The Sheila Variations

Ireland as a "winner"

Okay, so do you see this unintentionally funny sign? Check it out and then come back here.

There's so much about it that I find amusing:

-- First of all: the "probably" ... like ... what a vote of confidence! That's a professionally printed sign! And even then they are not quite sure about their greatness as a team. The "probably" cracks me up and just strikes me as so Irish.

-- And then the equally uncertain quotation marks around the word "best" - which gives the whole sign a snarky rolling-eyes quality that I am SURE is not intentional. They want to sound enthusiastic - but instead they sound sarcastic and jeering.

It's hysterical.

Like, imagine the sign said in a joking sneer. Put special emphasis on "probably". Do air quotes around "best". I mean, that's how the sign actually reads! I could get into this and how my interpretation of the main issue with the dismaying level of quotation mark misuse is that people think (somehow) that quotation marks mean italics. And so they use them for EMPHASIS.

But I will leave that for another post. Tangents begone.

Why I am even writing about all of this is that the sign - and what it ends up saying (as opposed to what the sign-makers really WANT it to say) reminds me of one of my favorite stories. It's from one of my jaunts to Ireland. I think it's rather profound, and the small anecdote is expressive of an entire culture - like, you can almost point to it and say: "THERE. THAT is what I am talking about!" ... but I prefer to just let the anecdote stand for itself. It was a pure and beautiful moment. And my sisters and I are still laughing about it.

I call it:

Losing in Ireland

The doors of the crazy Donnybrook pub burst open, letting in at least twenty ravaging guys, coming from the rugby game. I stand beside one of them at the bar, waiting for the harassed bartender to take notice of us. This guy's hand is bleeding, wrapped up in a handkerchief. He has an enormous devilish smile on his face and a cracked tooth. Others have black eyes. Cut lips. They pour liquor down their throats. They smash their mugs onto the bar. They make out with random girls, who laugh, and shove them away. They light each other's cigarettes, and laugh uproariously. Some of them have the colors of the Irish flag painted on their faces.

My sisters and I watch the spectacle of testosterone, huddled in our corner.

A manic conga line forms and cuts a path through the pub.

Jean turns to the little elfish guy named Brian who has become our new best friend. "So I guess Ireland won, huh?" she says as the conga line rages by.

Brian replies casually, "Oh no, we lost."

We gape at him, turning wordlessly to stare at the unmistakably nationalistic ecstasy, ricocheting down the whiskey-soaked conga line. We scan the fanatical expressions on the green, white, and orange faces. We then glance back at Brian, full of silent questions.

He shrugs. "It was a moral victory."

Posted by sheila | TrackBack