Parisa, a Goose and The Dead

In re-reading Dubliners last night I was reminded that back when I used to read books instead of watch "The Real World", I much preferred English Literature to American Literature. American Lit being, it seemed to me, mostly Southern. "Moby Dick" excepted. Everyone in those Southern stories was always shuffling down a dirty, dusty road, the sun blazing while they looked for a place to get a new collar. And they were always ordering pies. Fruit pie, slice of pie, a pie and a glass of beer please. It always seemed to be summer and blazing hot. But in British Lit, the streetlights were always slowly coming on as the snow starting to pick up speed, and everybody raced home to witness the goose being pulled from the fire, brandy flowing and cranberry stuffing in huge white bowls. Off in the distance, carolers. As a young buck I never felt really accepted as a Southerner, but my Dad blathered bout being Irish all the time. Somehow the non-American joints seemed to fit better; even going way back to Marlowe et al - my Catholicism making me figure sure, why not have the devil showing up ruining shit for everybody? An old-worldness I seemed to be more comfortable with than anything more "modern"; ie in my eyes at the time "not genuine." Either way, I'll always lean more towards curling up with Joyce while it's 30 degrees and soaking wet outside, comforted in the pitch blackness of night over anything else. Except, of course, tomorrow night when Parisa and Tricia have their final showdown. I mean, camon!