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"Some Cynical Guy" No. 11: September 1, 2000 Celtomania! If you haven't already noticed, the Celts are conquering the world. I call this matter to your attention because, at this very moment, someone you know and care about is probably attending a step-dancing concert, watching a video of "Braveheart" or naming yet another girl-child Caitlin. The Celts are in business once again. This ancient and beleaguered tribe, pushed to the stony fringes of westernmost Europe by marauding Goths and Saxons a millennium-and-a-half ago, is blowing its bagpipes for all the world to hear. No longer content to burn peat and talk treason in the smoky privacy of their thatched cottages, our Celtic friends -- the Irish, Scots, Welsh and other freckled folk from neighboring isles and peninsulas -- are cashing in on their warrior heritage, their music, their strange sports, their high-quality woolen goods. They're the ethnic group for the New Age, light and airy and averse to logic -- a timely antidote to the tightly buttoned Anglo-Germanic culture that has dominated the West since Napoleon's hemorrhoids flared up at Waterloo. They're feisty, too -- witty and irreverent -- and everyone loves an underdog with spunk. Before long, you can be sure, we'll see Scottish and Welsh flags fluttering triumphantly over the home island of the old British Empire. Twenty years ago who even knew what a Celt was, other than a history major or a Boston basketball fan? Now it appears that everybody wants to BE one. You don't see Americans rushing to give their kids Polish or Ukrainian names, for example. There must be a thousand freshly minted Seans for every stout-hearted Stanislaus. I'm of Armenian ancestry myself, and it's safe to say that nobody of non-Armenian blood has ever bestowed monikers like Vartan, Puzant and Isgouhi upon their unsuspecting offspring. They're good virile names -- even many of the women's names have a robust manly quality that should admirably suit today's liberated times. But I have a feeling they won't play in Peoria. And how about the crafts? Every self-respecting American town now boasts a Celtic shop stocked with clothing, music and tasty tidbits from the blessed isles. You don't see Americans shopping for sweaters and scarves in the local Bulgarian store. I'm sure the Bulgarians know all there is to know about raising sheep and handcrafting fine woolen garments, though I suspect they'd itch mightily. But you can search in vain for a Bulgarian shop this side of the Balkans; for that matter, go ahead and search for Hungarian, Slovak, Turkish and Rumanian shops. No, we're hopelessly in love with the Celts. After all, they're fair-haired and freckle-faced, like all the kids in the live-action Walt Disney movies we grew up with. They have cute noses and they can tap-dance while keeping their backs stiff and they have cool names like Niamh (pronounced "Neeve") and Roisin (pronounced "Rosheen"). Ah, the spelling. It's my theory that the Irish developed their unique system of orthography to outwit any undesirable British types who tried to decipher it. What else can explain that the Irish town of Dun Laoghaire is pronounced "Dun Leary"? How do you get Leary from Laoghaire without completely ignoring the problematic "aogh" part? To read an Irish map is to risk blowing some essential brain circuitry. How does a perfectly good and poetic name like Galway suddenly become Gaillimnh? I'd be willing to bet they still pronounce it "Galway," too. And why would they change a fine Irish-sounding name like Dublin to the uncouth Baile Atha Cliath? I dare them to pronounce THAT one as "Dublin." The Welsh, if possible, have an even stranger way of spelling things; they have to be the only nation on earth that regards W as a vowel. In fact, if you removed the letters C, W, L, Y and N from their alphabet you'd be looking at a language in ruins; the Welsh wouldn't even be able to call their dogs home for supper. Why they need two L's to start a name like Llewellyn is a mystery to me. But mystery is part of the Celtic mystique, and we love them for it. The Celts dwell in magnificent desolation amid their craggy northern landscapes, the harshness softened by the mist that continually circles about their heads. The traditional music of the Celts, now wildly popular even among the Internet's MP3 junkies, seems to drift forlornly on the wind: the ancient pipe tunes and gorgeous laments speak to something primeval that lurks within our souls, whether we're from Scotland or New Jersey. We can picture ourselves standing on the heath beneath the lowering clouds, waiting for the army of King Edward to approach from the South. We hear the enemy's trumpets; we feel the breeze stirring beneath our kilts; we turn our backs to the enemy and flash our Scottish rumps in unison. Here in eastern Pennsylvania, the town of Bethlehem hosts a spectacular Celtic festival every September. I usually go down for a day to be deafened by the bagpipes, shop for gifts (I've given up looking for Armenian or Bulgarian stores) and watch grown men attempt to hurl what appears to be a small telephone pole farther than their rivals. They call it the caber toss, and for me it's the highlight of the festival. Not only is distance a determining factor, but you have to toss the thing so that it turns end over end, ideally winding up as nearly perpendicular to the starting line as possible. I enjoy watching the competition while nibbling on a Cornish meat "pasty" or pork pie. That brings me to the dark underbelly of Celtomania: the cuisine. Nobody seems willing to acknowledge this most indigestible aspect of Celtic culture. I'm personally fond of the flaky, fatty concoctions that pass for food among the Scots and Irish -- but then there's no accounting for my taste; I also like orange Jujyfruits. For most folks, I'm afraid, Celtic food begins and ends with the dreaded haggis, that festive meaty dish consisting of minced heart, liver and lungs mixed with suet and oatmeal, all lovingly wrapped in a sheep's stomach and boiled to perfection. It's haggis that separates the authentic Celtophiles from the wannabes. Americans may love Celtic music, sweaters, films and poetry; they may respond instinctively to the ancient New-Age allure of Druidic mysteries and incantations, to the magic of wide windy moors and perpetual mists and heather on the hill -- but they won't touch the food. Perhaps that's as it should be; after all, we can't have one favored ethnic group running off with all the laurels. Maybe it's time for us to try on a Bulgarian sweater and see how it itches. © 2000 by Bridget Petrella Media Relations. "Some Cynical Guy" appears here by permission of the publisher. "Some Cynical Guy" column archive: 2002 81 -- A Brisk Walk Through the Ruins 80 -- The Fountain of Futility 79 -- Farewell to the Big House 78 -- The Cynical Guy Contemplates Cell Phones 77 -- Rich and Poor in Paradise 76 -- Dead Ducks: A Tale of the Food Chain 75 -- Old Comedians Just Fade Away 74 -- Suburbia Comes to Manayunk 73 -- When Nestlings Won't Leave the Nest 72 -- The Curse of High Standards 71 -- Inside the House of Horrors 70 -- The Post-Yuppie Handbook 69 -- Spring Reflections 68 -- Priestly Perversions 67 -- British Teeth: An Apology 66 -- The Sniffling Snout 65 -- Bullies with Social Skills 64 -- Supermarket Rage 63 -- Is the U.S. Really the Greatest? 62 -- The Holes in Our Armor 61 -- A Breath of Used Air 60 -- The Cynical Guy Has Sex 59 -- Let's Abolish the Seven-Day Week! 2001 58 -- Why Worry About the Future of Books? 57 -- The Friendly Face of Evil 56 -- Why We Live Where We Live 55 -- The Cynical Guy Discovers Talk Radio 54 -- Kite-Flying and Other Crimes 53 -- My Night as a Socialite 52 -- Gardening Is Not for Sissies 51 -- Invaders of the Honeysuckle 50 -- To Be a Cat 49 -- The Upside of Terrorism 48 -- The Vanishing Nerd 47 -- Anger Management for Cynics 46 -- Let's Level the Playing Field for Disadvantaged WASPs 45 -- First Impressions, Lasting Impressions 44 -- Close Encounter with a Go-Getter 43 -- Cheering for a Perennial Loser 42 -- The Cynical Guy Reads the Tabloids 41 -- When Does the Good Part Begin? 40 -- Confessions of an Internet Addict 39 -- The Decline of Punctuation and Civilization 38 -- Oh Baby, What a Nightmare! 37 -- The Cynical Guy Watches 'Xena: Warrior Princess' 36 -- A Night-Stroll into the Void 35 -- In Search of the Elusive Wild Tomato 34 -- Getting in Touch with Your Inner S.O.B. 33 -- The Lure of the Lurid 32 -- Black Tie and Beard Stubble 31 -- In Heaven There Is No Pez 30 -- Did You Make the Forbes Celebrity 100 List? 29 -- Redesigning Mt. Rushmore 28 -- On Listening to Dead Voices 27 -- Selling Your Soul on eBay 26 -- Sympathy for Colonel Klink 25 -- Democratic Celebrities in Exile 24 -- High School Revisited 23 -- A Farewell to Bachelorhood 2000 22 -- Requiem for a Middleweight 21 -- Is There a Gene for Tackiness? 20 -- How the Beautiful People Entertain Themselves 19 -- The Cynical Guy Gets Behind the Wheel 18 -- The Fickle Finger of Fame 17 -- Adventures in Bodybuilding 16 -- Some Don't Like It Hot 15 -- The Cynical Guy Watches Oprah 14 -- Sports Parents: Menace to Society? 13 -- Airfare Is No Fair at All 12 -- There's No Such Thing as 'New and Improved' 11 -- Celtomania! 10 -- The Naked Pate 9 -- Vanishing Act 8 -- Bush vs. Gore: It Could Be Worse 7 -- Who Wants to Be a Survivor? 6 -- Adventures in Heart Attack Prevention 5 -- Where Men Are Men 4 -- Thoughts While Listening to the Car Radio 3 -- History Is HISTORY 2 -- The Great Casino 1 -- Greetings from Your New Cynical Guy

Bayan, who claims to be a "kinder, gentler cynic," currently lives in Allentown, Pennsylvania. His weekly column, "Some Cynical Guy," is published and syndicated by Upbeat Online. 

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