Year of the Potato

Hi hi hi. My name is Mary vO (like the booze) and this is my inaugural blog post. I am so excited.

Did you know that 2008 is the International Year of the Potato? It’s the truth (I tend to find a lot of inane information on the inter-webs when I have a deadline). To celebrate, I am dedicating this day to the Irish.

I’ve already explained the basic premise of Ulysses to my roommate Lesley: Guy 1 refuses to take a bath and goes for a walk on the beach; Guy 2 takes a bath and goes for a walk in Dublin; and Guy 2’s wife bangs sum dood. Between pages 1 and roughly 1,100, there’s a lot of jizz, excrement and nay-saying old ladies. Ulysses could wipe its figurative ass with this blog.

Next up is the film-and-music genre. Being a great benefactor of the arts blah blah blah, I normally wouldn’t rope the two together. But I am currently obsessed with a little Irish movie called “Once,” which marries music and film quite harmoniously. I am obsessed, like I said. It’s about a “bloke,” as they say, who has nothing going for him but his balls and his guitar. Unfortunately his balls aren’t cutting it, so his girl cheats on him with another bloke. This leaves the guitar, which he uses to write songs about the ball betrayal. Here’s one of said songs-like:

So Kristin and I watched “Once” tonight. We both cried real hard. She, due to the movie. Me, due to some Indian shit she got for dinner that blew my head up. Irregardless, see the movie, like, yesterday.

So far today, I’ve learned that Irish women can’t keep their pants on. I’ve also learned about the most heartbreaking thing in the world, which happens to reside in Ireland. It’s called “Ireland’s Teardrop,” and it looks like this:

So-called because this island is the last thing Irelanders see of the Mother Land as they sail off to the U.S. and A. Probably like seeing the woman carrying the trash bags (“The Angel,” as Mom calls her) when you leave Delaware.

So, a recap of Ireland. This little island nation has made great contributions to the arts, as we’ve seen; and to the pathos of all mankind, I find. It’s a long way to the house of Fitzcarraldo, and the Irish have made the journey with pride, song and literary sensibilities, albeit little in the way of suntan.

I’ll leave you with a little ditty that Mr. James Joyce penned just for me:

–There are great times coming, Mary. Wait till you see.
–Ah, gelong with your great times coming.

I am entirely keen on being convinced. It’s a new year. I’ve resolved to be hungover less, in a literary frame of mind more, and probably something involving exercise. And bring on the potatoes. Barmaids too. Tobaccoshopgirls.