Puissant

On a cold, snowy evening, I curled up in a comfortable chair, wrapped 
myself in a warm blanket and read a tome on Celtic culture. I came across the phrase, "the puissant Celtic race..." I dinna ken its meaning, so left my toasty cocoon and went to my dependable dictionary.


Puissant - adjective, archaic, poetic/literary meaning having great power or influence.

St. Paddy's Day being only a few weeks away, this phrase stirred a musing on my Celtic roots.


During the Paleolithic era, tribes with common bloodlines wandered Europe and crossed the land bridges to Britain and Ireland. As the glaciers melted, the seas rose separating these landmasses from continental Europe. Celts traveled across Europe, to the Iberian Peninsula, across the water to Ireland, from there to Scotland. Others crossed the water from what is now France to Britain. They did not know that the people they encountered shared common lineage.

The race had a powerful influence indeed. Before the dawn of the Roman Empire, Celtic tribes controlled from the North Sea to the Mediterranean, from the Atlantic Ocean to the Black Sea. Their strong points included lyrical poetry, art and metallurgy. While the Celts had strong clan loyalty, their weak point was organization.

They had no central leaders, no strong governmental units. Thus they fell under the aegis of first the Roman Empire, then succeeding regimes. The Celts were true anarchists. Proof that anarchy can lead to a fruitful, vibrant society despite the word's modern connotation.

So, instead of celebrating St. Paddy's Day in a drunk revel of Guinness and whiskey, explore Irish culture.   Enjoy the words of James Joyce, Jonathan Swift, W.B. Yeats and a host of others. Experience the joy of Celtic myth through Herminie Kavanagh's Darby O'Gill stories. Listen to the sounds of the Chieftains, the Irish Rovers. For those with more modern tastes try the Drop Kick Murphys and Floggin Molly.

Make the day much more than just a green dyed Frat party...boy maturity sucks.  As ever - BB

"For the Gaels of Ireland are men that God made mad/For all their wars are merry/And all their songs sad." - G.K. Chesterton

Pun Intended

Bernadette stared at the charred edges of the cape in her hands. “We were lucky, fortunate, charmed. That could have been our demise, the end, finito.”

Billy began to chuckle then stifled it under her angry gaze. Bernie’s habit of tripling synonyms always amused him and inspired her superhero persona, Thesaurus Girl. “You’re right. We need to find flame-proof fabric for our costumes,” he said.

“It’s not just that,” she rejoined. “We need to prepare better. We’re always going off half-cocked, flat-footed, off guard. That’s dangerous, perilous, risky.” Biting his tongue to hold back the snicker, he nodded agreement. Since that first day, her acceptance of his mission astounded him.

Two days after the “cable incident” unleashed his super powers, Billy wandered across the street to Boots Saloon. The red letters once read, GO-GO GIRLS, but years ago the “S” had fallen off the sign. It had never been replaced which was apropos as the bar never had more than one girl per shift. Bernadette worked afternoons and Gwen nights. A variety of wigs, costumes and noms de danse gave the pretense of new dancers.

Billy stared into a beer as Bernie sat at his table. Maybe he was still woozy from the incident, or maybe he just needed to tell someone. He started babbling about his new found power and using it to fight crime in the neighborhood. Perhaps vocalizing his idea could somehow convince him of its folly.

When he finished, Billy raised his head expecting scorn or ridicule. Instead, her eyes burned with intensity. “That’s just what we need around here. But book smarts alone won’t cut it. I can be your aide, your assistant, your sidekick,” Bernie said.

He’d seen her strength and agility while pole dancing, but crime fighting? She proceeded to tell him how dancing had led to yoga, then kickboxing, then several different martial arts. Their partnership was formed.

Back in their basement lair, Thesaurus Girl opened her laptop to search for flameproof material. Billy idly leafed through the city paper. The half-page ad grabbed his attention. “We may not have time for new costumes,” he said.

Bernie looked up as he handed her the paper. The large bold type jumped out at her.

Looking for a warm reception? Lumber on down to The Trap!

For more information call 1-A-HOT TIME 

Ask for loquacious lad or garrulous girl

A PUNSTER ENTERPRISE

Bernie quickly dialed the number on her cell phone and a machine answered. “Hello dynamic dimwits. I knew you'd call. You dolts just detonated another devious device. You’ve got twenty minutes until it explodes. Did you hear about the dictionary that fell into the river?” The line went dead.

“What the hell does that mean?” asked Thesaurus Girl.

“It’s a pun. The dictionary was un-a-bridged,” responded Dictionary Man. “The bomb is under a bridge, but which one? The clock’s ticking, so there’s no time to prepare. Looks like our modus operandi is to be half-cocked, flat-footed, off guard.”

Thesaurus Girl shot him a nasty look as she grabbed her singed costume to once again face the Punster.

Will our heroes find the bomb and get there in time to defuse it? Tune in again for further adventures of the discourse duo.

Trinity of Tripsters

Since I can remember I’ve danced to the “sound of a different drummer.” Could it be organic, caused by an odd translocation of my chromosomes, or a mutation in my neural network? Perhaps it’s environmental. By the age of 10, I had watched The Rocky & Bullwinkle Show, the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Kennedy assassination and The Outer Limits with equal relish.

 Early on, I was exposed to three great tripsters.

1. Lord Buckley – At age 12, my friend, Dave, and I would sit in his basement listening to the Lord's albums for hours. His raps illuminated the rhythm, irreverence and beauty in language. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LHPrNCQQBvY
2. Over the next few years, my friend Pat’s musical interest shifted from rock to jazz. He turned me on to Rashaan Roland Kirk. A talented multi-instrumentalist, he’d play several saxes, a flute and other instruments at the same time. His monologues during performances were laced with satire and absurdist humor. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPATPXGJgKo
3. In 1968, I read The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. That led me to On the Road. They bookend the life of Neal Cassady from the beat beginnings of the late 40s to the psychedelic awakenings of the mid 60s. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=99uZor1OTO0

 Did my multifarious make-up attract me to these bohemians, or did their early influence shape my persona? That is my chicken/egg conundrum.

This unorthodox trinity still produces my Inner Smile. Voltaire wrote, "Let us read and let us dance - two amusements that will never do any harm to the world." They may not harm, but I view those amusements as driving forces in the revolution. As ever – BB

"If I can't dance - I don't want to be part of your revolution." - Emma Goldman

Apologia for Philly Phans

Before I begin, Apologia for the Latin-challenged means a statement or defense of a position. It is not an acknowledgement of an offense.

For over half a century, I have suffered the slings and arrows of being a Philadelphia sports fan. Recently, our teams have done well, but infamy darkens our sports' story. The Phillies have lost more games than any other franchise in history. The 76ers once won only nine games over an entire season. The Eagles have not won a championship since 1960. Despite winning two Stanley Cups in the mid-70s, those Flyers were better known for brawls and the appellation, The Broad Street Bullies.

But we fans still buy tickets. Still wear our jerseys. Still bleed the team colors. (The Phillies' color is red, so that's no big deal. Especially when the drunk sitting behind you wields a ice pick.)  We cheer and some times boo. Okay, maybe boo more than cheer. But if your translate Philadelphia from the  Kione Greek it means City of Brotherly Tough Love. Honest, I read that on the Interweb, so it must be true. 

As Jere Longman wrote is his book,  If Football's A Religion, Why We Don't Have a Prayer,  "Philadelphia has gained a reputation for its fans' hostile taunting, fighting, public urination and general strangeness." Of course, he was writing about Veteran's Stadium's infamous 700 level. The Vet is gone. Lincoln Financial Field and Citizen's Bank Stadium are kinder, gentler places.

Well sort of - an 11-year-old girl was purposefully vomited on by a fan at a Phillies' game last year. Then there was the guy who ran out on the field, avoided police and had to be tased. A couple weeks later, a 19-year-old in a red bodysuit ran onto the field. The police didn't use a taser  despite the fact that the entire stadium was yelling, "Tase him, Tase him!" With the exorbitant cost of not only the tickets, but concessions, can you blame fans for wanting the most out of their entertainment dollar?

Being a Philadelphia fan is a family tradition. Game day is a chance for families to bond. Even our opponents recognise this fact. Take ex-New York Giant, Michael Strahan, "It's the only place where you pull up on the bus and you've got the grandfather, the grandmother, the kids and the grand kids - everybody flicking you off." By flicking, he refers to the displaying of the middle finger.

They say you are what you eat. Philly fans eat things like hoagies, scrapple, cheese steaks, tastykakes, soft pretzels (the ones you buy from some guy on the side of the street marinated in exhaust fumes) and wash'em down with a Frank's Black Cherry Wishniak. Could this explain our behavior? It's a Phanatic-version of the Twinkie Defense, but much tastier. As ever - BB

"The streets are safe in Philadelphia, it's only the people that make them unsafe." Frank Rizzo