Here’s the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem with a great Irish song that you may have heard a piece of on Hugh Hewitt this evening.

I used to do that. Not Irish music, but standing behind mikes with several friends, some of whom were playing guitars, singing for the crowd. Not in a famous way, but it was a good time in my life. Couldn’t do it anymore. My voice is gone.

I’m not sure when or how I got interested in Irish music, but it grew on me, like a potato fungus. I believe my interest in the music is what provoked me to make the narrator of my Viking books an Irishman. It was, I think, one of the few excellent choices I’ve made in my career. Father Ailill brings the novels to life in a way that would be impossible without him.

Having spent so much time “in an Irishman’s skin,” often listening to Irish music while writing, I’ve actually had moments when I found myself thinking reflexively that I was Irish. Which I’m not. Except for the (strong) likelihood that some of my ancestors were Irish slaves brought home to Norway by Vikings.

For you real Irish, have a good day, and

“May those that love us, love us.

And those that love us not, may the Lord turn their hearts.

And if He turn not their hearts, may he turn their ankles,

So we’ll know them by their limping.”

As one without a drop of Irish blood that I know of, let me wish our Irish readers a blessed St. Patrick’s Day.

After all, what was it that made Ireland great?

Vikings, of course.

No need to thank me. Just send a girl who looks like Maureen O’Sullivan.

On planting memorial trees in Ireland: “It’s remembering a life, or an event in a life, that’s the idea,” says Mary Walsh, head guide at Muckross House, where donated trees are easily accessible to visitors. “We get them for births, marriages, but often it’s the memory of a life that’s being acknowledged.”

Walsh says the trees draw a surprising number of Irish Americans. “We get some out of the blue, they want to see the trees.”

Due to what the customer service guy called “line problems,” my internet connectivity at home is gone today. You’ll know when it’s back up, because I’ll post again.

Update, Monday p.m.: I’m online again.

Marking time on Good Friday

When I have an earworm, you must suffer.

Actually, the earworm’s a pretty good one. “Solace,” (also known as “Mexican Serenade”) by Scott Joplin. I picked up a cheap DVD of the movie, “The Sting,” and watched it Sunday, and now the song’s stuck in my brain (I was going to embed a YouTube performance, but couldn’t find one I liked).

“The Sting” got me thinking about the general falseness of the film medium in general, and the general awfulness of con men in particular. I’ll leave my deathless thoughts on movies for tomorrow. My subject tonight is con men.

One of the standard dishonesties of the cinema is to make us like somebody by putting them up against somebody even worse. The Man With No Name in the Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns, for instance, wasn’t particularly admirable, but he was an absolute saint compared to the desperadoes he gunned down. In the same way, the makers of “The Sting” got us to tolerate—even delight in—the dishonesty of the protagonists by making them the little guys, trying to get some revenge on the vicious crime lord, The Big Mick, who killed their friend Luther. Continue reading The cons of Cons →

Self-test for the American “leftist”: “Are you tired of living in this capitalist hell?,” asks Alex Tokarev. If so, click here.

Lynn Vincent points out some word usage in a terrible story of a couple who had a miscarriage within a month of conception. To sum it up, the mother discharged the tissue naturally at home and then wanted to cremate their child properly. Miscommunication began between all officials involved, and soon the police had entered their apartment on a report that they were keeping human remains.

The coroner is quoted saying, “The husband was nothing other than cooperative and gracious, and I felt very bad for him. We run into cases where people don’t want anything to do with the baby, and here you run into circumstances where someone wants to do the right thing. I was a little surprised to see a detective there.”

Note the coroner used the word baby. Lynn writes: “But with abortion-on-demand, this country has created a linguistic looking glass: On one side of it, a baby is a baby and the parents of a dead baby grieve. But on the other side is a lethal Wonderland where, as Alice said, everything is ‘nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn’t. . . .'”

God help us.

Good news from the people who put together and those who contribute to Relief Journal—babies, book contracts, and editor positions. Note also all the good things that happened last year. Bravo. Have you picked up at least one copy of Relief yet? It’s good reading.

I think I’m beginning to recover from Daylight Savings Time-Lag. This morning I found myself 5 minutes ahead of schedule getting dressed and breakfasted, and I still don’t know what part of my morning routine I forgot to do (and yes, I had put on my pants, thank you very much).

Today is the day of the Great Snowstorm. Well, it’s great up where Roy Jacobsen lives (or so I understand), but down here it’s a storm without enthusiasm, an ambivalent storm where the snowflakes come down still uncertain whether they want to be snow or rain, and opt for rain once they hit the pavement. It’s cooling down now, so I suppose we’ll get some accumulation, but I’m not counting on a snow day off from work tomorrow.

I meant to do a second post last night, but the idea I’d been working on all day flew out of my mind entirely (blame Daylight Savings Time). Let’s try this again:



Over at The American Spectator, Daniel Oliver posted a column yesterday about a few common political quotations which weren’t (or can’t be proven to have been) said by the people who generally get credit for them. Apparently nobody said them.

Wait. Somebody must have said them. Continue reading You may quote me, whether I said it or not →