Oedipussy

It's a night alone again. The Boy is out working an overnight and I am here by myself.

I am here alone drinking my champagne and listening to morose Irish music. It's fitting somehow; those jolly jigs of death, depravity and despair.

I am Irish myself. German, Dutch and Native American too. The reactions I get from people who are curious of my nationality differ depending on location. My Native heritage is usually met with misplaced awe here in the Midwest, and with mild distain in Texas. Conversely, Michigan is flush with old Dutch families - generations of fruit farmers and small town dwellers. To reveal that one is Dutch here in Michigan is approximate to revealing that one breathes oxygen.

"It's true; I breathe oxygen!"

As common as my family may be, we will always have an unverified ace in the pocket - The Gentlemen Jim Jeffries. Handsome, no? Supposedly, I am a direct descendant of this boxer, a.k.a. "The Great White Hope," heavyweight champion of the world. (who, by the way, was beaten soundly while trying to establish supremacy over an emerging black boxer of the times, jack johnson.)

If it's actually true, is my adoration of the Programming Brawler some sick Freudian Oedipus complex? I choose not to examine it too deeply.

Never you mind Noir, just enjoy the music.