Disclaimer: The following blog was guest written by M. Oy, I could kvell claims no responsibility for its content. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of M's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental...
It is Monday night and as Monday is the day of renewed routines, I am sitting at the table, student papers before me, red wine at my side, country music in the background, and J is watching
18 kids and Counting, and yelling at the television, "the pill was invented in the fucking 50's you tools!" Yet, it doesn't feel quite right. Something is off. It's not the routine, which has been the same for years. No, it's the place. J asked me to elucidate why we are on a constant quest to abandon the fair city of Miami, a city that has produced such memorable moments as the 2000 presidential recount,
Miami Vice, and 118 episodes of
Cops, including one where a man stole an escaped python and then claimed it was his second passenger after being pulled over in the carpool lane. And as her dutiful husband, I shall.
But let's begin with a history lesson.
In 1810, Seamus McDonald Gutierrez of the County Cork Gutierrez' sailed from the city of Galway in a schooner built of abandoned Guinness crates and duct tape, bound for places unknown, with only a single desire: to propagate the Irish race so as to enlighten the world to our enchanting heritage. It was a noble calling, especially for one as despised as Seamus, who had fled the town Kilkenny because of a minor transgression involving a British nobleman and a mule, but that is no matter. Seamus was a humanitarian in an Irish Catholic sense, intent on spreading his wisdom (and
seed) throughout this shrinking world. And that he did. Two hundred years later (it is the bicentennial of that courageous journey and there will be parade in Davenport, Iowa next week if you're interested), Seamus' descendants number over 593,000, more than the state of Wyoming. You will find his kin throughout the world, from Timbuktu to Seoul to Chicago, and there is even a bastard child in Pittsburgh. Through them, the energy and might of a great man persists, spreading the genius of the Irish throughout their wanderings. Now, you may wonder, what is the point? Why am I reading this guest blogger? Ah, that brings me to my next point: the awesomeness of any metropolis is equal to its Irish population.
Now, this is serious, as serious as the public option, as serious as nuclear proliferation, and definitely as serious as that Kirk Cameron special on Armageddon I watched on Sunday, which was truly the most disturbing half hour of my life (how could that be the guy who played that 1980's baddass Mike Seaver?) Anyways, in every city in the world, one will find at least one Irish pub that plays Irish music and serves Irish beer. This is an undeniable fact. Yet, the plethora of those pubs indicates whether a city is politically viable and culturally vibrant. Take New York, with its healthy Irish population (85,000 descendants of Seamus Gutierrez and counting). It has produced some of the greatest auteurs in cultural history: the Velvet Underground, Jackson Pollack, and Woody Allen. Although none of those men are Irish, let alone descendants of Seamus, it is no matter: their proximity to the Gutierrez clan was enough to stroke their brilliance. Boston, Chicago, and Los Angeles can claim scores upon scores of Seamus' descendants, and, hence Aerosmith, the musical Chicago, and Guns 'N Roses. Even a fairly small city like Minneapolis (and this is a shout out to all those ladies in the Twin Cities) is filled to the brim with purveyors of Seamus' stock. And what did they give us in return: the Replacements, Prince, and fuckin' Bob Dylan.
Now, I return to my original point. Why are J and M melancholy in Miami? Well, it is as simple as this: I am the lone descendent of Seamus McDonald Gutierrez on this godforsaken peninsula (although my cousin is hiding somewhere in the Everglades, but we don't speak of him, yeah you Liam.) It's true. I'm the last unicorn, the guy from Kung-fu, and the Mona Lisa, destined to walk alone along these humid, fungus filled streets. And, while I hold an incredibly high opinion of myself, I have no doubt that a single descendent of Seamus McDonald Gutierrez is not strong enough to make this city awesome. J may read this as a subtle plea to procreate, but I assure her it is not. It is just the truth. I am destined to walk alone (or perhaps with my wife), to just keep on keeping on. Like a horseless cowboy on a desert highway, I shall do my best to carry great Seamus' legacy forth, but with no Irish pub in sight, I feel as lonely as the last Wooly Mammoth on the Great Plains.
It is with this sad feeling that I leave you. Soon, if all goes well, we shall return to the great northeast. But if not, well, I am comforted by this: when Seamus Gutierrez arrived in the city of New York, it was nothing but a dinky port town populated by 25,000 sailors and 30,000 hogs. Now, well, you know how awesome New York is.
(M's kin are offended by this)
(J's kin are offended by this)
(Nice stache)
