Mrs Morrison's Hotel

The 100% personal official blog for Patricia Kennealy Morrison, author, Celtic priestess, retired rock critic, wife of Jim

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Location: New York, New York, United States

I was, wait, sorry, that's "David Copperfield". Anyway, I was born in Brooklyn, grew up on Long Island, went to school in upstate NY and came straight back to Manhattan to live. Never lived anywhere else. Never wanted to. Got a job as a rock journalist, in the course of which I met and married a rock star (yeah, yeah, conflict of interest, who cares). Became a priestess in a Celtic Pagan tradition, and (based on sheer longevity) one of the most senior Witches around. Began writing my Keltiad series. Wrote a memoir of my time with my beloved consort (Strange Days: My Life With and Without Jim Morrison). See Favorite Books below for a big announcement...The Rennie Stride Mysteries. "There is no trick or cunning, no art or recipe, by which you can have in your writing that which you do not possess in yourself." ---Walt Whitman (Also @ and

Monday, March 17, 2008

A Black Day for the Irish

I refer, of course, to "Saint" "Patrick" ’s (he was neither Irish, a saint or named Patrick...) Day.

In case some of you are wondering why I didn’t allow your good wishes for the day to appear in Comments, it’s because I consider the slave Sucellos, malignant cultural assassin and papal cat’s-paw, to be the worst thing that ever happened to Ireland in all the millennia of its existence.

Slave boy sneaks in, starts preaching against Paganism, which everyone was happily practicing, realizes he’d better follow the pope’s instructions, which were to suborn, substitute and subvert. "Yes," he told everyone, "you’ll still worship your gods and goddesses, only we’ll have different names for them. Same holydays, except now the Church will run them. As for your quaint little folk practices, sure, why not, if they make you happy, they don’t mean a darn thing."

Pity of it is, it worked, the Irish being an easy-going race. And so the shackles of Rome were locked upon us, and remain to this day.

As for the "celebrations", parades and suchlike: it gives me no joy to see the green-painted faces, wigs, shamrock stickers, etc. It makes our proud and noble race look like the grinning, shuckin’, jivin’ Stepin Fetchits of Europe.

And if I hear "Danny Boy" one more time I’m going to blast the singer off the face of the earth. It was written by a maudlin, untalented ENGLISHMAN who had never been to Ireland in his life, and I hope he fries in hell for it.

So instead I celebrate Pan-Celtic Day. I listen to real Celtic music, perform real rituals, hiss and spit and claw at the fat smug prelates like Egan of NYC and the beery politicos and old harps prancing up Fifth Avenue, and in general grieve for the trivialization of our true and ancient ways.

Who’s with me? I know the Hamill boys (Denis and Pete), my long-ago childhood neighbors in Brooklyn, are...and they may even be more pissed off than I am. On second thought, nah..


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