond of entertaining their British neighbors). He escaped his captivity after some six years however and returned to his home in Britain, eventually becoming a deacon, taking his ordination vows as a priest, and later still becoming a bishop. He returned to Ireland as a Catholic missionary, working mostly in the north and the west of the island. Very little is actually known of the places where he preached and labored, though legends abound of the locations where he purportedly stopped and the miracles he performed while carrying out his chosen vocation. 

This missionary work ultimately proved a successful one, and the country remains largely a Catholic one to this day. And while the model of the Catholic Church that he worked toward did not come about while he was alive or even as a result of his labors, he was nevertheless named the Patron Saint of Ireland by the eighth century.

Now Irish tradition holds that St Patrick used the Shamrock to teach the heathen peoples of the island the Catholic mystery of the Holy Trinity, which may explain its popularity as a symbol today. This tale may be more an example of the Irish flair for the 'telling of a good tale" than one of actual doctrinal education however, as the accounts of the use of this three-leafed white clover only began to appear in popular myth centuries after his death.

The noted Irish knack for exaggeration and overstatement might likewise be held responsible for the famous accounts of St Patrick chasing the snakes from Ireland's shores, since there have never actually been snakes in Ireland. (In defense of such myths, it should noted that the Irish seldom let the truth get in the way of a good story.) 

Regardless of the legendary nature of his time on earth (excused as perhaps no more than a bit of Blarney), or the fact that he was never formally canonized by the Catholic Church, we nevertheless celebrate his feast day every year on March 17th, the date believed to be that of his death in 493.  

(Even that much about St Patrick creates a powerful thirst in a man, and would no doubt constitute sufficient reason to stop off at the pub for a pint or two. This affinity undoubtedly accounts in large part for the relationship between the festivities being celebrated and the man himself;  and have nothing to do of course, with fondness the Irish have for for a pint or a 'touch of the Irish'.) 

As I have pointed out on previous occasions here, March 17th is also the birthday of one of my grandchildren, Margaret Ruth Tipatina Demaria. ("lá breithe sona Maggie")  "Maggie Moo Kropotnik", will be turning six on this day of ancestral family revelry if my often failing memory still serves me correctly. Rumor has it that they will once again be holding parades in New York City (near where she lives) and in Chicago (where my own roots are) in celebration of this more recent, but equally blessed event.

Strange as it may seem, you will probably not find me making a pub crawl locally on this 'feast day'. For while personal considerations indeed make it a day worthy of all manner of celebration, I tend to avoid the crowds often attendant to the occasion (though I admit to being rather tempted to make my way down to a certain 'hooley' this evening where The Elders will be performing). In the spirit of the myth and the man however, I am persuaded at the very least, to offer an Irish toast for all of you on this day of days for the Demaria clan, for the O'hUig'in clan (the ancestral name of the Higgins), and for that paragon of Irish virtue (such as it is) ... St Patrick. It's a sentiment that should speak to all those considering themselves true Irishmen, and even those only so blessed on this one day of the year:

May the road rise up to meet you

May the wind be always at your back

May the sun shine warm upon your face

And the rain fall soft upon your fields

And until we meet again

May God hold you in the palm of His hand

And may you live in peace and freedom

All of this may be a bit too complicated for those of you already firmly in the grip of green Anheuser-Busch or Miller products in what is undoubtedly a heartfelt, but terribly misguided form of Celtic revelry.  Surely it's beyond the comprehension of those of you who have or will graduate to Car Bombs far too early in the day. (A Car Bomb is a shot of Irish whiskey dropped into a pint of Guinness, with the name coming from the effect that drinking such a concoction in one long swallow normally has on the consumer's brain.) 

So for you 'happy few, you band of Irish brothers', let me offer instead this far more simple effort:

"May you be in heaven for two hours before the devil knows you're dead!"

Slainte'

(For those of you looking for something a bit more up tempo to kick off the day's celebration, you need look no farther than the following tune, "Packy Go Home", again from 'The Elders'.)