Friday, February 13, 2015

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

All Things Irish -- The Stories Continue

So I went to the Leprechaun museum in Dublin--to it, not into it. I was expecting the usual sort of museum where you pay your money, get an audio guide and muddle muddily through moldy old halls of incredibly interesting--but at the same time impossibly boring--stuff. The Leprechaun museum in Dublin is actually a tour of Irish lore through storytelling, with a real person telling you the stories. This may sound like grand fun to you, but I was having daymares of being the only person on the tour and having to listen intently to a storyteller for an hour. It was the middle of the day mid-week a few days after Christmas. There was no one else in the queue. It would have been embarrassing for both the tour guide and myself--especially if he was one of those storytellers who's overanimated. I might have had a laugh attack, and there would have been no tourists to hide behind. I decided to save the Leprechaun museum-slash-storytelling adventure for another time when I'm in a group of wide, hide-behindable people. I went to the pub instead to read a book and have a pint of cider.

While we're waiting for my wonderful Leprechaun storytelling adventure, I thought I'd let you know how I'm doing on my Irish literature list given to me by Irish writer friends. If you need a refresher, go HERE, but come right back!

I started with Edna O'Brien's The Country Girls Trilogy, and what an amazing start it was. How do you dog-ear an entire 550-page book? It's hard, especially when you want to dog-ear back and front two or three times. Sadly, my response to O'Brien's prose, her characters, and her narrative choices in general are stuff for something more ambitious and serious than this blog; but I'll let you know when that is published elsewhere. For now just know that Edna O'Brien rules. That sounds pat, but there you are. She's a master.

OK, here's something that will also be big fun: I can let you in on some Irish vocabulary I've learned from The Country Girls Trilogy. So much of Ireland's character, or that of any other country for that matter, relies on language. And it just so happens that I love language. Here are a few new--or sort of new--expressions I've learned:

a press -- a cupboard for linens

to feck something -- to steal or take without asking. This word has other meanings, and is also a morpheme in the standard-usage word feckless (irresponsible, lazy), and it is also used as a mild oath.

eejit -- A stupid person as in "You're a right looking eejit." This word has burst the borders of Ireland I think. It's become so used that you've surely heard it. I know I have. People call me this all the time.

minerals -- sodas or, as we call them where I'm from, co-colas (regardless of the flavor)

to link someone -- Now this might sound like you want to hurt the person, but in Irish English it means to walk arm-in-arm with him/her. Or at least I hope this is what it means. Irish friends to the rescue, please!

Are these expressions new to you? The official word for Irish English is Hiberno English (from Hibernia or the Latin name for the island of Ireland). You can read more about it HERE.

This week I'll be reading The Gathering by Anne Enright. Can't wait to tuck into that.

If you're in need of a bit of reading this week, you could check out my story "Other Household Toxins" at the very cool journal Night Train. Clicking on THIS LINK will make you 84% prettier. 

I must be off,


Christopher Allen is the author of Conversations with S. Teri O'Type (a Satire), an episodic adult cartoon about a man struggling with expectations. Allen's writing has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Indiana Review, Night Train, Quiddity, SmokeLong Quarterly: the Best of the First Ten Years anthology, Prime Number Magazine, [PANK] blog, Necessary Fiction, Word Riot, Bootsnall Travel, Chicken Soup for the Soul and lots of other good places. A finalist at Glimmer Train in 2011, Allen has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize twice.    

Saturday, January 31, 2015

Plain Etiquette -- Lessons from a Wise Sky

Plane etiquette should actually be called plain etiquette. The way we treat people on planes is the way we treat people. Period. Plain and simple.

Recently I've seen several posts and videos about passengers behaving badly on planes: people clipping their toenails, people sleeping with their bare feet stuck into the air above the person in front of them, people poking their feet through the gap in the seats. Come to think of it, most of the posts and videos focus on feet.

Not Everyone Loves Your Feet

Do you take your shoes off in the plane? On long-haul flights I do. It's the first thing I do actually after I sit down. I'm also a teensie-weensie bit fanatical about keeping my shoes smelling fresh. Some people consider taking your shoes off on a plane bad manners, but you take your shoes off when you visit someone's home in Europe or Asia--or at least you ask if you should or shouldn't. And just like when you visit someone's home, you might want to bring along some sturdy "plane socks" for the ride especially if your feet are ugly. Taking your shoes off on a plane is only gross if you're gross. Some honest reflection is required here.

From the website "Rage Against the Minivan"
Lean Back and Relax

The drama of when and how to lean back in your seat is a matter of much discussion--not enough, though, since most people don't quite get it. I've had countless encounters. Here's the plain plane etiquette:

The seat is designed to lean back, therefore you have the right to lean back (I'm sure Descarte would have agreed). If the person behind you is angry about this, she or he needs to write a letter to some agency or something. But just because you have this right, it doesn't mean you can use it whenever you want. There are a few unwritten rules:

1. Lean back only once the plane has reached cruising altitude.
2. Lean back slowly. The person behind you might have his/her head against the seat. This person is probably suffering from depression, so for God's sake have mercy.
3. Return your seat to the upright position during meals. Flight attendants used to insist on this, but they've given up on reminding people. They have enough to do.
4. Check to make sure the person behind you doesn't have his smelly feet in the gap between your seat and the one next to you. You might injure him as you lean back. Just because someone else is a pig, doesn't mean you have to be one too.

From Jab iPad Sleeves
Caress, Don't Pummel

On many planes, the video/music screens are touch activated, like an iPad. If you're not used to using an iPad, you might think you need to punch the Hell out of that screen to get it to work. You don't. Or you shouldn't. The screens don't work very well to tell the truth. Sometimes you have to touch the screen in just the right way to get it to work (think rocky relationship); most require a simple yet subtly firm touch--not a jab. Thing is, every time you jab that screen, you're jabbing the guy in front of you. I've seen these altercations dozens of times. "Do you mind????!!!!" says the guy you've been poking for 30 minutes as you browse-jab through the R&B selections. You can't find Beyoncé to save your life. The guy you've pissed off is usually 20 feet taller than you and stinky. "I can't find Beyoncé," you whimper. "That's not my problem!" A piece of chicken, beef or tortellini flies out of his mouth and sticks to your face. "I'll just read," you say. "Reading's for sissies," he says. And you wonder why he doesn't put his seat in the upright position during meals.

There's a Time to Talk and a Time to Shut Your Cakehole

Have you been in this situation? The one where the human next to you introduces himself when he sits down and then never--never once, not even for two seconds--stops talking to you?

Time on airplanes is cherished writing time for me. Transatlantic flights are 8 hours when I'm strapped to a seat with pen and paper in my hand--something I'd introduce at home if I had (more) straps.

How to know whether the person sitting next to you is an introverted writer who needs his writing time:

1. He doesn't smile or introduce himself when you do it. He might even wince or try to shield himself from your onslaught of blah blah blah.
2. He keeps touching his journal in a tender, longing way.
3. His contribution to your conversation ambush in the last two hours has been a couple of  "Um"s and one "I'll be right back. Nature's calling." He leaves with pen and paper and doesn't come back for an hour (only because a flight attendant made him leave the lavatory).
4. When you ask what his star sign is, he says he doesn't have one. Freaky, yes, but true he says.
5. You have asked him 4587 questions to his 0.
6. He does not react with sympathy when you tell him the story of when you lost your first, second and third dogs--though you are weeping uncontrollably and he is--at heart--at dog person. 

There are several types of chatterboxes. There's the guy who needs to brag (about where he's off to and what he does and all the places he's ever been to), the woman who needs to figure you out and help you (because you're just a stupid man with a wilted capacity for understanding human emotion), the person who's into you and thinks rattling on for six hours non-stop is attractive, and the person who is insane and needs to tell you all about it. None of these people is the friendly guy who just enjoys a friendly conversation. Friendly people don't monopolize your time for hours and hours. To avoid this situation, all you have to do is one or a combination of the following:

1. Put in your earbuds and pretend to listen to music even if you can't find Beyoncé. Really, she should be easier to find on planes.
2. Pretend to be asleep until chatterbox falls asleep. Sleeping people snore a little. Practice this.
3. Fart.
4. Be rude. Come clean. Tell the person you need to write . . . a letter. Whatever you do, don't tell the person you're a writer. This will start an entirely new conversation, not about your writing--oh no, he doesn't give a flying rat's behind about you--but about the chatterbox's ideas for his own book about his own life. He's always wanted to be a writer. His life is so fascinating and tragic--the dogs dying and all--and inspiring and so emotional.
5. If you haven't spoken yet or indicated that you can hear, pretend to be deaf. Can you sign? Learn a few elementary words. If you have no time for this, pretend to be Albanian. No one speaks Albanian. Hell, I'm not even sure it's a language.

Bags, Bags and More Bags

How many carry-on bags do you try to smuggle onto a plane where only one is allowed? Are you the person who basically looks like a pack mule coming down the aisle? Purses, pillows, teddy bears, six bottles of gin from duty-free, a tricyle. Where do you think you're going to put all this shit? And why do you look so surprised and helpless when you can't find a place to put it all? Especially if you're the last person to board the plane?

It might come as a surprise to you, but the engineer who designed the airplane actually had in mind what kind of luggage would fit up there in that bin. There was actually a method to all this overhead bin madness.

Are you the person who brings the largest case allowed onto the plane and then puts it in the overhead bin sideways? It will fit--it's designed to fit--with the bottom of the case in the back and the handle in front of the bin. Three large cases will fit this way. If you put yours in sideways, only one will fit in there until the flight attendant comes and rearranges everything for the other passengers while you're texting on your iPhone, totally oblivious to the work you've caused.

If you're seated in the emergency exit row, put your bags in the overhead bin for take-off and landing. You have to, so why not do it before the flight attendant has to ask you three times? The emergency exit rows have to be completely clear--nothing at all under the seat in front of you--for take-off and landing. I can't tell you how many times I've watched this happen. I rarely say anything. It's not my job. But I watch it happen: the woman stuffing her purse, her coat, her tricycle under the seat in front of her, getting everything all nice and snug. Then the flight attendant comes and explains the rules to her. The passenger then pretends to start moving stuff to the overhead bin (where there is no room actually because she's waited so long to do this), but then rubber-necks to see if the flight attendant has stopped watching her and starts stuffing the stuff back under the seat. The flight attendant comes back and says something like "I mean business, honey. You have to put that stuff in the overhead bin." "OK, OK," the passenger says and laughs like all of this is so unnecessary and the flight attendant is making her do something compeletly stupid. The same procedure: passenger pretends to put stuff up top but then doesn't; flight attendant comes back and does the crap transfer for the passenger. Passenger does not stop talking about how stupid and unreasonable the flight attendant is until plane reaches cruising altitude. I've seen it a dozen times.  

Oh how I love writing these Lessons from a Wise Sky posts. I feel as if I've done two hours of yoga. You certainly have some peeves of your own to add to my list.

Namaste and I must be off,


Christopher Allen is the author of Conversations with S. Teri O'Type (a Satire), an episodic adult cartoon about a man struggling with expectations. Allen's writing has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Indiana Review, Night Train, Quiddity, SmokeLong Quarterly: the Best of the First Ten Years anthology, Prime Number Magazine, [PANK], Necessary Fiction, Word Riot, Bootsnall Travel, Chicken Soup for the Soul and lots of other good places. A finalist at Glimmer Train in 2011, Allen has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize twice.    

Sunday, January 11, 2015

Literature -- the Irish Way

You'd be surprised what a few hours of browsing the tourist shops in Dublin will do to ignite your enthusiasm for Irish history, culture and the various uses for sheep. There's so much green, for example, and not so much orange. Why is that? Why is the harp a symbol of Ireland? What do all those Celtic signs mean? Is Dublin really the 'Best City in the World' as it says on the hoodie I've just purchased, hoping it will fit my father? When is Bloomsday anyway? There is no end to the thing called All Things Irish.

"These hats and calendars are half-price," the woman behind the counter says, sweeping the air grandly at the wall of merchandise behind her. She waits for me to choose a hat bearing a four-leaf clover or a calendar of quaint pubs and country inns.

"That's it," I say. "Just the Guinness socks, the Dublin hoodie, the Leprechaun lighter, the ten Celtic design refrigerator spoon magnets, the Irish fudge and of course the sheep."


She looks behind me for the sheep.

"Just kidding about the sheep . . . unless you have one half-price . . . in black."

She laughs. The Irish have a sense of humor. If I'd said this in Germany, I might have got a 10-minute straight-faced explanation of why the shop was not licensed to sell livestock. Not fair, not fair, you say. You obviously have not had to explain your ironic little witticisms a hundred times.

I saunter out of the fourth or fifth trinket shop, all selling the same tourist wares, and head off to Hodges Figgis--the big bookstore behind Trinity College. A side note: Hodges Figgis was founded in 1768 and mentioned in Ulysses. It is now--horrors!!--owned by the British retail book monstrosity Waterstones. Is nothing Irish in Ireland anymore?

Oh well. I'm off to Hodges Figgis to pick up the book The Closet of Savage Mementos by Nuala Ní Chonchúir (who I know is Irish), but I also want to browse the Irish fiction section to get an idea of what I'm dealing with if I want to learn everything there is to know about Irish writers. I am, after all, in the throes of All Things Irish.

After a wee browse, it goes without saying I want to give up. There are so many Irish writers I've never heard of. I'm much more familiar with acquaintances who are Irish writers than the ones who came before them. James Claffey and Robin Graham are exceptional writers, and I've interviewed them here at I Must Be Off as part of my Expat Author Interview Series. Nuala Ní Chonchúir is the only writer I know who still lives in Ireland. Together they must hold the key to unlock the mysteries of Irish literature, so instead of browsing these shelves like an eejit, I've decided to ask them what I should read.

James Claffey's debut collection of short fiction, Blood a Cold Blue, blew me away. You can read my review of it here. From his blog: Claffey hails from County Westmeath, Ireland, and lives on an avocado ranch in Carpinteria, CA, with his wife, the writer and artist, Maureen Foley, their daughter, Maisie, and Australian cattle-dog, Rua. Blood a Cold Blue is published by Press 53.

Robin Graham is (not only) a travel writer focusing (not only) on Spain. He's published dozens of travel articles. His writing is rich, engaging and smart. Read his essays and travel anecdotes at You can read my interview with him here.


Nuala Ní Chonchúir is a fiction writer and poet originally from Dublin. She has published two novels, four collections of short fiction, a chapbook of flash fiction and three full poetry collections - one in an anthology. Nuala's third much-anticiapted novel, Miss Emily, will be published in 2015. Her novel The Closet of Savage Mementos was the Irish Times Book Club book of the month in December 2014.You can read a conversation I had with the author in 2013 here.


Without further ado, here's my required reading recommended by these fine Irish writer peeps:

The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman (yay! I've already read this one!!)
The Third Policeman by Flann O'Brien
Anything by Samuel Beckett (I've read Waiting for Godot. Phew!) 
The Blackwater Lightship by Colm Toibin
Langrishe Go Down by Aidan Higgins
The Country Girls Triology by Edna O'Brien 
The Last September by Elizabeth Bowen
The Gathering by Anne Enright

And you? Do you have suggestions for me? 

I must be off (to read),


Christopher Allen is the author of Conversations with S. Teri O'Type (a Satire), an episodic adult cartoon about a man struggling with expectations. Allen's writing has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Indiana Review, Night Train, Quiddity, SmokeLong Quarterly's Best of the First Ten Years anthology, Prime Number Magazine, [PANK], Necessary Fiction, Word Riot, Bootsnall Travel, Chicken Soup for the Soul and lots of other good places. A finalist at Glimmer Train in 2011, Allen has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize twice.

Thursday, January 8, 2015

New Story at Contrary Magazine

Biodegradable Urn from Memorial Gallery Dot Com
I'm a big fan of Glee maybe because I never had that experience as a teenager but should have. A year ago at a writers conference in Seattle I was talking about how I sob during almost every Glee episode when another writer turned to me and said "So do I"--so I guess I'm not alone. The show pushes buttons and pulls at heartstrings. Maybe I'm just a sucker and a sap for song.

When I was a singer years and years ago, I'd get so emotional on stage that I couldn't sing. It's one of the reasons I decided to stop singing professionally. I've never actually said that to anyone, but well there you go. That's just between you and me . . . and the apparently 200,000 other people-slash-spambots who come here each month. Yes, go ahead and laugh, you unfeeling Russian spambots: I cry.

I get choked up sometimes when I read my stories in public as well, so it's not just song that sets me off. The psychologists out there are welcome to chime in. I'd like to be able to read a gut-wrencher without falling apart. Crying is show-stopping in a bad way. I wish I'd been trained to hide my feelings at all costs, but I was brought up Baptist in the South--which means I was expected to share my emotional breakdown with my church family. It's too late to go back and be Presbyterian, I suppose.

I'm sharing this with you to give you a bit of the background for my new story "Box of Nazi" at Contrary Magazine--but this is only one layer of course.

Last year my partner--who has gone by many names at I Must Be Off--and I were driving through South Tyrol on one of our many hiking trips when we heard a radio news report about a Nazi who'd just died in Italy. It was big news, every hour. Where would they bury him? Why should he be given a Christian burial at all? There were lots of questions to be answered, but the main one was where would his remains be buried?

The story I wrote--"Box of Nazi"--began to take shape shortly after we returned home from our hiking trip. I wondered what would happen if a "nobody" were given the onus of burying the Nazi. I've always been fascinated by persons--real or imagined--who cannot feel. I'm also interested in why people choose to be "somebody" even if it means being evil.

So that's the background. The story may be disturbing to some. Thank you to editors Jeff McMahon and Frances Badgett. Just click the link below:

BOX OF NAZI at Contrary Magazine

I must be off,


Christopher Allen is the author of Conversations with S. Teri O'Type (a Satire), an episodic adult cartoon about a man struggling with expectations. Allen's award-winning fiction and non-fiction have appeared or are forthcoming in Indiana Review, Quiddity, SmokeLong Quarterly: the Best of the First Ten Years anthology, Contrary, Prime Number Magazine, [PANK], Necessary Fiction, and Word Riot. A finalist at Glimmer Train in 2011, Allen has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize twice.

Saturday, December 20, 2014

The Irish Tricolour

The Irish Tricolour at the Easter Rising Memorial in Dublin
This morning I woke up at 4:30 to start my interminable journey through Irish literature. In fact, as you will learn in a later post, I have enlisted the help of a few Irish writer friends in this endeavor--and they've given me some homework. Good Lord. If I don't get an honorary Master's degree from Trinity College for the reading they've given me, I'll be a bit pouty. And no, I don't know if Trinity College offers a Master's program. That's one more thing I have to look up. This All Things Irish thing just goes on and on and on.

Daunted by the task of Irish literature, I decide to dally with something a bit less monumental. What could be simpler than the Flag of Ireland? Green. White. Orange. There ya go. Fat chance. After three hours of reading, I have come to the conclusion that nothing is simple in Ireland. Nothing. On the other hand, I have learned a few new words--as always. Did you know that a "pale" means a vertical band of color in heraldic lingo? And that a "saltire" is a composed of two diagonal bands making a cross? Well, if you didn't, you do now. And you're about to learn so much more. Be afraid.

The status of my knowledge before research:

The Irish flag is green, white and orange. The colors have something to do with Protestants and Catholics. I have no idea which color symbolizes which religious group. But! But! I suspect that green symbolizes Catholics because you don't see many orange hoodies in Dublin souvenir shops. This is how my brain works.

The broad brain-bursting extent of my knowledge subsequent to research:

First the superficial Fun-with-Flags stuff I was hoping would be the only stuff I'd find:

1. The flag is half as high as it is wide
2. The green bit always flies next to the mast
3. The shades of green and orange are only traditional (rather than official). Yellow and gold have been used instead of orange, but this of course has been frowned upon by some political parties.
4. That's it; everything else is complicated.

I should have known what I was getting myself into. Symbolism is so messy and sticky. I knew the green, white and orange of the Irish tricolour weren't entirely devoid of meaning; I simply thought their meaning would have more to do with concepts and less to do with knowing which Protestant king won which war.

It was in fact William of Orange, a Dutch Protestant prince who invaded England and went on to rule as William III King of England, Scotland and Ireland from 1689-1702; and though I have written this here, I will have forgotten it twenty minutes later. Or maybe not. A little mnemonic to help: Orange = William of Orange = There are slightly more protestants in Florida (lots of oranges there!) than Catholics. There. It's locked in now. If your brain works differently, well I'm sorry.

The color green has been used at least since the Irish Catholic Confederation (1642-1652), and has been a symbol of Irish Republicanism since the Society of United Irishmen, who launched the Irish Rebellion of 1798 with the intention of creating an Irish state independent of Britain.

White (You can't see it, because it's white.)
The white is a symbol of peace between the two religious groups. And sadly, at least for some, it is a symbol of the persistent division between them.

Obviously not the exact dimensions of the flag
The Politics of Color

I don't think you can understand the import of the Irish flag without understanding the history of Irish politics; and I don't think I'll be able to explain Irish politics with any sense of authority. I can, however, tell you a bit about the Easter Rising of 1916, when the Irish tricolour was reportedly flown for the first time as a symbol of Irish Independence.

The Easter Rising or Easter Rebellion of 1916 is said to be the most important Irish uprising for independence from Britain since the Rebellion of 1798. It was, however, unsuccessful and left nearly 200 dead and many more wounded. The architects of the uprising were all executed. You might know all of this, but did you know the Irish Volunteers, as they were called, had enlisted the aid of Germany in their fight? The German ship Libau or SS Castro but using the name Aud was supposed to deliver munitions to the Irish Volunteers but was intercepted by British forces.

The tricolour made its first appearance appropriately as a gift from a group of French women to a man named Thomas Francis Meagher in 1848. Meagher was an Irish nationalist whose death sentence for sedition was commuted to a life sentence in Australia. He later escaped, sailed to America, studied law and became the subject of statues. And you think your life is hard.

The Irish tricolour is a daring symbol of Ireland's troubled history but also a hopeful statement about religious diversity and acceptance. I'd like to think that white bit--that white "pale"--symbolizes peace rather than distance.

What does your country's flag mean?

I must be off,


Christopher Allen is the author of Conversations with S. Teri O'Type (a Satire), an episodic adult cartoon about a man struggling with expectations. Allen's award-winning fiction and non-fiction have appeared or are forthcoming in Indiana Review, Quiddity, SmokeLong Quarterly: the Best of the First Ten Years anthology, Contrary, Prime Number Magazine, [PANK], Necessary Fiction, and Word Riot. A finalist at Glimmer Train in 2011, Allen has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize twice.  


Saturday, December 6, 2014

Cider and Leprechauns

If nothing else comes from doing this All Things Irish thing, I will now know how to spell Leprechaun. Are you a fan of information overload? I am. I figure the brain can handle it, so I'm barreling on. If you've just stumbled upon--or Stumbledupon--I Must Be Off!, you might be asking yourself the question "_______, why has Christopher suddenly decided to learn All Things Irish?" Good question, _______. Apart from the logical response "It's easier than, say, All Things Russian, right?" it's because I've sort of relocated there and I don't want to look stupid.

"So you'd rather come across as a know-it-all?"

"I'm fine with that."

"Fair enough."

"No, of course I'm not fine with that. I'm joking. I'll introduce gaps into my knowledge so that I appear likable and endearingly humble."

"How much do you know so far?"

"Oh, loads. I know the Irish potato isn't Irish, that Guinness is sort of Irish but you could debate this till you fall off your barstool, that Oscar Wilde was part of the Anglo-Irish upper class in Dublin (so also a hybrid of sorts), and the tune to "Oh Danny Boy" is Irish but the words are definitely not. Like I said: loads."

"That's it?"

"What part of loads don't you understand?"

"Do you know how old the country is?"

"Well . . ."

"Do you know who the first king was?"

"They had kings?"

"Do you know who became a Saoi in 1997?"

"Seamus Heaney."

"You just Googled that."

"Who are you? And get off my blog."

So, today I've decided to tackle the monumental topics of cider and Leprechauns. Did you know there's a Leprechaun museum in Dublin? I actually did know this (in marked contrast to the aforementioned Seamus Heaney fact). I haven't been to the Leprechaun museum yet, but I've walked by it a couple times. Over New Year's I'm going to give it a whirl, but for now I'll have to settle for a wee bit of Internet research.

The Leprechaun

I couldn't find the source of this picture. If it's yours, please tell me!
The status of my knowledge prior to research:

Leprechauns are short fairies popularized by a sugary breakfast cereal. I think most cultures have these little fellows. They usually live in the woods, have beards and jump around a lot in their green coats and uncomfortable-looking shoes, shouting "They're magically delicious!" (The magic is the sugar.) They also grant wishes if they're caught, and they keep a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. That's it. That's all I've got. Wait. I'm going to go out on a rainbow and say Leprechauns are indeed Irish.

The status of my knowledge subsequent to a thorough Googling:

In a word, overwhelming. To understand what a leprechaun is, one has to dig deep. One fact leads to another fact that opens up into another topic and another and another. I'm going to try to condense everything I've just read into a few sentences (a wildly stupid thing to do, I know).

One of the ancient peoples of this amazing island was the Tuatha Dé Danann, a supernaturally gifted folk decended from a fellow named Nemed who landed "in dark clouds" in the mountains of Connacht (western Ireland). They were later conquered by the Milesians (from the Iberian peninsula, so why don't the Irish look Spanish?) and driven underground. Literally. Underground. They--the aos sí--were (or became) ghostlike creatures who inhabited the numerous earthen mounds that still dot Ireland today. The 3-foot Leprechaun is first mentioned as a fairy among the magical Tuatha Dé Danann. And so is the Banshee, a female harbinger of death who lent my grandmother the idiom "to scream like a Banshee." Actually my grandmother thought she heard real Banshees--but that's another story.

Although the modern look of the Leprechaun puts him in a green coat, much older descriptions dress him in a red coat, red breeches buckled at the knee and gray or black stockings. His coat has seven rows of buttons with seven buttons in each row, and he's got a lot of gold on his coat. He makes shoes, loves to get into mischief, and will indeed grant you three wishes if you catch him. Maybe that's why he switched to a green coat: to blend in better with his sylvan surroundings.


The status of my knowledge prior to research:

My experiential knowledge of cider is "extensive". Dry cider, sweet cider, pear "cider", berry "cider", really bad 3-liter bottles of cider from Aldi, authentic Irish cider, authentic Scottish cider, and so on. Cider is starting to catch on around the world since more and more people are realizing their problem with gluten, so bars in the US are actually starting to offer something other than Angry Orchard. I'm aware of the French cidre and my mother's hot cider occasionally served at Christmas. I'm aware that US-Americans refer to the alcoholic drink as "hard" cider while the rest of the world just calls it cider. I know that Strongbow is drier and crisper--and cheaper--than Magner's, which is the same thing as Bulmer's. All this to say, I feel fairly confident going into the subject of cider.

The status of my knowledge subsequent to research:

Boy was I wrong. Did you know a pint of Bulmer's cider has 5 teaspoons of sugar in it? And that this is more sugar than in a pint of lager? No wonder you get drunk really fast on cider. Did you know that cider is produced on almost every continent? I'd be surprised if there were apple trees in the Antarctic, but with global warming who knows?

Although cider has probably been produced in Ireland for more than 2000 years, there is no written record of this until around the 12th century. So cider was nothing new when it came to Ireland. That's for sure.

The best thing about my research into cider is that I've learned a new word: to scrat, which means to grind down. I'm definitely going to use this beautiful new word, as in "Hey, come on. You're scratting my last nerve." or "Look at him how he's scratting on the dance floor." OK, maybe not that last one.

Have you tried cider lately? Even though it's not really an Irish creation, I connect it with Ireland and England. What comes to mind when you think of Ireland?

I must be off,


Christopher Allen is the author of Conversations with S. Teri O'Type (a Satire), an episodic adult cartoon about a man struggling with expectations. Allen's award-winning fiction and non-fiction have appeared or are forthcoming in Indiana Review, Quiddity, SmokeLong Quarterly: the Best of the First Ten Years anthology, Contrary, Prime Number Magazine, [PANK], Necessary Fiction, and Word Riot. A finalist at Glimmer Train in 2011, Allen has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize twice.