THE THREE IFs

"If you can't swim, beware of Providence." - Shelly
"If we all agreed on everything, we'd all want the same wife." - LBJ
"If it wasn't for time, everything would happen at once." - Einstein

The Luck of the Irish Alkie

WEST BOSTON

IRISH DRUNKARDS SOCIETY

UPHOLDING THE STEREOTYPE SINCE 2006

One unlucky night about two years ago, I was sitting at the bar in a Pizzeria Uno, chewing-up a Veggie Lover's Personal Pan Pizza, nursing a Diet Coke and staring at a Red Sox game. I was not harming anyone and no one had any right to harm me, but life is unfair, especially when it is under the influence of beer.

Right around the seventh-inning stretch, four large, noisy, pink-faced yayhoos came stumbling in and made straight for the bar. Alas, there was only one empty stool, and it was next to me. All four of them lunged for it, upsetting my Diet Coke, which landed in my Veggie Lover's Personal Pan Pizza, drowning all of the Lovable Veggies. The four thugs immediately convened a surprisingly formal meeting and voted to make restitution for the pizza on one condition: I would have to abandon the Diet Coke - not just that night, but forever - and switch to Sam Adams. I didn't want to do it, but I was still hungry, so I acquiesced.

I don't remember much about what happened next, except that sometime during the evening, an even more surprisingly formal meeting was called to consider whether or not I should be allowed to join their fraternal organization, The West Boston Irish Drunkards Society. Horrified, I howled that it was past my bedtime and I wanted to go home, but a scary voice barked at me to put a fackin' sock in it.

Through a thick, beery haze, I heard them discussing the deplorable fact that I was not Irish, which might, arguably, disqualify me from membership. Alas for me, this impediment was set aside on the dubious grounds that "a Jew is basically an Irishman, with the tip of his shelaleigh sawed-off." If you do not understand this joke, please don't think about it very hard, as it is not exactly true and not exactly funny.

The second problem - that I was not yet a drunkard and did not, at that time, see any advantage in becoming one - was likewise set aside, because, to their way of thinking, it was sure to change.

Let me be blunt: That was the most catastrophic night of my life, the night that sent me floating off to hell on a river of beer, which, now that I think about it, is not the worst way to go, especially if you're going to go to hell anyway, which I certainly was, even before I fell in with the Drunkards. Moreover, it is a great consolation to me that when I'm down there, boiling in a vat of ale, four Irish Drunkards will be boiling alongside of me.

Anyway, the point is: The sole redeeming characteristic of the WBIDS was that we harmed no one but ourselves - until now.

One of our Deputy Toastmasters (we are all Deputy Toastmasters) is a buffoon whom we like to call NickFitz, because he smokes like an alcoholic when you set him on fire ["nic fits"] and because that is nearly his actual name. Incredibly - horrifyingly - NickFitz has. . . I cannot bring myself to type it . . .

Fitz has hypnotized a bright and beautiful Irish lassie into MARRYING his fat ass!

We have done all we can do to bring lovely Jennie to her senses - I even proposed to her myself - but she is determined to throw her life away. So we called an emergency meeting, without Fitz, to decide what to do.

A motion was made and seconded to wait for Fitz to fall into one of his inevetible alcoholic stupors during the next Red Sox game, and then smother him with a pillow. This motion was tabled because, where would we get a pillow?

A second motion was made, and seconded by all, to give the match our unqualified blessing, and, moreover, to give our love to Fitz, who, despite his many, many, many shortcomings, is as fine and loyal a friend as any of us ever hope to call our own. Also, to give an equal measure of love to Little Jen, his sweet and beautiful dove, and to express our fervent hope that she will beat him mercilessly over the head with a shelaleigh, or a broomstick, or a fire extinguisher, or whatever comes to hand, if he ever forgets who's boss.

This motion was carried unanimously and, of course, we sealed it by singing a chorus of the appropriate olde Irish ballad, which we here present to Big Nick and his Heart's Delight.

OH, LET EVERY LAD LINK WITH HIS LASS

BLUE JACKET AND WHITE TROUSERS

AND LET EVERY LASS LINK WITH HER LAD

BLUE PETTICOAT AND WHITE FLOWERS

CASKS AND FLAGONS OF LOVE from Mike, TeaKay, Brian and

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I'VE CHANGED MY CHEST BY A PIGEON: A Weakly Blow Linguistic Adventure

A few years back, a magazine editor - let's call her "Mrs. Rhubarb" - offered me three-thousand American dollars to write a one-thousand-word article on a fella whom I'll call "Dr. Hofbrau." Perhaps I should have been grateful, or at least flattered; instead, I felt a mixture of surprise and suspicion.

First of all, the magazine, which I'll call Mump's, was one that I would not have opened with rubber gloves, even if there'd been a fifty-dollar bill hidden somewhere inside of it. And second, I knew that I could not possibly have been Mrs. Rhubarb's first choice to write the story - or any story, for that matter - so there was probably something wrong with it.

What was wrong with it, she explained, was that Dr. Hofbrau's work was "kinda arcane."

That got my attention, for I've got a gluttonous appetite for arcanity, especially when it has the potential to generate $3.oo-per-word, plus expenses. What, I wondered, was Dr. Hofbrau's arcane pastime? Hypnotizing mollusks? Collecting suet? Varnishing his nipples?

No, no, no, replied Mrs. Rhubarb. Nothing as arcane as that! And then she proceeded to explain Dr. Hofbrau's work as best she could, which wasn't very well, because she obviously didn't understand it. But I listened gamely and, in a few minutes, figured out that Dr. Hofbrau's oddball obsession was something I like to call . . . science.

Now, I have an appetite for science, too, so I was inclined to say 'yes.' But then Mrs. Rhubarb felt obliged to mention one more detail. It seemed that Dr. Hofbrau lived in a place called "Germany" and, like far too many inconsiderate people over there, refused to speak English.

"Well, Mrs. Rhubarb," I replied, "I don't speak German. So, you see, I'll not be able to report the story unless Mump's is willing to pay for a translator."

And that is when Mrs. Rhubarb came-up with with a cost-saving idea. Before I tell you what it was, I should first mention that Mrs. Rhubarb was herself a cost-saving idea, typical of the dying magazine industry. She worked cheap, as well she might, having once admitted to a friend of mine that she had never reported a story in her life. Here, then, was her suggestion:

Perhaps I could report the story entirely by email, using an online translation program to render my questions into German, and Dr. Hofbrau's answers into English.

I was tempted to give it a try, just to see what would happen. Instead, I said "no" in a manner that ended my relationship with Mrs. Rhubarb, and Mump's, hopefully forever. And then I forgot all about this silly little occurrence until . . .

.. . a couple of weeks ago, when I happened to hear the magnificent love song Paloma Querida crooned by the magnificent Tex-Mex virtuoso, Freddy Fender. (Freddy is, alas, no longer with us, but here's a charming old cinematic version by Pedro Infante, with dancing horses; Placido Domingo sings it pretty well, too.) Enchanted, I decided to learn the song myself, so I Googled the lyrics and tried out the elegant Spanish on my thick, English-only tongue. My enchantment grew. What did the words mean? To find out, I excitedly fed them into an online translator, with these results, guaranteed genuine:

I have found in a black path
as a pilgrim with out faith nor runbo
My luck changed by that pleasure
and since then I feel querete
with all the forces that give me the soul
Paloma loved since I've changed my chest by a pigeon

I cannot comment on the accuracy of this translation. I can only say that it interfered with my enjoyment of a beautiful song, so I strongly hoped it was inaccurate.

In order to reassure myself on this score, I devised a disingenuous way of testing online translators in general. I would feed the lyrics of THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER into the Babelfish online translator, rendering them into five foreign languages; then, I would make Babelfish render them back into English. If these re-translations were close to the original, I would have to face facts: I should have taken that assignment from Mump's. But if the results were a trifle halting or garbled, as I suspected they might be, I could rest assured that Paloma Querida had lyrics worthy of its delicious melody and achingly romantic vibe.

I present the results below - guaranteed genuine - without comment or gloating.

DUTCH: THE ASTRE SPANGLED GOLF

Oh, say can you see
door it early of the paddle
what this way proud
we at twilight's the last gleaming slightly greeted?
Whose broad lines and clear astre
through the dangerous fight,
Calamity doctor flowed the matrix
O'er we this way gallantly have paid attention?

English, booms the matrix
in air rode brilliance of the rocket bursts,
gave proof by the night
which our flag was houten there the pen.

Do do oh, do say do the astre spangled golf
O'er die of bravely of banner
but nevertheless the country of free English the house?

ITALIAN: OUR SMALL FLAG WAS STILL HERE

Oh, as an example can you see
from the light in advance payment of the dawn
that what we have hailed therefore
fierce to last shining of the penumbra?
Of who immense bands and luminous stars
with the fight perilous,
O'er the ramparts that we have watched
therefore gallantly was effluendo?

And the red light vivida of the rocket,
the bombs that burst in air,
was given the test with the night
that our small flag was still here.

Or, as an example ago
that flag star-star spangled however
O' wave er the center and earth free of the good ones?

[Note: In order to be "fair," I have included the Spanish translation, which proved by far the most faithful of the five.]

SPANISH: THE PUMPS THAT EXPLODED IN AIR

Oh, opinion can you see
by the early light of the dawn
what we hailed so proud
in flashing last of the twilight?
Of whom ample rays and shining stars
by the dangerous fight.
O'er the embankments that we watched
so galantemente flowed?

And the red fulgor of the rocket,
the pumps that exploded in air,
gave the test of the night
that our flag was still there.

The Oh, opinion does that flag star-star-spangled wave
O'er the Earth of the free one yet
and the home of the brave one.

I have omitted the German and French results, as they were similar to one or more of the above. But the German translation included a remarkable twist that deserves recognition, if not applause:

O'er the RAM parts, which we watched out . . .

I have only one regret about my experiment: It has compromised my patriotism, if I ever had any, for I must admit that I prefer every one of these translated translations to Francis Scott Key's original English. I beg my patriotic readers not be offended, as I can assure them that, whatever my feelings about America in general, I would never, ever do anything to disgrace its flag.

I leave that to others.

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THE GARDEN OF GOTHAM

One day in 1989, when I was a restless boy journalist in Washington, DC, I opened a book by H. L. Mencken and read the following dispatch from across time and space:

New York has the best of everything, including the best of the worst.

In those days, I lived according to a simple precept: You might as well believe everything you read, because if you don’t, it might turn out to be true, and then where would you be? And so, to make a long story blessedly short, I dove into the cauldron of experience that is New York City, with all the enthusiasm of a dog leaping into a vat of Alpo.

And there I wallowed, tail a-waggin’, for some fifteen years before I finally began to grow nauseated from it. You can only devour New York for so long before it turns around and starts devouring you. Have you ever stopped to imagine what it would feel like to be devoured by a vat of Alpo? Have you?

I escaped to Boston about two years ago, but the vicissitudes of fortune (and misfortune) have frequently driven me back to Manhattan for days or even weeks at a time. And I've never left it without wondering: How in hell could I have been happy in such a place for fifteen minutes, let alone fifteen years?

None of New York’s attractions seemed remotely worth its stress, filth, expense and stench of Alpo - until a few weeks ago, when a close friend, whom I’ll call ‘Wasp’, invited me down for a weekend of horticulture.

You will not need to be reminded that horticulture isn't a typical New York activity. But Wasp is not a typical wasp. To be sure, she lives in a typical one-bedroom apartment on the 20th floor of a typical New York building. But in spring and summer, two unique elements combine to make Wasp's apartment an enchanted place: Wasp herself; and a very long (though not very wide) terrace, suitable for container gardening.

It has always seemed to me that flowers don't bloom on Wasp's terrace, but, rather, rise up out of the earth when she summons them. And now that I've stood nigh and seen the process - nay, now that I've lent a humble hand in it - I realize that I have been spectacularly wrong, as usual. I will not attempt to describe the two-day tsunami of labor and artistry that took-place up there; but I will say that it reminded me of one reason why I once loved living in New York. It's a place where beauty of all sorts sits cheek-by-jowl with every manner of outrage and horror. And I think that is the most realistic context in which to behold both beauty and horror. But not everyone has the courage and stamina for it.

Wasp has got it, in spades. Twenty floors above an avenue choking with carbon monoxide and vile New York expletives, it pleases her to create a beautiful muthafuckin' flower garden, so each year she creates it. This garden would be glorious anywhere; but its concrete-and-steel setting produces a miraculous atmosphere that no country gardener, however gifted, could achieve.

In the Sunday twilight, after two days of horticulture, I flopped down on one of Wasp's comfy deck chairs. My clothes reeked of ParaLite and fertilizer; my fingernails were clotted with potting soil; and my baseball cap was glued to my scalp with sweat. I regarded Wasp, fussing over her morning glories; I regarded the moon, taking its place over the shoulder of a coal-black skyscraper; I regarded my senses and realized that they had not been so aroused, in so many different ways, in quite some time. And I heard myself say:

"Wasp! This is how I want to live!"

I meant it, too.

The next day, I went back to Boston with all sorts of astounding revelations Jiffy-Popping around in my head. And in my heart - and in my camera - I carried home a bouquet.

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Photographs by Charles "Chuck" Hirshberg, esq. All rights protected by a shadowy agency of the Bush administraion.

THE BLOW IS BACK

'Tis springtime, and my fancy has turned to mush.

I don't mean actual mush, like oatmeal or baby food. I mean sentimental mush.

Yesterday, as I was pointing my camera at a spring bloom, a bee floated gently down upon the petals and as I watched him trot gaily towards the ovule . . .

. . . I heard a loud, unexpected snap!

'Twas the sound of my mind, snapping out of a three-month torper. And I bethunk myself of whole cauldrons of mushy stuff, including:

It is worthwhile to fall in love, even though the crush of heartbreak is a natural (maybe even probable) outcome of loving. And it is worthwhile to live, because life is a lot like love in this mushy respect. More often than not, life runs afoul of Death, and Death enjoys smashing-up hearts almost as much as He enjoys taking lives. Still, I am grateful for my life. I am grateful that I have a heart that's worth breaking.

So you see, now that springtime has set me a-gushing with mush, the mush, in turn, has reinvigorated my urge to blog.

It seems that I enjoy smearing my mush all over the Internet, just as, once upon a time, I enjoyed smearing oatmeal and baby food through my hair.

It seems that Hirsh Horn's Weakly Blow is like a fragrant, colorful spring bloom, only brown, and not at all fragrant.

And it seems that you, my loyal, befuddled readers, are a lot like the neighborhood bees who cluster 'round my head nearly every spring morning, trying to decide whether I deserve to be pollinated or stung.

Thanks for clustering. It's been a long time.

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The Weakly Blow will recommence gusting on-or-about May 20. Seriously, thanks to those who wrote asking for more. To use a typically sly Weakly Blow metaphor, you've blown new life into this blog.

Photograph by Charles 'Chuck' Hirshberg. All rights reserved - and brought to you by HAZMAToasties, the only breakfast-flavored cereal that gives you nine essential industrial effluents.

WE WILL NEVER FORGET . . .

FRAN LEWINE

JOURNALIST

Y

MENTOR

Y
LEADER AND TRAIL BLAZER

in the fight for

EQUAL OPPORTUNITY FOR ALL

Y

THIS BLOG WILL BE SUSPENDED AS WE MOURN THE LOSS OF THIS IRREPLACEABLE WOMAN

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A GALLERY OF PAINTED LADIES . . .

. . . FROM HITHER AND YON

Wicked classy
The Waterworks Condominiums,
Chestnut Hill, MA

Frida Kahlo in the shadow of captialism
Washington, DC

The immolation of hope
Boston, MA

Photographs by Charles "Chuck" Hirshberg
All rights protected by Satan

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