CSotD: Two Bulls is better than one
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We'll give Marty Two Bulls Sr. top billing on this St. Patrick's Day, because there's no joke an Irishman likes better than seeing the tables turned, especially when served up with a dose of justice.
Two Bulls is observing the common, and offensive, nature of dubious ethnic claims, made without humor by Buffy St. Marie:
Can you remember the times
That you have held your head high
and told all your friends of your Indian claim
Proud good lady and proud good man
Some great great grandfather from Indian blood came
and you feel in your heart for these ones
The difference — and it is a mighty one — is that the Irish have overcome their underdog status, while she points out "Oh, it's all in the past you can say, But it's still going on here today," which makes those claims of "Indian blood" all the more offensive.
Maybe it's humbling, once a year, to be dragged back into the days when funny drunken morons were a staple of music hall stages, or it would be if anyone took a lesson from it.
Irish-Americans got American Greetings to ditch the insulting greeting cards a generation ago, but obviously that didn't stop things.
But I got a good laff out of the cartoon and I double my praise in honor of his name, since the cornerstone of Irish humor is a logical twist known as an "Irish Bull," as shown in this 1917 Punch cartoon by F.H. Townsend.
I don't know the derivation of the term, but the twist itself may come from the differences in languages, or perhaps those differences are what makes the twist funnier.
A woman from the Gaeltacht taught Irish in Denver a few decades ago, and told of tending bar at her family's pub, when one of the locals came in and asked the crowd, "An bhfaca tú Hughie?" which is, "Have you seen Hughie?"
A fellow who apparently wanted to impress the young girl with his command of two languages answered in English, "He was here afore he left, but he's not long gone since," which, she said, was a perfect syntax-free translation from the old language into the new.
So I'd say "Here's to you, Marty," but I see his Indian is drinking coffee, and another thing our ethnicities share is that perhaps we should watch that sort of thing, as referenced in today's Frazz.
She'll get her chance to write that dissertation eventually, because there's no indication that the one day we give ourselves permission to drink to unconsciousness is going anywhere, not in Lent and despite 364 days of warning about the dangers of drinking and driving.
It's a funny gag but, too often, having St. Patrick's Day fall on a Saturday isn't.
My son is an ER nurse and happy to not be working the weekend, saying that he saw a Saturday St. Patrick's when he was working in a college town and doesn't need to again.
But there's tradition, you know.
When I was in an Irish pub band (we'll get back to that), St. Patrick's Day was a classic case of ambivalence, because it was a major payday for us, but we would generally find ourselves in some Steppin McFetchit hell of plastic shamrocks and drunken wannabes.
One bar placed a large family of the latter at a table in front of our setup, with a drunken old harridan at the head who kept bellowing out requests for "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" and similar vaudeville songs that we didn't play until she finally passed out and was hauled away to sleep it off in the car.
A short time later, the bar owner appeared with a tray full of shots of Irish whiskey — probably Bushmill's – and asked "Where's Ma?" then had them bring her back in, whereupon she drank her complimentary shot and vomited on the table which served them right.
And, in keeping with his greedy foolishness, he had extra tables and chairs set up and god help us all if there'd been a fire, and then cheerfully over-served everyone in the place.
I genuinely scanned the papers next morning in fear that we'd helped kill somebody.
We shifted our venue the next year to a more reputable place and then, after the band broke up, I played my last St. Paddy's gig in a family-friendly venue with the stipulations indicated on this poster, plus that I'd play for free, in return for which Richard suggested we make it a benefit.
Shortly thereafter, the Celtic Music Snots gained ascendancy and pub music was more or less driven underground in favor of songs played exactly as they were by O'Carolan himself with never a note changed.
Mostly by people who had discovered the great cultural influence of their Irish great-great-great-grand-mum.
All of which made me appreciate Maria Scrivan's entry in Half Full this morning, because I don't mind cartoonists marking the day, as long as they aren't mocking the day, and, while I normally despise those damned leprechauns, her admission brought a smile to my face and makes a fine bookend with Two Bulls' piece.
So anyway
If you'd like a look at Irish ex-pats in their natural state, or at least, as they were 30 years ago, here's a piece I did years ago that still holds water a generation later.
And that's our Irish pub band above, or at least, three-quarters of it.
Sean, the first person interviewed in that previously linked article, didn't get involved in our publicity because he was on disability for a permanently smashed kneecap and was afraid some clever insurance investigator would decide that, if he could stand up long enough to play a gig, he could work a 40-hour week as well.
Here's a link to a posting about us which includes a video playlist of Irish pub music.
Here's one more, for those aforementioned experts:
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