Mr. Joyce Takes on the World

Guinness Isn’t Green! “I don’t go out on St. Patrick’s Day. That’s when the amateurs come out.” My uncle Tom used to say. St. Patrick’s Day was once a celebration of Irish heritage. Now, it’s just an excuse to drink green-colored American beer. Well, at least that’s what it is in America, in some places. To me, it was this day where being Irish meant something to the rest of the world. I never bought into the idea that everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day, any more than everyone is a bunny on Easter Sunday. But, growing up in a household with Irish heritage, it was always a big deal. Growing up with an Irish last name means that you’re aware of your ancestry from a very young age. When you ask, “What are we?”   The answer is always the same, “We’re Irish.” It was never, “Irish-American,” just, “Irish.” None of my living relatives have been to Ireland (except one of my nephews from one of my half-sisters). None of us speak Irish (though I knew...

Meditations on a Timeless Muse My friend Megan had made me a promise a few years back. She's said, “If Loreena McKennitt comes back to Pittsburgh, we'll go see her.” That promise was fulfilled on November fifth, Guy Fawkes Day! We didn't blow anything up, but we did have a wonderful time. Incidentally, our American election was on that Tuesday...less said about that, the better. I've been a fan of Ms. McKennitt since I was a teenager. My first exposure to her music was from the documentary No Journey's End —in which she was depicted on tour, while writing her then current album The Mask and Mirror (1994, pictured above). That same album was to become my first Loreena McKennitt album. I played it so many times, almost in marathons back in the 90's. I memorized the entire thing. I'd play it back-to-back with The Visit and The Book of Secrets . I even read along with the lyric books. This concert, as part of the Troubadour ...

A Post 11/9 World (Yes, you read that right) A few months ago I gave up my seat on the bus, so that a young Muslim couple could sit next to each other. The man thanked me profusely. He smiled, and was incredibly grateful. I didn't think much of it at first, seeing as how this was just courtesy on my part. I'd given up my seat to elderly people, women, men, and couples before. It just seemed like the right thing to do. It wasn't until this morning that the gravity of that gesture came to me. His wife wore a hijab, and he also wore traditional clothing. Both of them were African-American as well. I might be reading too deeply into this, but it's possible that few people had been that courteous to them. I see that same man almost every day downtown—where he sells handmade soaps and essential oils from a street vendor's cart. I don't know how well he does, but I hope it's enough for both he and his wife to survive. Believe me, I...