On Irony

Ever since that really great episode of Vh1’s I Love the 90’s, wherein the jolly cast dissects Alaniss Morrisette’s song “Irony” I have been pretty obsessive about the correct usage of such terms, particularly in light of my self-appointed vow to uphold the ideals of Logic and Consistency, and the never-ending war betwixt Vagueness & Ambiguity, and my deep personal struggle for Clarity in the face of Proof-Surrogates like “clearly” et al.
Yes, I am that anal, pleaseandthankyouverymuch!
“Irony” is a special case all to itself since it holds a place in my heart and harps way back to my high school daze when a classmate named John McKee defined Irony in perfect stoner speak, “Uh, dude, whut do ya callit when sumthins’ funny, but ya haveta think about it furst? Oh yeah, irony!” (Which in and of itself some might deem ironic.)
And then there’s that great sequence from Reality Bites when struggling assistant producer Winona Ryder is asked to define irony and stumbles over it, and much to her chagrin, shortly thereafter sexy pothead philosopher Ethan Hawke is quick to quip, "Irony is humor that occurs when the exact opposite of what is expected happens."
Or something to that effect.
(Just for the record, my handy-dandy World Book Digital Dictionary definition reads:
irony: an event or outcome which is the opposite of what would naturally be expected.)
Thence, we fast-forward a decade to a group of social analysts cum pop culture experts raggin’ on that poor Canadian songstress and her groovy but lexically flawed tune.
“It’s like rain on your wedding day?! Michael Ian Black scoffs, “That’s not irony—that just sucks!”
His comrades in wit similarly smear poor Alaniss’ misconceptions and analogies as she bewails the pains in the Ass-of-Life like “...meeting the man of your dreams...and his beautiful wife...” (Nyah-ha! I just made a rhyme! Life--wife, get it?)
Aneewho, it’s my man Mo (Rocca, that is) who finally deduces that pretty much nothing in the song itself is ironic per se, except...unless...perhaps...for the fact that in enjoining a group of cynical critics, who think they are just too damn smart for their own good, about a simple, likeable song called “Ironic” that in itself is ironic. At which point "Everything is Illuminated," as them say, and he tips his proverbial hat to Miss Morrisette with an, “Oh...Canadians are crafty!”
That they are, my friend, that they are...
Funny stuff, but I think I’ve got them all beat with this sordid, squishy tale of misery and hardshipness.
As chance would have it some three years ago I came to a proverbial and literal crossroads in my life whereupon fleeing a fucked up life in Phoenix, I was forced to choose a direction--East or West, when I came to the junction of I-10 as it crosses the I-17 or thereabouts, and I pondered the opportunities and what fortunes I might begat in the LA to the East (LA, of course referring to the abbreviation for Louisiana) or the L.A. to the West, meaning of course our own fair city.
I’d long had an urge to try out the Deep South and get all Creole on the bayou with the barbecue and the Bourbon and streetcars and such, but I were still a bit dazed from the year and a half of baking under the un-tender mercies of the Phoenician sun so I opted for the gentle breezes and coastlines of Southern California, a locale with which I had some familiarity having done some traipsing hither and thither in my early twenties resort-hopping, etc.
Thus, I thunk mighty hard about the bullet I’d dodged last summer when the Gulf of Mexico got all riled up and pissed down the worst storm the USA had ever seen and done near well wiped New Orleans off the map.
Ah must be psychic or sumpin’!
Well, imagine my surprise and the hilariousnessicity I enjoyed when last night the rain decided it wanted to come for a little visit up and out of my garbage disposal, overflowing the counter in a morass of sewer sludge and mossy-black, pus-water. Yep! Taint seen nuthin that thair disgustin in eh mighty loon time!
Caint win fer losin’ as them say!
So, I’ll just slip out of this dialect or whatever I was trying to affect, and speak plain. I’ve had a toilet or two back up in my day, but at least you could shut that water off, and usually it required nothing more than a plunger and some elbow grease to get things fixed up quick.
This, on the other hand was a fucking mess, no hands down. Totally ruined the carpet and tile in the kitchen, living and dining room.
And it stinks too.
What are you going to do but laugh, right?
Pretty damned ironic in my book! I’ll have to have a word or two with G-d over our nightly sherry.... Ha ha ha!