The St. Patrick's Day Miracle

Gather 'round lads and lasses, wet the tea, or grab a pint of Gat as I retell the story of the St. Patrick's Day Miracle (this year with commemorative art!) Despite what you may have heard in legend, it has absolutely nothing to do with snakes.

Many a fortnight ago, oh say around 1997, I was working in an office on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I was of course wearing my green sweater (never orange on St. Paddy's Day--me mum would come back and beat me with a shillelagh if I even thought about wearing the protestant color on March 17.) Pinned to my sweater was my shamrock shaped button embossed in gold with the phrase Mazel Tov. I'm nothing if not multicultural. I was ready to celebrate. The only thing missing was a little Irish music. 

I had a small CD player on my desk during this dark, unenlightened age before the dawn of the Ipod, but save for one song, I had no Irish music with me. That one song was Carly Simon singing Danny Boy (taught to her as a child, incidentally, by her Irish nanny Annie Brennan) and so I played it. Again and again, over and over, relentlessly for nearly six hours.

I'm not completely oblivious; I did notice how badly this wore on my co-worker's nerves, but I was enjoying myself so much that I chose to ignore it. Eventually someone did beg me to stop; I didn't. I just turned the volume down a little.

At about 4 pm I had to drop off a package for a client a few blocks away at 73rd and Park. As I'm walking up Lexington Avenue it happened: the conjuring, the St. Patrick's Day Miracle. Begorra, if it isn't Carly Simon in the flesh!  And on the East side. Everyone knows she's a Westsider. Musha!

I broke that unwritten contract that New Yorkers have with celebrities. I acknowledged her.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but it's St. Patrick's Day and I've been playing your version of Danny Boy all day long and my co-workers are about ready to kill me. It's the only Irish music I have."

She was sweet and personable, as she always has been when I've met her at book and record signings over the years. We wished each other a Happy St Paddy's Day and went our separate ways. 

I could drink 100 pints, stumble upon a pot of gold, or dance jigs and reels until I'm green in the face and never have a more perfect St. Patrick's Day.

#carlysimon

And If That Diamond Ring Don't Shine...

June 18, 2008

It’s Sunday morning and I’m watching television in my childhood bedroom. It’s a new program featuring an interview with James Taylor and a very skinny blonde woman who is supposed to be his wife. James is appearing on the program to promote the publication of selections from his personal diary.

The book, which is pink with flowers, and looks very much like the diary of a school girl, deals with the breakup of James’s marriage to Carly Simon and the effect it had on their children. I think this is a very bad idea and I am filled with rage that the skinny blonde wife would encourage James to do such a thing.

The television program cuts to a video of Carly Simon performing a solo version of “Mockingbird,” which , of course, she had first recorded with James Taylor…and now she is forced to sing alone while James and his new wife profit from the destruction of the Taylor/Simon family unit.

__________________________

This dream seems almost inevitable to me since I’ve been reading a biography of Carly Simon for the past two weeks. It’s strange how intensely I felt the anger even though my role in this dream was extremely passive.