Handle the Bucket .

When I was six my great-grandmother (between bits of blue box Mac & Cheese and a thick slaver of brandless beer) told me I was all Irish, even though she was my only relative from Ireland. “It’s pond scum,” her voice wafted against my protests. “Irish blood is pond scum, and no matter how much wine you mix with pond scum, it’s still pond scum.” I suspect it was her contumacious attitude, passed to my father, which affixed me with an Irish name that has never quite fit.

Do not get me wrong. I love my name, and I love how it sounds. However, I also love investigating word-origins, and although I usually swear by the results, my name simply does not fit. Here it is:


The constellation of meanings seems so brazen. The name would fit well at the battle of Thermopylae--what with all the valorous home-rulers defending their narrows. Or maybe it would suit some gaelic warrior, whose hair matches his speedo and whose mace spills enough English blood to scum all the ponds of Ireland. It seems to accord less with a half-Italian diabetic who just two minutes ago, added hot water because his tap water wasn’t tepid enough.

I’m just not that flagrant. Mr. Even-Keeled, that’s more me. My strategy for resistance is to be as quiet as possible and hope my older brothers go away soon. To me, the meaning of my name sounds overly zealous, like my mother when she bought me shirts in high-school, saying I would grow into them one day. I’m suspecting now, in my mid-twenties, I will never be either an Irish patriarch or a size medium.

To complicate the matter further, I recently learned that my foremost father, the Irish Prince Feargheil, may not have died gloriously at the Battle of Clontarf, as is said. While some Farrell proponents claim he fought alongside the illustrious first king of Ireland (regally named “Brian”) and fell wounded but victorious on the battlefield, his name is not listed among the dead in either historical account. The closest reference to him is a name that sounds like his son’s--and it is listed among the fallen enemies.

My search, thus, into my name and my meaning has proven more alienating than anything else. Am I the product of an alcoholic old lady? Or am I Italian? Or am I (God save me) English? Should I become an Irish separatist, or should I betray the Irish state? Should I become a paragon of masculinity, an expert in physical combat, and staunchly support...something? Or should I reveal the shame of being heir to Prince “I-chose-the-wrong-side”?

With so many options, I become suspicious of my methodology; perhaps a me by any other name would be just as ill-defined. I also suspect answers are over-rated, and the stories we tell are more interesting than events themselves.

Enough with irrelevance: welcome to my blog! Here, I write about my research on various topics until the reasons are slippery and I am thoroughly amused. If you are interested in any of the thought-sized blog buckets, please slap on a handle and share them away.