I was shopping at Gelson’s Better Foods Than You Deserve in Calabasas. After having passed by one of those music-emitting displays which hold racks of who-buys-this-stuff? music CDs, I felt my subconsious mind tap me on the shoulder and say, “Did you see that odd CD title that just went by in a blur?”
For blurred it was. I hadn’t turned my gaze upon the CD display; it was simply a minor background annoyance. And yet: Something had caught the hem of my cloak. Something caused me to wonder if I had just seen a CD titled Celtic Noir.
What the…? I said to myself. Did I just see a CD titled Celtic Noir? And if so, just what is “Celtic Noir’? Is it the genre in which Irish crime novelist Adrian McKinty works? Could it be Bono’s new men’s boutique?
I had to know. I turned back to see if my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me.
It was. Playing tricks, that is. My mind, that is. My mind was playing tricks: The CD that had slipped past my Doors of Perception was, alas, no compilation of hard-boiled songs from black and white Irish crime flicks of the fifties. No. It was merely a CD of John McDermott — the eponymous Celtic tenor.
I laughed. I sighed. I went on with my shopping, all the while ruminating on Adrian McKinty’s ultra-violent Irish crime thrillers.
Dead I Well May Be
by Adrian McKinty
(Pocket Books, Mass Market Paperback, 384pp.)