August 26th, 2022

Dear Diary:

Today’s labors on this sun-scorched August afternoon would find me at the Ralph’s grocery store on Magnolia…foraging for gin and cheese.

As I approached the cheese chest (as is the manner in which our local grocer chooses to house his processed dairy), I noted two Ralph’s employees having a conversation that could only be described as “spirited”.  

I could not make out the content of their dairy-isle persiflage, being yet at some distance, but even if I could have made out what they were saying, I would not have HEARD them…being preoccupied as I was in that moment with but one thought: “Those motherfuckers better not try and get between me and that cheese.”

Upon reaching the two Lactose Guardians and their glass closet of cow bounty, the topic of their conversation became quite clear (and their utter lack of interest in getting out of my way gave me time to catch up with the established narrative). 

“You don’t see Irish rock bands with Black lead singers very often is all I am saying,” said the 40-something man to the 30-something woman.

“There was a really good one in the 70s”, she replied.  “I think they were called Black Irish” (she, mixing up the name of some apparently cool 70s pop band with a slang term used by Irish-Americans for anyone of Irish heritage who possessed any dark physical traits like hair or eye color, traits likely resulting from ten centuries of unrelenting war and subjugation across Northwestern Europe).

“No, no,” protested the man.  “They were called The MC5” (he, mistaking a band of 5 people from the Motor City of Detroit, Michigan for a band from Ireland, while also ironically mistaking The MC5’s Irish-American lead singer Rob Tyner for a Black person…though in their defense, Tyner did possess the absolute MONA LISA of White-Guy afros).

I stood before these two noble (if music trivia-deficient) stock clerks for what seemed like an eternity before they finally allowed me access to my desperately needed ricotta and mozzarella for tonight’s vegetable lasagna (maybe some mascarpone?  Dare I?), all the while continuing their mad speculation as to the identity of this unnamable, Black-person-fronted, rare as a four-leaved unicorn, Irish musical juggernaut.

The Black Irish?  The MC5?  Hey, Jimi Hendrix was part Irish! 

The day’s allotment of cheese in hand, I took exactly seven steps before speaking the answer over my right shoulder and into their red, bewildered, Caucasian faces.

“Thin Lizzy,” I corrected them.

“Oh…right.” They replied in unison, suddenly not giving half a shit (and perhaps wondering why they ever did).

“Okay,” thought I.

“Now, where is that gin?”