About Me




I was born Polish-Irish.  Male.  Roman Catholic.  Both of my grandfathers died from alcoholism.  Talk about The Great Unspoken.  Their absence said volumes about the heavenly realm of Pagan-Catholic spirits and the  diabolical realm of bottled spirits.—————————————

My father owned a meat-market where I learned to butcher after a proper apprenticeship.  So I have independence, craft and carnality in my blood.

From my dad I get  Slavic stoicism.   From my mom I get  Celtic fancy.  I suffered  a tug  between my dad’s male-constant and my mom’s female dilating of  so many things.   He was the provider of roof, food, and muscle.  She was the provider of  muses, folklore and ever expanding dreamscapes.  Oedipal trash aside,  I had a half-a-mind to marry myself to my mom’s poesy.  We share the Irish blush.  We  have the same Irish twinkle in our blue eyes.

I did the right thing.  I left home early.  And so began the cycles of departure and  return.   It’s an arch- typical story as those familiar with Campbell’s “Hero With a Thousand Faces”  know. And if  I didn’t return to suckle my dear mom’s star milk, I nevertheless returned to home turf. This begs three questions that direct my wayward blarney into  serious narative.  1)What if there is no home left in the rustbelt with the jobs shipped overseas, the neighborhood depopulated, and my siblings scattered as country-clubbers, gay lovers,  vegetarian sisters, gun armed brothers and more? 2)What makes my Polish-Irish storyline a perfectly biased slant on the loopy American loop?  3) What if,  beefs aside, I return home a failure with nobody to blame but my own dream drunk self?   

The answer is  written in my dad’s stoic character: just complete the cycle.   Just complete the Life-Cycle and the eccentric, out-of-round, mini-cycles within it. Just  provide a legacy to  dreamy kids who might follow in my footsteps and, lo and behold,  complete the journey  with Herculean prowess.   


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