Half Naked, Half Leprechaun, One Third Potato


Can’t beat being on the front page of a newspaper wearing a leprechaun hat. Couldn’t find a version online so here’s the original gibber. Recent radio interview too where I ramble on and on and on. New book PREDUMB out soon. Narcissistic levels reaching new high.

Mountain Dew – The Clancy Brothers

Blacks, whites, Asians, Native Americans, almost everyone I’ve met since I came to L.A. claims to be Irish in one way or another. At first it annoyed me purely because their logic was so ridiculous.

One guy told me one night at a party “I’m Irish too!” Oh yeah, what part are you from? “Ohio.” Oh really? I wasn’t aware that was in Ireland. “Yeah, it’s not.” And then he walked away.

Another guy later remarked“You must get sick of people telling you they’re Irish.” It’s kind of odd all right. “I actually am Irish though, I’m 1/17th.“ I then had to listen to him attempt to explain how exactly that fraction came about. I’m sure he had a goat as an ancestor at one point.

When this sort of thing first happened I use to let my Irish pride flair up and tell them exactly how they weren’t actually Irish at all. Maybe it was the whole me being more patriotic now that I left the country but I felt being Irish was my identity and there’s no way some guy with a goat as a great-granddad or another guy from a small town in Ohio was going to lay claim to my claim to fame.

Then I copped on: It’s better than them hating the Irish. If that’s what they want to use to be my friend, let them all be Irish. Especially since being Irish is my golden ticket at times. If you’re that Irish guy who’s on his own and people have a laugh with, doors open like never before. I’ve been invited to private parties, flown on private jets and sailed on private yachts mostly thanks to me being that Irish guy. That’s what got me in the door initially anyways. Say nothing. Private on!

Having an Irish accent in L.A is pretty good. My mouth is sometimes like a flute that mesmerizes whoever hears it, the Pied Piper leading people on my merry way. “Oh my Gawd, what is he saying?!” the girls ask as if I’m not standing right in front of them. “Say something else!” Like what? “Anything!” Potato? “That is sooo hot!” And then they rip off their clothes in giddy glee.

Saying that, there’s a thin line between mesmerizing and confusing at times. Some people look at me like I have a mental disorder when I speak. Trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. He kind of looks normal but he appears to speaking in tongues, I can see them thinking. Or is it an odd, antiquated, rarely spoken form of Russian? Eyes go beady, forehead wrinkles, and their head cocks to the side as they struggle to understand I’m just trying to order a coffee like everybody else in this Starbucks.

When I resort to putting on an American accent, their usual response is “Cathy? Sorry man, she doesn’t work here anymore.” No. I said coffee. Not Cathy. COFFEE!!! And then I get asked to leave the premises, so I go home and drink tea instead.

The first St. Patrick’s Day I was in L.A I thought I was going to be a revered God-like creature. I’m not joking. I thought the sea of green balloons would part and I would be celebrated as their Irish saviour.

The build-up was intense. Americans celebrate Paddy’s Day like we do back home but on steroids. Everywhere is greener, bigger and more fake Irish. People, water, pints, streets, apartments, shops, cars, pubs, even grass, all green. Guinness and whiskey displays as far as the eye can see. Everyone wishing each other “Happy St. Patty’s Day!” as they like to call it. (I’ve learned to let the Patty part go, you just have to or you’ll go insane.)

Went out that day to a local pub. Let’s lap up this attention. Time to live like a Lord. Now then, who’s buying the Irish man a drink?! Saw a couple of good-looking girls decked out in leprechaun attire at the bar. Went up to say hello. They looked at me like I was demented. Asked me why I sounded so weird. I said that’s just my Irish accent. They said I wasn’t Irish, they’re not stupid. I said I was, I’m from Cork. One of the girls told me she spent a year studying in U.C.C. She wasn’t stupid. She knew I wasn’t from Cork. I started floundering. Rattled.

Pulled out my Irish driving licence as proof. They laughed. No way is that pink sheet of paper real. Now I was on the ropes. Took out my passport. They claimed that wasn’t me in the photo. Well it’s a ten-year passport, I had short hair back then. Then they all told me to stop putting on the fake accent, they knew it was a lie. “Plus,” one of them said, “You’re not even wearing a green t-shirt, there’s no way you’re Irish. Loser.”

No green t-shirt, fatal error.

Since then I never knock people who like to embrace my Irishness. Just last weekend a girl exclaimed loudly when she realized where my accent was from “I’m kinda Irish too!” How so? “It’s mostly because of this girl.” How the fu- I mean, who is she? “She’s my first daughter’s Dad’s ex-wife’s lover’s niece.” And that’s how you’re kind of Irish? “Well her name is Ireland.” Oh right. Well, yeah, I said, that does make you Irish all right. Now then, about that drink you were getting us…

Red FM Interview Part I

Red FM Interview Part II

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