The Curmudgeon on the Porch

"Why you're Irish, Katie Scarlett O'Hara, and to anyone with a drop of Irish blood in them, why, the land they live on is like their mother..."

That's from the lovable mick character actor who played Scarlett's father in Gone With The Wind. This too:

"Why, land is the only thing worth fighting for, worth dyin' for- because it's the only thing that lasts!"

These overly precious lines echo in my head sometimes, the way they echo in Scarlett's at the close of the film, but instead of getting all misty eyed and declaring: "Tara!", I generally get more pissed off and growl out "Mother-FUCKERS!"

Meaning, of course, that I'm and Irish American who has neighbors.

"for anyone with a drop of Irish blood in them", you'll know that neighbors are the bane of an Irish American's existence. Why do you think the Kennedys built a fucking compound? with a big fucking wall!

That expression "fences make good neighbors"? Totally came from an Irish guy. Fences make great neighbors, until the neighbor's basterd offspring walk by it with stick and slap-slap-slap-slap-slap the thing all the way down on their way past, or until those hooligans can't control their lousy ball and it ends up in my backyard.

Neighbors are trials sent by the devil himself, to test us and to tempt us. Like God almighty tested Job, so are the Irish subjected to living in too-close proximity to other people. There are times, jesusmaryandjoseph, that I would sign whatever scroll Beelzebub pushed in front of me if it meant I never had to have another neighbor, ever.

We Irish, we're the ones who peer suspiciously out the window at every car-door, every passing voice on the street, every feral cat in heat. We stand intimidating and implacable in our doorways, framed by the light within, just to let you KNOW that you are being watched, until you pass out of sight and well away from our property line. If you've ever literally heard an individual shout: "get off my lawn!" in real life, at actual passersby, and not in an ironic way? That person was Irish, and they were as serious as a heart attack. Use the G-D sidewalk and get off their lawn.

So what's worse than living in a small house in suburbia where your Irish property abuts one or more other properties? Where you can't control what kind of riff-raff decides to move in and let their errant animals dump on your lawn without picking it up, and let their children play hide-n-seek in YOUR BUSHES (play in your own goddamn yards, sonsabithes dont-they-teach-you-anything-for-chrissakes?) and their teenagers have too many friends over too late at night with music that is way too loud with far too much bass?

What's worse than that?

I'll tell you what:

Being Irish and living in an apartment.

Take a moment. Let that sink in.

It is like living WITH your neighbors. Sharing walls. Sharing a common roof. They get to park in YOUR driveway. Their dog GETS to shit in your yard. They get to have loud music and parties and arguments and you must endure this infuriating condition.

It is just too much, too much I tell you!

I am not a good neighbor. I am an excellent tennent, but I am not a good neighbor at all. You do not want this Irish American for a neighbor.

I listen with a glass at the wall to hear the details of your ridiculous argument. I stand in the doorway to let you know I am watching and I do NOT hesitate to call the police on your domestic abuse.

Oh yeah. I've done it.

And guess what else? Because I'm an excellent tennant guess who the landlord likes better? Guess who has his ear?

So let your baby cry for two+ hours? The landlord hears about it. Argue at full volume about the drugs you are taking? Oh he knows. Bring suspicious folks here at insane hours and now you're locked out when you're late on the rent fuckers- because that's how Irish plays it.

Hit your girlfriend outside my window because she flipped out and kicked your hot-rod? Oh, that's you in handcuffs mofo.

Call our dog a nuisance and we call you a crazy fucking cunt, to your craggy old face, cuz that's how Irish do.

Irish keeps a baseball bat by the front door, in the event we should need to bust out the house like a bat outta hell and whoop some ass.

Irish is insane enough to tell a group of very confident young hoodlums to keep moving. Even though you can almost guarantee that will provoke something later on. We don't care, we're ready for it, hell, we WANT you to bring it just so we can brandish that fucking baseball bat.

So when you revv your hot-rod engine and peel out of the parking lot because you're pissed at your drugged up bitch, you better believe we might be holding our tongues, but somewhere we have a wall full of tally marks and one of these days you'll hit that magic number and I swear to god that hot-rod will find sugar in the gas tank, or a big ugly key mark from headlight to back bumper, because you are a douche and Irish likes to bring douches down a peg.

And you better believe we'll lend you sugar, help you scrape off your car in the winter, shovel a path from the door to the mailbox, jump your car when it's dead, help you out when the cable is on the fritz or give you a candle when the electricity goes out-- because we're awesome like that- but any kindness we show you has nothing to do with you. Not at all. We do that shit out of Irish pride. Because its what you do. We aren't douchebags. Irish is always in the right, even when we're on the phone to 911 or screaming at you because our tempers are outrageous and fiery.

So, may those who love us love us, and those who don't? Better not move in next door or down the hall or especially not above us because so-help-us-god-by-everything-that-is-holy-and-sacred, you will come to regret ever being anything less than a perfectly curteous, concientous, considerate and quiet neighbor who has no suspicious habits or hooligan-looking friends.

***Please note that IRISH does not care how loud your sex is, or how kinky. Sex is not among the things IRISH cares about. We also do not mind your drinking, so long as it doesn't result in shenanigans that fall outside the bounds of acceptable Irish-sanctioned shenanigans. Irish likes sex and drinking, so we might eavesdrop, well, we will definately eavesdrop (especially on the kinky sex- go get that!), but we will not take umbage nor make a fuss.

... And get off my lawn.