The Cat's in the Cradle
On foot of the happy news that the Blog O'Sphere has begun to reproduce itself, Cruiskeen Eile takes a trip into the future of An Irishman's Diary. But what's this? It isn't an Irishman's diary anymore!
Timeline - 2021. The place - Pembroke Street, Dublin 2. Celebrated polemicist and newly-appointed Irish Times diarist Noam Delevan and his son Fox News Mulder are about to enter Louis Copeland’s emporium of bespoke suitery:
The truth is in here son. Ha ha.
Fuck’s sake Dad, you bastard.
Sorry son.
!
Anyway, big day son. Your first suit. Soon to reach a man’s estate, we must enshirt you in like manner of your patrician antecedents. It is the tailor’s cut which separates us from the Trots.
That doesn’t sound like you Dad.
Oh sorry, the writer must have forgot I’m American. There, that’s better.
You lose Dad. Big time.
I’ll have you know son that back in the day the old man was considered quite the hep cat, the mack-daddy, el gran queso with cheese. I had game. All of us beleagured neo-cons did. George Dempsey, Mark Humphreys – I defy anyone to tell me they weren’t steeped in cool.
What the fuck, who the fuck, Dad?
George pulled a Salinger son. Writes one anti-Irish, energy security techno thriller per half century.
Never heard of him.
Well, give him a chance. It hasn’t been 50 years yet. Mark was killed leading a Marine Expeditionary Force in Iran.
I didn’t know there was a war with Iran.
There wasn’t. It was for a movie. But there was a mix up with the shooting permits.
Er, you guys kept it real huh Dad?
We sure did son. We sure did.
Dad.
Son?
I think I’ll pass on the suit.
Post script - congrats to Richard on the birth of his fine son. Cruiskeen Eile confidently predicts a bright future of blogging for the boy, perhaps on this very space!
Timeline - 2021. The place - Pembroke Street, Dublin 2. Celebrated polemicist and newly-appointed Irish Times diarist Noam Delevan and his son Fox News Mulder are about to enter Louis Copeland’s emporium of bespoke suitery:
The truth is in here son. Ha ha.
Fuck’s sake Dad, you bastard.
Sorry son.
!
Anyway, big day son. Your first suit. Soon to reach a man’s estate, we must enshirt you in like manner of your patrician antecedents. It is the tailor’s cut which separates us from the Trots.
That doesn’t sound like you Dad.
Oh sorry, the writer must have forgot I’m American. There, that’s better.
You lose Dad. Big time.
I’ll have you know son that back in the day the old man was considered quite the hep cat, the mack-daddy, el gran queso with cheese. I had game. All of us beleagured neo-cons did. George Dempsey, Mark Humphreys – I defy anyone to tell me they weren’t steeped in cool.
What the fuck, who the fuck, Dad?
George pulled a Salinger son. Writes one anti-Irish, energy security techno thriller per half century.
Never heard of him.
Well, give him a chance. It hasn’t been 50 years yet. Mark was killed leading a Marine Expeditionary Force in Iran.
I didn’t know there was a war with Iran.
There wasn’t. It was for a movie. But there was a mix up with the shooting permits.
Er, you guys kept it real huh Dad?
We sure did son. We sure did.
Dad.
Son?
I think I’ll pass on the suit.
Post script - congrats to Richard on the birth of his fine son. Cruiskeen Eile confidently predicts a bright future of blogging for the boy, perhaps on this very space!
posted by Copernicus at 2:38 a.m.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home