St. Patty's day is a weird holiday for me. I'm a full quarter Irish, yet rather then be descended from the awesome drunken Irish Catholics, I'm descended from those dirty, sovereign hating Irish who were loyal to King William III: the Orangemen. So on St. Patrick's day when the whole world is wearing green, I have to wear Orange, to show that my ancestors were a bunch of self-righteous, bigoted, suppressionists, intent on keeping the good Catholic man down. That's what's in my blood.
The point is, that I would be a freaking awesome drunk proud Irishman. My first name is about as Irish as you can get. Rory means "Red King." It's Gaelic spelling is Ruaidhri, after the last high king of Ireland in the 12th century; my actual name has more silent letters then ones you pronounce. I love green. I don't have red hair, but I used to, here's a picture of me with red hair and a broken nose. Red hair, drunkenness, violent Irish disposition, insatiable desire for independence. I could write about my exploits on www.ruaidhriness.com:
"I'm the Gaelic warrior Ruaidhri, I have ridden wolves into battle against Highlanders twice my size. Breaker of bread with the Sidhe, battler of the mighty Kelpie on both loch and shore; I courted and won the heart of the magnificent Aoife of York. If I can do these things I can achieve all that is possible."
But I haven't done those things. The Highlander bullied me, the Sidhe aren't my friends, I got fled in fear from the Kelpie, and Aoife rejected me because I wouldn't assert myself. All cause I'm an Irish Protestant with dark brown hair, I go crying to the King when I don't get my way.
There's some introspective element here: self-actualization vs. self-acceptance. Am I a product/slave to my upbringing, to my heritage, or am I confident enough in myself to display the level of character I choose to. Am I what I am, or am I what I want to be. Unfortunately for me, as someone who hates to be confused, the answer is somewhere in the gray area.
Ironically the quarter of me that's Lebanese is Catholic, but since there is no St. Maroun's Day, this point is moot. I'm also a quarter German, who cares what religion that is, but it'll take care of the drunkeness come October.
As for the actual Saint Patrick, his faith grew in captivity. Then he broke free and became the patron saint of Ireland. He was born on British ruled land as well. So, today we remember that we can become who we want to be, and often only because of where we came from, not where we are going. So, though at times the two sides are car-bombing the hell out of each other, on this St. Patrick's day I have faith of oneday there being a united Ruaidhri, and plenty of fucking clover.
My old neighborhood was weird, but one of the things I miss there was Halloween. When you walked around that night you'd seen people wearing costumes, which really wasn't too different from any other day, and forget the trick or treat, those people just wanted acid. It was like you were skipping through that "Groove is in the Heart" video.
Where I live now, while cool in the daytime, gets real shady at night. Halloween here seems more "I don't want no treat, gimme yo' money." Unfortunately, cause of the rent I pay here, I don't have any money, so rather than get shivved, I'm gonna stay in tonight.
When we left off I had just moved into a new place alone, didn't know how to take care of myself, and regularly worked during the nights. Well I now have internet at home, as well as a couch, and more video games then a fourteen year old asian kid. Though there are some good stories of how I got those, what's amazingly different is that I have a new boss and a job requiring I accomplish things, primarily in the field of engineering. While I won't make it an excuse, it has severely limited my ability to write witty and endearing blogposts that attract the attention so crucial to my everyday satisfaction. That and countless hours of Madden '07.
Thankfully, my new boss's father-in-law passed away and while he gone in mourning I can spout my rhetoric again. Except I have nothing. Even though over the last three months I've seen both my best friends, been to three weddings, gone home to Pittsburgh, went to Cincinnati, Hawaii, and Indiana twice, on one of those trips I freaking lost my notebook with all my funny in it. I am hollow without it. I've done this before and I've tried to prepare for it. Evidently neatly printing my name and address on the back is not enough for random people who stumble upon a person's cherished belonging to make any attempt to find said person. On the next one I will have to add "cash and/or sexual reward if found."
So had I kept up the pace, this weekend would have seen the completion of 100 posts in 100 days. All told I ended up with 78 posts, which I don't think is bad; however someofthem them definitely don't really count, and I have yet to chronicle the intern stories (I will) or write Church reviews (forthcoming) nor perform at an open mic (which I absolutely must do for many reasons before mid September).
I think I learned a lot. I did have a few bright spots including the roommate stories and my courtroom drama, as well as afewothergoodposts. I really like the real time story arcs, like getting acclimated to living alone (12345 cont.) or my trip back home (123456). I'd like to do more of this: the trick is to recognize potentially interesting situations while they draw out, and hope that they have some snippy conclusion. Also, blogging on a Friday or Saturday night is stupid.
The hardest part was balancing the need to post with my ability to post something worthwhile. I was not happy about chugging out something I wasn't satisfied with, but if I wait until I'm satisfied I take about four too many months to finish a story. I don't necessarily like putting numbers on things, but I think if I can motivate myself to average 2-3 posts per week, it'd be a good pace. The biggest issue of all is the comments. Evidently, directlysolicitingcomments doesn't solicit too many comments, and being funny and witty and engaging isn't enough to motivate people to comment either. Unfortunately, not commenting doesn't exactly encourage me to be funny and witty and engaging. It's a vicious cycle, and once I solve that mystery, I'm pretty sure I will easily be the greatest blogger ever.
Yesterday at Allegheny College in Meadville, PA a wrecking ball detached from the crane its swung by and rolled .7 miles down main street smashing into cars and curbs, reeking havoc, eventually rolling up into the trunk of a student waiting patiently at a stop light.
There is insane story potential here. Crane operator Bob Boring (no fabrication, he is actually named like the hero of a children's book) threw bricks at the wrecking ball to try and stop it, which is exactly the opposite of what wrecking balls are designed to do. The police officer on hand told the driver of the last car that the soccer balls he had filling the back seat may have saved his life, which unless each of those soccer balls are made of 27 cubic feet of high density polypropic rubber cushion is impossible.
But I'm not going to write a story. I know nothing about Meadville, but the twofriends I have that went to Allegheny sure do. This is a challenge to both of them to write a story about this: a funny recap, or fictional events that may resolve around this incident, whatever, but some sort of story.
The very helpful quiet man who used to work in the cubicle next to me moved on to another job and now I have a completely useless loud man in in his place. This is the guy who asks you what's up without getting your attention or seeing if you are busy or without any sense of tact. He's also ugly.
Everyday he spends twenty minutes discussing dinner and lame activities over the phone with his girlfriend. I've theorized, and my other coworkers won't entertain me on this, that he is actually his own girlfriend. I can't imagine a woman on any planet I know of finding this man's behavior endearing, and when they talk its always in such a way so that the whole conversation is known to those of who can hear him.
That's circumstantial, but I have noticed that she never calls him, it's always him doing the calling. And if it is true I don't know if it's him just trying to get attention or if he actually hears a voice coming through the other end. I'm guessing the latter, hence my belief that they are the same person.
There's a picture of her on his desk. In it she is smothered in make-up, to the point where you can't tell if there's a beautiful woman underneath or an unkempt middle age man, covered in boils. But the tell-tale sign, if you stare at the picture closely and look past the stubble and huge Adam's apple, they have almost the exact same eyes.
This weekend witnessed my first off-day in nearly a month and also an interesting corollary: if I'm not blogging, it's not cause I'm busy, it's exactly the opposite. When I'm active, I can't wait to tell everyone about the ridiculous awesomeness of some mundane thing I accomplished. But do nothing, and I'm suddenly engorged with shame, and seclude myself, resulting in more inactivity. It's called a funk, and in younger times it was a much harder cycle to break.
I was so completely lazy the last two days. I'm not exaggerating: It may have been the least productive weekend of my life, and that's saying something. I am exaggerating: I had to fight off atrophy this morning to make it in to work. Still, really freaking unproductive. Why is it so bright in this office?
And I don't care. Normally, I do this and I say to myself, "What am I doing with my life? Shit. If I died in my sleep how many weeks would it be until someone found me. After that long I can't reek much more then I do know. I better delete my Internet cache, I don't want that to be my dieing legacy. Frick I'm hungry, but food is not within a two foot radius surrounding me." But not this time. This time there was a primal anger to my laziness. Each moment of inactivity was vengeful; that's the best I can describe it, and it was rewarding.
The point is, that I would be a freaking awesome drunk proud Irishman. My first name is about as Irish as you can get. Rory means "Red King." It's Gaelic spelling is Ruaidhri, after the last high king of Ireland in the 12th century; my actual name has more silent letters then ones you pronounce. I love green. I don't have red hair, but I used to, here's a picture of me with red hair and a broken nose. Red hair, drunkenness, violent Irish disposition, insatiable desire for independence. I could write about my exploits on www.ruaidhriness.com: 