Comments on: A New Year

By: matt

matt — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 16:13:43 +0000

thanks! i don’t know about dervala but it was killing me trying to figure out where it came from.

By: JerryT

JerryT — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 22:19:26 +0000

I don’t have a clue why I asked that question. :)

By: dervala

dervala — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 18:48:36 +0000

@Mark: Greetings to New Zealand and happy new year. I didn’t recognise the Keats quote at all—must not have been “on the course” in 1990.

@Matt: I didn’t even notice that! Although Jerry is American, so we’ll have to ask what prompted his question.

By: matt

matt — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 12:14:22 +0000

Irish people read this essay as an obituary to a roasted pig?

By: Mark

Mark — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 03:03:02 +0000

… and if we’re going to get into epitaph devising I’m opting (perhaps not terribly originally) for:
“With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stainèd mouth;”

Although Spike Milligan’s “I told you I was ill.” is a real classic!
As is the fact that the there was a kerfuffle over the line being not appropriate in a graveyard, so the eventual compromise was to have it engraved as gaeilge: “Duirt me leat go raibh me breoite.”
I like to think that Spike would have loved that!

By: Mark

Mark — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 01:34:15 +0000

D, you MUST be kidding!

It’s not what we’ve done – it’s the people we touch and vice versa, and you almost qualify for the “too little butter spread over too much bread” category.

Belated New Year’s Greetings.

By: dervala

dervala — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 01:00:59 +0000

I think it would be pretty simple, Jerry—daughter of, sister of, and a short list of placenames.

By: JerryT

JerryT — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 22:34:28 +0000

What will your obit say if you die before another ten years pass? Mine will have a lot of periods, hyphens, and spaces in it.

By: matt

matt — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 14:48:16 +0000

Only about a third show up for each other’s shows— even when it’s convenient— it is kind of disturbing.

By: India

India — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 02:45:31 +0000

Not too long after the 1990–91 recession, I went to a career thing at my college where students and alumni broke up into small groups by field—financial people in one room, lawyers in another, academics in a third. I was in the tiny artsy fartsy group, of course, and one of my fellow alumni, an aspiring opera singer, gave the youngsters this stellar piece of advice: Always eat the finest, freshest food available to you, because you will never have health insurance. It sounds like your piglet was presented in that spirit.