Author: jamesfinngarner

This post originally appeared on my Substack page, The Bung & Gargle.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, everybody!

And to my Irish immigrant ancestors who came to Chicago just in time to deal with the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, I salute you. You came over with only the tattered clothes on your back, leaving economic misery, high child mortality and memories of Black ‘47. You put up with virulent bigotry and exploitation in America, and within 2 generations, you owned a couple of two-flats. But that wasn’t too bad at the time, for immigrants. It was actually pretty good.

My Chicago-Irish bona fides: One of my great-grandmothers was a servant girl for Potter Palmer, the wealthy hotelier. Family legend has it that she served people fleeing the Great Fire hot coffee in the Palmers’ china cups.Subscribed

My great-grandfather was a cop on the beat. His son worked in shipping at the stockyards, riding a horse to meet the trains as they brought cattle in boxcars from the farms of the Midwest. He later made money on weekends selling insurance to other Irishmen, a well-worn path to the middle class at the time.

By that time, they weren’t Irish, they were Irish-Americans, that strange hybrid that evolves over time with every ethnic group. They had no more connection with Ireland than with Mt. Everest, though they’d offer to punch you out if you brought it up. An identity formed in the push-pull of “what the old folks say,” where you went to church, what career you pursued, which high school/college you attended, and which nearby ethnic group gave you the most trouble.

(I grew up in Dearborn, Mich., surrounded by Polish- and Italian-American families, and not a few French, who maintained strong ties to Canada. I had no idea that this ethnic mix would be a concern for my parents in the 1960s, but back in the Chicago ‘hoods they came from, it definitely was. And let’s not even get into race. There was enough animosity among white ethnics without examining, y’know, ALL of American history. Dearborn was always a segregated city.)

I don’t consider myself an Irish-American. There was always too much baggage. I’m not Catholic anymore, despite 12 years of parochial school. I married a woman of Dutch ancestry (she’s 100%, so I did feel quite Irish-American when I met her grandparents! Like, Dennis Leary Irish). The teams for both my grade school and high school were named Shamrocks.

Had I grown up here in Chicago, down in the Irish-American enclave of Beverly, I might feel a stronger connection with the heritage. I’d also feel the suffocating effects of hanging out still with the guys I went to grade school with, secretly drinking at kids’ baseball games, hearing stories of juvenile embarrassment for the 100th time, wondering what any other kind of life would be like. Uncles getting plowed at weddings and fist-fighting with their own kids. Aunts making you feel guilty that you didn’t make more of yourself. Cousins with long memories and sharp tongues. Who knows, I might still be Catholic.

And now we head into the Irish-American holiday of St. Patrick’s Day, a time for day-long drinking and shamrock deely-bobbers. Green-beer-a-palooza. Amateur Hour. Don’t get me wrong, I think America needs more excuses for drinking (and after the last election, we’re getting more and more).

The drinking starts early in Chicago, as people line the State Street Bridge to watch the river get dyed green. Many people don’t believe it’s a thing we do here, but it is. It was started in 1961 by the plumbers union, who used to use the dye to find leaks in the river. It has grown into a bigger and bigger event over the years, but still handled by the union.

A downtown parade follows, but since they’ve moved most parades from crowded State Street to the edge of Grant Park, it’s cold and windy and not as much fun. There are also 3 other parades in town, on the northwest side, near Midway Airport, and down on the southwest side. The southwest side parade, in the aforementioned Beverly neighborhood, is the biggest and showiest of them. Maybe this year I’ll make it down there, though it’s almost an hour’s drive and among people who started drinking early to watch the river get dyed green.

If I go, it will be strictly a sociological expedition, with minimal drinking. Sorry to sound like a sourpuss. I don’t own much greenwear or a Notre Dame sweatshirt. I’ll be eager to see how many traits associated with Irish-Americans are on display there.

The commitment to social justice, support for the underdog, joy in song and literature?

Or drinking, fighting, cursing and racism? At least I’ll have no cousins there to watch out for. They all had the gumption to move out.

These sound stereotypical, but strains of truth lurk behind most stereotypes. There are worse ones to be found in the world. No one ever says Irish-Americans are bad drivers, for example. Look at all the experience we get driving police cars and fire trucks.

Embodying some of these stereotypes wouldn’t be a bad thing, either, at least the ennobling ones. But it’s difficult to pick and choose.Subscribed

Singing? For our entire lives, my mother has told my brothers and me that we can’t sing. “What are you trying to sing now?” was often heard around the house. Years ago, a supervisor humiliated her during her student teaching, telling her, “Never sing in front of a classroom of children again.” This still comes up in conversation 70 years later. That kind of grudge-holding is pretty Irish, I’ll give Mom credit. (In the meantime, my brother has sung on Broadway, and I have managed a song or two onstage in Chicago, and no one was lynched. Looked at one way, it’s sheer stubbornness, but at another, it’s perseverance.)

Storytelling? My family is not particularly rich with the gift of gab. My English-Irish-American father like peace and quiet around the house. “If you’re talking, you ain’t thinking,” was one of his mottos. He also once, in all seriousness, asked us all, “What do you think the dinner table is, a time to describe everything that happened during the day?”

Support for the underdog? As far as the loud advocacy of social justice, Dorothy Day doesn’t have to worry about competition. We lean left and help feed the hungry at church, but we don’t make a big show of it. That would be embarrassing.

For all these reasons, the arrival of St. Patrick’s Day always gives me mixed emotions. Watching underage college kids try little dances and drink themselves into oblivion isn’t “celebrating Irish culture” or the “many contributions the Irish have made to America.” It’s just a pagan springtime fertility rite in the trappings of a complicated ethnic identity, wrapped in Lucky Charms. I’m proud of that culture, but leery of it at the same time. But like most hyphenated American environments (thank God) it will soon be watered down so much that nothing will be left except theme bars and grocery store specials. Then maybe we can get on with the business of being decent Americans to one another.

Really, I wish we celebrated St. Joseph’s Day (for Italian-Americans) and Casimir Pulaski Day (for Polish-Americans) with equal gusto, so the whole of March could be one long party, full of food and drink and Catholic guilt.

Because, let’s be honest, the stereotype holds:

Irish-Americans can’t cook for shit.

Originally appeared on my Substack page, The Bung & Gargle

It’s brutal, trying to meet women in this town. I mean, it’s always been bad, but now? Sheesh. It used to be, you had to be good looking, with a great job and a big salary and prospects for more. Your own apartment in a cool part of town. Friends who could get you into clubs and parties. That was the baseline, that was minimum.

Now, you have to be completely on your best behavior at all times. No flirting, no off-color comments, no suggestive bottle fellating, nothing.

That’s why, when I go out, I always take along the 16th president of the United States.

Not the currency, dumbass. (As if five bucks would get you far anyway.)

Long tall Abe himself. The best wingman around.

Why? For one thing, Abe attracts attention. That stovepipe hat always gets comments, and even if they are nasty ones, he can turn things around in that self-deprecating way he’s got and have everyone laughing in no time. It’s uncanny. I mean, some women get positively freaky about the hat, right? Could it be Freudian? It wouldn’t work for you or me, but Abe owns it. They go bananas for his self-confidence and his urge to seem even taller.

And y’know how the biggest guy at the bar always attracts a fight from some dick trying to impress? Some punk will try and provoke Abe, and he’ll just chuckle and say, “Those who look for the bad in people will surely find it.” Before you know it, it’s all singalong “Lean on Me” time and shots all around, and I get points because he’s with me.Subscribed

But why is he a good wingman? Because no matter how much women bat their eyes at him, he never seals the deal. He’s just not going to take one home, right? No matter how many jokes about the big hands and feet, he’s always a gentleman. ‘Cuz he’s a Midwesterner, Illinois or something. You might think he’s slow, but it’s just a cultural thing. Then as he ponders the situation, I can come in and….

Not to get disgusting. I can be a gentleman, too, if I work at it. But you know. After a few drinks, it’s better to have a gentleman with you, is how I look at it.

Abe’s friendly, unpretentious, kind of a romantic brooder. They ask him what he’s so worried about. “Oh, the parlous state of our union,” he’ll sigh. Deep, right? But it also doesn’t allow for much follow-up, so you can just nod along and pretend to be in the conversation. And the women all get drunker, and when it’s closing time, who are they going to go for? A 55-year-old warty depressive with Marfan syndrome in a scratchy wool suit, or yours truly, who wrestled two years in high school? I mean, when he moans about his unstable wife, it gets their sympathy flowing, but soon it’s like a dude bitching about his ex, and they get tired of it, and I pop up talking about “This is Us” and the sitch takes its natural course FTW.

Look, I feel for the guy. He’s seen a lot. Sometimes he gets bit by what he calls the “black dog”, in which case I buy him a Margarita and tell him the fruit juice will help. I also call him “railsplitter”, cuz it cheers him up to remember simpler times. He’s a country guy, but, like, the real thing, right? No pre-stressed trucker hat or anything.

And he comes up with all those great quotes that just leave people’s jaws on the floor. Even I get impressed. “I hold that while man exists, it is his duty to improve not only his own condition, but to assist in ameliorating mankind.” I mean, in a crowded bar, you can’t even tell what he’s saying, but you know it’s something deep. Gravitas, man. And your phone gets a workout looking up things like “ameliorating.”

And then he’ll turn around and say something corny like, “A woman is the only thing I am afraid of that I know will not hurt me” or “If I were two-faced, would I be wearing this one?” Only from him, it’s not corny, it’s sincere. Yasss!

But sometimes, on a quiet night at the bar, Abe’ll look at me and wonder why we stick together. “My great concern is not whether you have failed,” he’ll tell me, “but whether you are content with your failure.”

“Don’t get all judgey on me, bruh,” I’ll say. “Live fast, die young, leave a beautiful corpse.”

Then Abe’ll get all quiet, like he’s had a premonition. He’ll look at the ground, rub his chin a little, and finally say, “That’s ‘President Bruh’ to you, douche.”

My friends Steve and Sharon Fiffer started a marvelous site a year ago called STORIED STUFF, where people show the various precious objects in their lives and share the story. He asked me to write one about baseball, so here are my random thoughts attached to an old autographed pill. To see the post in the original site, and to check the many other cool pieces of people’s personal memorabilia, visit Storied Stuff here.

This circus wagon toy from Fisher-Price was one of the most well-built and elaborate playthings I can remember from childhood. The wagon, which contained a multitude of pieces, had wooden bars, working wheels and entrance hatches both front and rear. I’m certain my brothers and I used it as a surfboard, go-cart and mule wagon many times, without inflicting any noticeable strain. Inside the wagon was all the rigging needed to put up a show: ladders, washtub platforms, trapezes, and a yellow center ring with a smooth side and a slotted side.

The circus itself had 11 performers. A camel and giraffe and show horse. A baby bear and a puppy. A monkey with a pipe cleaner tail that in no time snapped off of his wooden body. A seal with a red ball to snap on its nose. A ringmaster who looked like he enjoyed his drink (but remember, drunkenness was funny back then). And of course, a clown.

While I don’t remember getting this wagon as a gift, I do remember that this was basically mine alone, not shared with my older brothers. I spent many hours putting together performances with these and with any other character laying around: a GI Joe, a rubber orangutan, an orange, a swizzle stick.

A few days after President Kennedy was shot, Sacred Heart Church held a special memorial mass. My mother walked up to church and left us three in the care of a neighbor. While she was gone, I decided that all the characters in the circus needed a bath and dumped them in the bathroom sink. That is why the paper adorning the characters peeled off badly, ruining the resale value of the whole set 50 years later.

Apparently, our Scottie dog Tammy smelled some peanuts or cotton candy on this figure and treated himself to some circus food.

And this might be one reason I’ve never been afraid of clowns.

My friends Steve and Sharon Fiffer started a marvelous site a year ago called STORIED STUFF, where people show the various precious objects in their lives and share the story. He asked me to write one about baseball, so here are my random thoughts attached to an old autographed pill. To see the post in the original site, and to check the many other cool pieces of people’s personal memorabilia, visit Storied Stuff here.

This baseball was signed by all of the 1973 Detroit Tigers. I sprayed it with lacquer before my hands wore off the ink of all the signatures. This spherical madeleine is for:

–all the neighbor ladies (Mrs. Moran, Mrs. Galer, Mrs. Caccavo) who knew baseball and knew the players, and taught me a lot about dedication

–Father Bueche who was in charge of the altar boy ranks at church and took us down to Tiger Stadium occasionally, before being removed in scandal later

–all the men in the dark recesses of The Bengal Bar on Michigan Avenue—though I could never see you, I heard your shouts and laughs, and marveled at the tawdry pleasures of adulthood, and wondered who painted that near-psychedelic tiger on your vestibule wall

–the dozens of transistor radios — silver, aqua, cherry red, as the fashions changed — that I used to listen to Ernie Harwell

–the high school Dad’s Club dads, who always managed to snag a dozen of these baseballs to raffle off on new parent night, gladhanders my dad never could stand

–my mother, who pushed my dad constantly to take me downtown to a ballgame

–my dad, who only very late in his life finally told me he much preferred basketball over baseball

–Willie Horton, “Willie the Wonder,” always my favorite player, home-grown

–and Jim Ray, signing right next to Willie, about whom I remember absolutely nothing.

Let’s pause and raise a glass of cheer
To the closing of a horrid year

(Without our loved ones in the room,
We’ll have to give our toast on Zoom.)

Headaches and heartbreaks too long to list
In our own Annus Horribilis

Nor will all be fixed overnight
Like switching off the Christmas lights.

But you would have called me cray
If I’d described all this…STUFF… in May

The crisis has stretched on and on
But still we need to soldier on

Think of all we have endured
Grab your loins, get set to gird.

The one way out of this is through.
We all know what we have to do.

Stay safe, keep faith, be kind to each other,
Soon we’ll gather, sister and brother,

And sing “Auld Lang Syne” and dance and spoon
On or about the 12th of June.

For those of you who miss baseball and have been playing boardgames way too long:

1B   Ted “Clue” Kluszewski
2B   Wally Backgamman
SS   Leo Cardenas Against Humanity
3B   Howard Battleship

LF   Carl Yahtzeestremski
CF   Candyland Maldonado
RF   Shin-Soo Choo and Ladders

C     Ches Crist

RHP   Boardwalk Brown, David Riske, Chase De Mahjong
LHP   Lefty “Life” Leifield, Marshall Bridges

MGR   Luke Apples to Appling