So this wasn’t a recent event, in fact it happened one of the first weeks during my time in Cork, but seeing how I have said fuck all to chronology anyway I felt like writing this story instead of working on my other one that is dragging a bit. Not that it will suck, I just am feeling lazy.
I got out of bed to use the bathroom. My roommate Brendan comes out and asks “is one of you friends staying here or something?”
“No”, I reply.
“Then who is that dude on the couch?”
“Huh?”
I peered into the living room, and sure enough, there was a dude asleep on out couch. We happened to have left the door open that night. Brendan went over to him and had to shake him rather hard to get him up, I think he might have even needed to punch the guy. Eventually the guy sat up like a shot
“FOOOK!”
The dialect of the Irish accent that calls Cork County its home is one of the most difficult accents to understand in the county (the other is a thick Dublin accent). When a person with this accent becomes drunk, they are totally incomprehensible. Even for other Irish people. This was such a case.
I kinda felt bad for the guy, and figured, shit, that’s probably going to happen to me someday. It would have perhaps been more funny if it were some decrepit crotchety old man, but it was a young guy. I figured I’d give him a glass of water so he didn’t die, and then get him the fuck out of out apartment. Brendan thought I was crazy for doing it. I couldn’t understand a fucking word, but from what I could gather he was trying to go back to sleep and we kept having to explain to him he couldn’t stay. I at one point I asked him if he had a jacket, he said yes, and I think he said it was black, but he could have said “uuuuuuuuhghhhghhghg fook ufuguguguuweeee whiskey.” He then proceeded to pick up every jacket in the room identifying it as his own. Each time, Brendan said “no, that’s mine.” When he knocked over my guitar, I reached my breaking point and we told him to get the fuck out of our apartment. He kept repeating “very cool, very cool.” “We know, we’re not going to fight you, but you have to leave.” Then he would sort of raise his hand as a request for us to pause for a moment, the way drunken people sometimes do when they think they have something really important to say, that usually just comes out “uuuuuuuuhghhhghhghg fook ufuguguguuweeee whiskey.”
He finally left, and we locked the door.
For a good while afterwards, we could here him stumbling around the halls trying to open doors. Our land lord has still never really fixed the door to the apartment building that would otherwise keep out the rif raf. Fascist.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Saturday, April 26, 2008
The Most Excited I've Been For A Long Time.
I needed a couple items of the ramen and tuna persuasion. How very colligate of me. And thus, I began the walk down to one to the giant chain conglomerate supermarket, Tesco (I even think it might be owned by Wal-Mart). I’d like to point out that I do the majority of my shopping at my beloved English Market, but when you need toilet paper and habenero Tabasco, there are precious few places to go. So, as I walked down, a couple of guys passed me holding a case (they call them slabs here) of pints of Guinness. I thought to myself “wow they must be having a party.” As I entered the supermarket, I noticed a stack of Guinness slabs. I look over and see the magic words, reduced to clear. A can of Guinness will run around 2.25 euro. These were cases for 15 euro. This works out to 63 cents per pint. I immediately called my roommate:
Me “Get down here, they have cases of Guinness for 15 Euro.”
Charlie “Cases as in…”
Me “24, yeah”
Charlie’s phone doesn’t work correctly and he has to speak with it on speaker phone.
Sarah *muffled excitement in the background*
Charlie “I’m on my way.”
I stood there, guarding our claim to cases like a miner in the Yukon, who after eating boots all winter had just found gold. My basket full of ramen and beer, at my side like a husky, my water-proof jacket robes of fur. I watched others see this deal and descend on the beer like vultures to malted barley and yeast carrion.
Charlie got there and we grabbed three cases.
In Ireland, to use a shopping cart you pay a one Euro deposit, and you can walk the cart back home with you (probably because of the reduced reliance on cars). We ended up pushing this incredibly heavy shopping cart the 10 minute walk to my place (which took much longer) over walk ways and streets, that I would not quite call cobble stone, but for sure was not concrete and asphalt.
I returned home with childish glee. In my eyes gleamed the first cheap beer I have ever found in Ireland. Before me lay 72 cans 36 liters of shaken, warm, about to expire, glorious stout.
We played rummy, watched Heroes, and drank cheap beer. It was a good night.
Me “Get down here, they have cases of Guinness for 15 Euro.”
Charlie “Cases as in…”
Me “24, yeah”
Charlie’s phone doesn’t work correctly and he has to speak with it on speaker phone.
Sarah *muffled excitement in the background*
Charlie “I’m on my way.”
I stood there, guarding our claim to cases like a miner in the Yukon, who after eating boots all winter had just found gold. My basket full of ramen and beer, at my side like a husky, my water-proof jacket robes of fur. I watched others see this deal and descend on the beer like vultures to malted barley and yeast carrion.
Charlie got there and we grabbed three cases.
In Ireland, to use a shopping cart you pay a one Euro deposit, and you can walk the cart back home with you (probably because of the reduced reliance on cars). We ended up pushing this incredibly heavy shopping cart the 10 minute walk to my place (which took much longer) over walk ways and streets, that I would not quite call cobble stone, but for sure was not concrete and asphalt.
I returned home with childish glee. In my eyes gleamed the first cheap beer I have ever found in Ireland. Before me lay 72 cans 36 liters of shaken, warm, about to expire, glorious stout.
We played rummy, watched Heroes, and drank cheap beer. It was a good night.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
McClure, then London
It’s been a long time since I’ve updated this business. I think this time instead of my usual witty, historical and pop culture reference laden, look-at-how-funny-I-am-fest, I’ll tell a bit more straight-forward of an update. First off, Jon McClure visited me in Ireland. Many of you don’t know MC, but if you haven’t chances are, I’ve told you about him. If you do get an opportunity to meet him, you find yourself one of the most steadfast and loyal friends you could possibly wish for. If you get used to his eccentricity, you see what a genuinely great person he is. He must have really scrimped and saved to make it here. I’m really impressed. He did some very McClurian things right away. One of the first things he did when we go to my place was break out his voltmeter, and check the voltage of the outlets. He then proceeded to hack into my roommate’s computer, check the internet, and fix all the spy ware problems.
Over the course of the trip, I took him a few cool places, some of my favourite pubs, the best fish and chips place in Cork (and probably all of Ireland), Jack Lennox’s. You feel some sort of heart palpitations walk in the vicinity. You get this massive piece of super breaded fish and a ton of chips, wrapped in paper. They have this really weird ordering procedure too, you sort of yell your order to them from line (or, sorry queue), they start cooking your order, and when you go up to pay, they ask you what you ordered again, there is no line of communication between the two sections.
We went to Blarney Castle, it’s really touristy, but it’s sort of a must see. The first time I went there my friend Sarah (probably my best friend in Cork) and we walk the five miles from Cork. There was only sidewalk (or shoulder) for about half way. With these fooking shitty Irish drivers I was afraid for my life. McClure and I took the bus. The castle grounds are really nice (this probably the most bland sentence I have every written). Of course going to a castle with me is sort of a loaded action. You’re getting a mini-lecture, I’m full of information, like for instance, Blarney isn’t really a castle, it’s a tower house, albeit one of the largest examples (the largest being Bunratty). So you can imagine 6’ 10” McClure craning his head under 5 and a half foot high doors and winding spiral staircase, designed to be kind of difficult to go up, and me shouting “WHOA! Check this out, it’s a bartizan1.”And he kissed the Blarney stone (and I figured out how to sneak into the place, but more on that later).
We also went to Cobh, the port town where the Irish emigrants made their last stop. It was also the last place the Titanic and Lusitanian went to port. It was really great to have a pint on the seaside. When were at a park there, he picked a shamrock from the grass and put it in his check book for safe keeping. We didn’t do much touristy stuff, but that’s not really what either of us wanted. Oh, another highlight, at the Beamish and Crawford tour we got to pour our own pints. That was awesome. I was almost at my financial lowest, because which, I didn’t get to show MC some of other really cool things around Ireland. For that, I feel pretty rotten. However, I do think he enjoyed himself. I don’t know how much MC would have liked to spend most of his time on buses rushing from one tourist trap to another.
I just want to add some of the very McClurian things he did:
He said, and I quote, “Russia is like the freaking Romulan Empire.”
He asked me if I had any copper wire.
To reiterate, he’s 6’ 10. He hit is head on a street sign. Seriously.
He has a North Dakota polito-blog and he kept it up every single day he was Ireland.
He grew this chin-pubey beard, when I told him it looked silly, he said his girlfriend likes it. For those of you who don’t know, McClure has a girlfriend now. I’m sure they're watching Firefly or UHF as we speak.
Another quote:
Me: So what is the biggest difference you’ve notice between the U.S. and Ireland?
Him: Well, other than the lack of ubiquitous cashless transactions, not much.
You see, a man with like 6 bank accounts (including an international one) didn’t bring a debit card, and almost nowhere in Ireland (except for supermarkets and the like) accept credit card. I knew he didn’t have much money, so I tried to spring for as many things as possible. And even then the only accepted it absolutely begrudgingly. I eventually let him spring for a pizza. It was funny to get a pizza from Domino’s in Ireland, (McClure works there in the States) and to notice all the weird differences. He even took pictures.
There is one other shitty thing I did with McClure here. A week before on a drunken whim a friend an I booked a flight to London, so I wasn’t in Cork from McClure’s last night. I totally forgot about the dates. I feel incredibly guilty about it. I’m mean sure he went out with my roommates, but it’s not the same.
That trip to London was sort of cursed from the get go. I bought my ticket just minutes after my friend, just enough time for 12:01 to role around and my ticket to jump from 60 euro to 90 Euro. At the current exchange rate, 30 Euro is about 50 bucks. She offered to pay half and I accepted (remember this it’s important for the next blog instalment which I will try and write tomorrow). The next day I looked at my travel itinerary and noticed our plane got into Stanstead airport at around 11 p.m. Upon further inspection, I realized that the bus takes two hours to get to central London. There was no way in hell I was going to pay 15£ (=30 dollars) to sleep in a hostel when I could sleep in the airport for free. My friend was quite dismayed by the prospect. Yes, if we had change the day, I would have had the exact same amount of time in London, saved 30 Euro, and hung out with McClure one more day. Fuck. I planned on meeting up with my buddy Andrew from high school. I had sort of counted on crashing at his place for free, but never really confirmed it. When I talked to him about it, I found out he was living with a host family (which would make for an awkward fest). So, more hostel money. Fuck.
On the way to the airport, this guy tried to pop out from a parked position and cut off our bus driver. The driver slammed on the breaks, and the car and the bus barely hit each other, not enough to do much but scratch the paint. The driver continued on the to the airport, and the other car chased us down, cut the driver off, parked, emerged in his full knackery glory, and starts yelling at the driver who proceeds to call the garda. Meanwhile my friend is freaking out next to me, thinking we’ll miss the plane. We made it all fine. I had made all my food for the trip (in the form of tuna sandwiches, egg and bacon sandwiches, and a container of rice) and luckily customs did not confiscate may only sustenance for the next four days2. So we set up shop in the airport, I put down my bag for a pillow, draped a coat over my self, and went to sleep in a corner in the airport. My friend changed into her pajamas, got in her travel blanket, took sleeping pills, put on her eye cover, put her iPod earphones in, and went to sleep.
I was fortunate enough to go to London once before when I was younger, so I saw many of the sites already. The friend I was travelling with is also the sort of traveller that “loves to travel” but kinda vaguely hates most of the trip. That is to say, complains about the weather, stresses about the travel arrangements. Since I had seen almost everything I had wanted to see already, I was content to let her choose the travel plans, something I think she misconstrued as me leaving her to do all the work. Having said that I’m sure that there are plenty of things about me that make me hard to travel with. The three things I really wanted to see were the British Museum, the National Gallery, and go on a Jack the Ripper tour. I was pretty ambivalent about everything else. So the first day we spent about 5 hours in the British Museum. The British Museum is the most famous history museum in the entire world and has antiquates from where ever the Victorians could get the rape and pillaging tea biscuits. It has huge collections from Europe, Egypt, Middle East, India, China, Africa, and everywhere else the sun didn’t set on. So by the end, my friend was getting hungry and antsy while I was running around “WOAH! A palstave axe! WHOA, the Battersea shield, NO WAY, Japanese Edo-ware! Holy crap! This is the Curdale horde!” You get the picture, but hey, I know probably as much about some of this shit as tour guides do, so whatever. So, figured I’d compromise and go. The rest of that day we just sort of look at some of the more famous sites, such as Big Ben, Houses of Parliament, ect. Not really my thing, but I guess if you haven’t seen it before it a sort of must do. Making me take your picture in front of it and walking around with a camera out, is, in fact, only a must you if you want to embarrass the living shit out of Anthony.
After a fairly packed day, we went back to the hostel and ate some food. For about half an hour I wrestled with country codes and other annoyances to get a hold of my friend Andrew. We finally meet up in the King’s Cross tube station (yeah, the Harry Potter one). We decided to go to Lester Square. If you’re not familiar, Lester Square is the sort of Times Square of London, or maybe more accurately Broadway. Regardless, it’s the bustling theatre area in London. The three of us are walking around and Andrew pulls out a small bottle of whiskey and informs me there aren’t really public drinking laws in London. This kicks ass. Drinking outside has always had to be some sort of clandestine, vaguely dangerous activity (as my record with the Minot police verifies). We proceed to walk around bustling area, drinking, catching up, that sort of thing. By this point the whiskey is gone and we buy a bottle of wine. Soon, said bottle of wine was gone as well.
Were not really doing anything, per say, but there was a sort of really fun vibe to the whole thing. We pop in to the nearest off-license (they don’t call um liquor stores) he points out the cheapest thing he can find. It’s this these 750 ml bottles of this sort of sparking wine that is about 5 or 6% alcohol. We both buy three. I also purchased my friend a pack of gum (also important to remember for the next instalment).He asked if we want to go to Trafalgar Square. I think this is a good idea. If you’re not familiar, it’s this huge square in central London commemorating Admiral Lord Nelson’s defeat of Napoleon at Trafalgar. Surrounding the square are many important sites, such as the National Gallery. While there, we randomly meet Andrew’s friend from his study abroad program (I don’t remember the guy’s name). Andrew gives me the bag with the bottles in them and tells me to hold it for him. He then scrambles up a marble platform. On that said platform are massive bronze lions, each weighing several tons, as well a giant column topped with a statue of Admiral Lord Nelson. I say to my self, “self, pass up the chance to get drunk on top of a world famous monument? Could you live with yourself… if you didn’t?” So the four of us are all up on this statue. It had rained earlier that day and marble has an unforgiving grip when it is wet. Bronze is equally slippery. I should be dead. At this, point we turn to our neighbours, a bunch of 14 year old English girls (and one dude). I don’t necessarily think that drinking on the monument of Admiral Lord Nelson was touristy but rather, something funny as hell. But to kids who are native, I think the concept is slightly different. That is to say, all across the world, stupid kids like to try and make themselves look bad ass. I’m sure if they didn’t have Trafalgar Square to climb over, they would probably buy some My Chemical Romance hoodies. Or, if they were part of “my generation” they would have had Insane Clown Posse t-shirts3. I think the fact they were drinking (I think they were drinking) with 21 year olds, who thought they were cool enough to hang out with further added to the perceived badassery. I thought, this is so fucking ridiculous it’s awesome. I’ll have to write about this4. So, your man (this is Cork slang) though we were hitting on his girl friend and he was acting very defensive. I remember at one point, he was talking about drinking and he said something like completely implausible like “the only time I can get drunk is when I drink like 700ML of vodka in like an hour.” Here I was thinking half-pint should stick to half-pints (you can get either pints or half pints). I also remember imparting upon him some pearls of wisdom… “drinking is fun, I approve, but never start smoking.”
After maybe an hour of shooting the shit with these kids, I went to the bathroom in a McDonald’s. When I came back some older guy was yelling at everyone to get off the statue. I soon realised that the dude had a bottle in his hand himself. It wasn’t some authority figure, just another guy drinking. I also saw broken glass on the ground from on of the bottles. I assumed it was the kids, but it turns out it was one of my friends. Go figure. The rest of the night was relatively unimportant, we went to McDonald’s. Go figure. We got back to the hostel and I talked to the crazy ass German guys about Banksy and stuff for like two hours. I also met a French girl who, not only was living in Cork, but in the building attached to mine, and taking the same flight back as us. We’ve hung out a few subsequent times, but she has since moved back to France.
The next day, we crammed an inordinate number of sites into one day. It was a goddamn world wind. We attended mass at Westminster Abbey (though we bounced half way through). The sermon was incredibly boring, and deadpan, but it was worth it to listen to the boy’s choir. It was actually very haunting and creepy, this ancient stone building filled with tombs, and this ethereal harmony filling the gaps. So we went along the whole area, Houses of Parliament, walked past the Mi6 building (that is to say, if James Bond existed, he would work there), etc. Sorry if this sounds like a grocery list of famous stuff, but at this point it’s getting long, and I’m getting lazy. The National gallery was awesome, though I was incredibly disappointed that I spent more time looking at pompous-ass Baroque portraits than Van Gogh or Cezanne, something that certainly chaps my ass and sense of aesthetic (we spent way to much time with the early stuff, and when I got to the paintings that excited me *ahem* some one was getting antsy). Still, one of the best art museums in the world is still bad-ass. Okey, more grocery list… National Portrait gallery, Buckingham Palace (SOOO overrated), Hyde Park.
We met up with Andrew again got some quick fish and chips, and left to go on the Jack the Ripper tour. There were two tour guides, and older guy and a younger woman. The said we should divide into two groups, and far fewer people went with the woman, I said “why don’t we go with her,” I kinda felt bad. Andrew insisted with the older man. His hunch proved right, I later found out our guide was basically the world’s leading expert on Jack the Ripper, and this was the only day out of the week that he gave a tour. As this is dragging on, I won’t tell you about my vague obsession with how fucked up 19th century London was. There is a sort of almost mystic legendary appeal. It was the world of Sherlock Holmes and Dracula, the beginning of modern mega cites, the first subways, wealth and desperation, and the starkest example of oppression, probably in all of human history 5.
The remainder of the night, we hung out got some drinks, and back at the hostel I ended up hanging out with these wild Swedish kids (who all looked like models). One of them had lived in the states, had a nearly American accent and liked really good hip-hop. In the morning we did little but check out and get to the bus. Before heading for the bus, we sat on a park bench talking about how the trip had been a bonding experience while watching pigeons. While waiting for the bus, the weather was pretty bad, and my travel buddy was complete fuming. I really enjoyed the bus ride back, watching London pass in the rain.
The flight back was a complete ordeal. First, we found out weren’t supposed to be able to check in on-line because we didn’t have EU-identity cards (even though I have a Republic of Ireland ID). While in the airport I walked around the duty free, sampling whiskey (it was awesome). At the end of my financial rope, I got a bottle of gin (which I thought would be duty free, though it wasn’t it was still cheaper than Cork) and I picked up a bag of skittles for my travel companion, with the intention of being paid back (also important to remember). At this point I basically had enough money for a round of groceries when I got home. Of course, I was hurried along (and to be fair, it was good travel practice) so we could be early to our flight. The flight came in over an hour late. I spent a sizable chunk of the wait reading and making funny faces back in forth with my French friend who was behind us a ways in line. During the flight, they informed us we couldn’t land in Cork, due to the weather, and we would be redirected to Dublin. In Dublin, they directed us to buses (a four hour bus ride if I remember correctly). About forty five minutes outside of Cork, our bus ran over some metal and had a flat. Luckily there was the B & B we could park by and wait at. Having eaten nothing but two pieces of toast all day (it was about 10:45) I broke down and ordered a sandwich and a pint. We finally got back to Cork, however, they didn’t take us to the city, they took us to the airport, a fifteen minute drive outside of Cork. Luckily that is where our return bus tickets left from. My friend, exhausted and very irritated, commented that that trip back (which took 6 hours longer than it should have) couldn’t possibly have been worse, to which I replied “not true, we just made the last bus back to Cork by 5 minutes.”
1. Blarney castle does not have any bartizans, but nobody (but me and I’m sure a bunch of men wearing tweeds and drinking sherry) knows what the fuck a bartizan is anyway.
2. While in Ireland, I’ve taken a break from being a vegetarian. I still won’t get meat from a supermarket, but at the English Market (I probably should devout an entire blog entry to that place, it’s my favourite thing in Cork, oh, and I took McClure two or three times) the butcher I go to is a family butcher that only use range feed animals from their own farms right near Cork. Animal friendly (sort of), worker friendly, environmentally friendly, and cheaper. Liver and onions has become a staple in my diet, it’s a nutritional powerhouse. I don’t need to justify myself, fuck you.
3. I of course mean this in a tongue and cheek way. Also I would like to point out that I never once every considered doing so, though I guess C. Halseth at the Minot police thinks otherwise. Fucker. It’s an inside story. Anyway, I just meant that when I was 14 that is the sort of thing kids did to look badass and rebellious.
4. I am.
5. If you want understand some more of my mental pictures of the place, read Alan Moore’s From Hell or League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, as well as novels from the time.
Over the course of the trip, I took him a few cool places, some of my favourite pubs, the best fish and chips place in Cork (and probably all of Ireland), Jack Lennox’s. You feel some sort of heart palpitations walk in the vicinity. You get this massive piece of super breaded fish and a ton of chips, wrapped in paper. They have this really weird ordering procedure too, you sort of yell your order to them from line (or, sorry queue), they start cooking your order, and when you go up to pay, they ask you what you ordered again, there is no line of communication between the two sections.
We went to Blarney Castle, it’s really touristy, but it’s sort of a must see. The first time I went there my friend Sarah (probably my best friend in Cork) and we walk the five miles from Cork. There was only sidewalk (or shoulder) for about half way. With these fooking shitty Irish drivers I was afraid for my life. McClure and I took the bus. The castle grounds are really nice (this probably the most bland sentence I have every written). Of course going to a castle with me is sort of a loaded action. You’re getting a mini-lecture, I’m full of information, like for instance, Blarney isn’t really a castle, it’s a tower house, albeit one of the largest examples (the largest being Bunratty). So you can imagine 6’ 10” McClure craning his head under 5 and a half foot high doors and winding spiral staircase, designed to be kind of difficult to go up, and me shouting “WHOA! Check this out, it’s a bartizan1.”And he kissed the Blarney stone (and I figured out how to sneak into the place, but more on that later).
We also went to Cobh, the port town where the Irish emigrants made their last stop. It was also the last place the Titanic and Lusitanian went to port. It was really great to have a pint on the seaside. When were at a park there, he picked a shamrock from the grass and put it in his check book for safe keeping. We didn’t do much touristy stuff, but that’s not really what either of us wanted. Oh, another highlight, at the Beamish and Crawford tour we got to pour our own pints. That was awesome. I was almost at my financial lowest, because which, I didn’t get to show MC some of other really cool things around Ireland. For that, I feel pretty rotten. However, I do think he enjoyed himself. I don’t know how much MC would have liked to spend most of his time on buses rushing from one tourist trap to another.
I just want to add some of the very McClurian things he did:
He said, and I quote, “Russia is like the freaking Romulan Empire.”
He asked me if I had any copper wire.
To reiterate, he’s 6’ 10. He hit is head on a street sign. Seriously.
He has a North Dakota polito-blog and he kept it up every single day he was Ireland.
He grew this chin-pubey beard, when I told him it looked silly, he said his girlfriend likes it. For those of you who don’t know, McClure has a girlfriend now. I’m sure they're watching Firefly or UHF as we speak.
Another quote:
Me: So what is the biggest difference you’ve notice between the U.S. and Ireland?
Him: Well, other than the lack of ubiquitous cashless transactions, not much.
You see, a man with like 6 bank accounts (including an international one) didn’t bring a debit card, and almost nowhere in Ireland (except for supermarkets and the like) accept credit card. I knew he didn’t have much money, so I tried to spring for as many things as possible. And even then the only accepted it absolutely begrudgingly. I eventually let him spring for a pizza. It was funny to get a pizza from Domino’s in Ireland, (McClure works there in the States) and to notice all the weird differences. He even took pictures.
There is one other shitty thing I did with McClure here. A week before on a drunken whim a friend an I booked a flight to London, so I wasn’t in Cork from McClure’s last night. I totally forgot about the dates. I feel incredibly guilty about it. I’m mean sure he went out with my roommates, but it’s not the same.
That trip to London was sort of cursed from the get go. I bought my ticket just minutes after my friend, just enough time for 12:01 to role around and my ticket to jump from 60 euro to 90 Euro. At the current exchange rate, 30 Euro is about 50 bucks. She offered to pay half and I accepted (remember this it’s important for the next blog instalment which I will try and write tomorrow). The next day I looked at my travel itinerary and noticed our plane got into Stanstead airport at around 11 p.m. Upon further inspection, I realized that the bus takes two hours to get to central London. There was no way in hell I was going to pay 15£ (=30 dollars) to sleep in a hostel when I could sleep in the airport for free. My friend was quite dismayed by the prospect. Yes, if we had change the day, I would have had the exact same amount of time in London, saved 30 Euro, and hung out with McClure one more day. Fuck. I planned on meeting up with my buddy Andrew from high school. I had sort of counted on crashing at his place for free, but never really confirmed it. When I talked to him about it, I found out he was living with a host family (which would make for an awkward fest). So, more hostel money. Fuck.
On the way to the airport, this guy tried to pop out from a parked position and cut off our bus driver. The driver slammed on the breaks, and the car and the bus barely hit each other, not enough to do much but scratch the paint. The driver continued on the to the airport, and the other car chased us down, cut the driver off, parked, emerged in his full knackery glory, and starts yelling at the driver who proceeds to call the garda. Meanwhile my friend is freaking out next to me, thinking we’ll miss the plane. We made it all fine. I had made all my food for the trip (in the form of tuna sandwiches, egg and bacon sandwiches, and a container of rice) and luckily customs did not confiscate may only sustenance for the next four days2. So we set up shop in the airport, I put down my bag for a pillow, draped a coat over my self, and went to sleep in a corner in the airport. My friend changed into her pajamas, got in her travel blanket, took sleeping pills, put on her eye cover, put her iPod earphones in, and went to sleep.
I was fortunate enough to go to London once before when I was younger, so I saw many of the sites already. The friend I was travelling with is also the sort of traveller that “loves to travel” but kinda vaguely hates most of the trip. That is to say, complains about the weather, stresses about the travel arrangements. Since I had seen almost everything I had wanted to see already, I was content to let her choose the travel plans, something I think she misconstrued as me leaving her to do all the work. Having said that I’m sure that there are plenty of things about me that make me hard to travel with. The three things I really wanted to see were the British Museum, the National Gallery, and go on a Jack the Ripper tour. I was pretty ambivalent about everything else. So the first day we spent about 5 hours in the British Museum. The British Museum is the most famous history museum in the entire world and has antiquates from where ever the Victorians could get the rape and pillaging tea biscuits. It has huge collections from Europe, Egypt, Middle East, India, China, Africa, and everywhere else the sun didn’t set on. So by the end, my friend was getting hungry and antsy while I was running around “WOAH! A palstave axe! WHOA, the Battersea shield, NO WAY, Japanese Edo-ware! Holy crap! This is the Curdale horde!” You get the picture, but hey, I know probably as much about some of this shit as tour guides do, so whatever. So, figured I’d compromise and go. The rest of that day we just sort of look at some of the more famous sites, such as Big Ben, Houses of Parliament, ect. Not really my thing, but I guess if you haven’t seen it before it a sort of must do. Making me take your picture in front of it and walking around with a camera out, is, in fact, only a must you if you want to embarrass the living shit out of Anthony.
After a fairly packed day, we went back to the hostel and ate some food. For about half an hour I wrestled with country codes and other annoyances to get a hold of my friend Andrew. We finally meet up in the King’s Cross tube station (yeah, the Harry Potter one). We decided to go to Lester Square. If you’re not familiar, Lester Square is the sort of Times Square of London, or maybe more accurately Broadway. Regardless, it’s the bustling theatre area in London. The three of us are walking around and Andrew pulls out a small bottle of whiskey and informs me there aren’t really public drinking laws in London. This kicks ass. Drinking outside has always had to be some sort of clandestine, vaguely dangerous activity (as my record with the Minot police verifies). We proceed to walk around bustling area, drinking, catching up, that sort of thing. By this point the whiskey is gone and we buy a bottle of wine. Soon, said bottle of wine was gone as well.
Were not really doing anything, per say, but there was a sort of really fun vibe to the whole thing. We pop in to the nearest off-license (they don’t call um liquor stores) he points out the cheapest thing he can find. It’s this these 750 ml bottles of this sort of sparking wine that is about 5 or 6% alcohol. We both buy three. I also purchased my friend a pack of gum (also important to remember for the next instalment).He asked if we want to go to Trafalgar Square. I think this is a good idea. If you’re not familiar, it’s this huge square in central London commemorating Admiral Lord Nelson’s defeat of Napoleon at Trafalgar. Surrounding the square are many important sites, such as the National Gallery. While there, we randomly meet Andrew’s friend from his study abroad program (I don’t remember the guy’s name). Andrew gives me the bag with the bottles in them and tells me to hold it for him. He then scrambles up a marble platform. On that said platform are massive bronze lions, each weighing several tons, as well a giant column topped with a statue of Admiral Lord Nelson. I say to my self, “self, pass up the chance to get drunk on top of a world famous monument? Could you live with yourself… if you didn’t?” So the four of us are all up on this statue. It had rained earlier that day and marble has an unforgiving grip when it is wet. Bronze is equally slippery. I should be dead. At this, point we turn to our neighbours, a bunch of 14 year old English girls (and one dude). I don’t necessarily think that drinking on the monument of Admiral Lord Nelson was touristy but rather, something funny as hell. But to kids who are native, I think the concept is slightly different. That is to say, all across the world, stupid kids like to try and make themselves look bad ass. I’m sure if they didn’t have Trafalgar Square to climb over, they would probably buy some My Chemical Romance hoodies. Or, if they were part of “my generation” they would have had Insane Clown Posse t-shirts3. I think the fact they were drinking (I think they were drinking) with 21 year olds, who thought they were cool enough to hang out with further added to the perceived badassery. I thought, this is so fucking ridiculous it’s awesome. I’ll have to write about this4. So, your man (this is Cork slang) though we were hitting on his girl friend and he was acting very defensive. I remember at one point, he was talking about drinking and he said something like completely implausible like “the only time I can get drunk is when I drink like 700ML of vodka in like an hour.” Here I was thinking half-pint should stick to half-pints (you can get either pints or half pints). I also remember imparting upon him some pearls of wisdom… “drinking is fun, I approve, but never start smoking.”
After maybe an hour of shooting the shit with these kids, I went to the bathroom in a McDonald’s. When I came back some older guy was yelling at everyone to get off the statue. I soon realised that the dude had a bottle in his hand himself. It wasn’t some authority figure, just another guy drinking. I also saw broken glass on the ground from on of the bottles. I assumed it was the kids, but it turns out it was one of my friends. Go figure. The rest of the night was relatively unimportant, we went to McDonald’s. Go figure. We got back to the hostel and I talked to the crazy ass German guys about Banksy and stuff for like two hours. I also met a French girl who, not only was living in Cork, but in the building attached to mine, and taking the same flight back as us. We’ve hung out a few subsequent times, but she has since moved back to France.
The next day, we crammed an inordinate number of sites into one day. It was a goddamn world wind. We attended mass at Westminster Abbey (though we bounced half way through). The sermon was incredibly boring, and deadpan, but it was worth it to listen to the boy’s choir. It was actually very haunting and creepy, this ancient stone building filled with tombs, and this ethereal harmony filling the gaps. So we went along the whole area, Houses of Parliament, walked past the Mi6 building (that is to say, if James Bond existed, he would work there), etc. Sorry if this sounds like a grocery list of famous stuff, but at this point it’s getting long, and I’m getting lazy. The National gallery was awesome, though I was incredibly disappointed that I spent more time looking at pompous-ass Baroque portraits than Van Gogh or Cezanne, something that certainly chaps my ass and sense of aesthetic (we spent way to much time with the early stuff, and when I got to the paintings that excited me *ahem* some one was getting antsy). Still, one of the best art museums in the world is still bad-ass. Okey, more grocery list… National Portrait gallery, Buckingham Palace (SOOO overrated), Hyde Park.
We met up with Andrew again got some quick fish and chips, and left to go on the Jack the Ripper tour. There were two tour guides, and older guy and a younger woman. The said we should divide into two groups, and far fewer people went with the woman, I said “why don’t we go with her,” I kinda felt bad. Andrew insisted with the older man. His hunch proved right, I later found out our guide was basically the world’s leading expert on Jack the Ripper, and this was the only day out of the week that he gave a tour. As this is dragging on, I won’t tell you about my vague obsession with how fucked up 19th century London was. There is a sort of almost mystic legendary appeal. It was the world of Sherlock Holmes and Dracula, the beginning of modern mega cites, the first subways, wealth and desperation, and the starkest example of oppression, probably in all of human history 5.
The remainder of the night, we hung out got some drinks, and back at the hostel I ended up hanging out with these wild Swedish kids (who all looked like models). One of them had lived in the states, had a nearly American accent and liked really good hip-hop. In the morning we did little but check out and get to the bus. Before heading for the bus, we sat on a park bench talking about how the trip had been a bonding experience while watching pigeons. While waiting for the bus, the weather was pretty bad, and my travel buddy was complete fuming. I really enjoyed the bus ride back, watching London pass in the rain.
The flight back was a complete ordeal. First, we found out weren’t supposed to be able to check in on-line because we didn’t have EU-identity cards (even though I have a Republic of Ireland ID). While in the airport I walked around the duty free, sampling whiskey (it was awesome). At the end of my financial rope, I got a bottle of gin (which I thought would be duty free, though it wasn’t it was still cheaper than Cork) and I picked up a bag of skittles for my travel companion, with the intention of being paid back (also important to remember). At this point I basically had enough money for a round of groceries when I got home. Of course, I was hurried along (and to be fair, it was good travel practice) so we could be early to our flight. The flight came in over an hour late. I spent a sizable chunk of the wait reading and making funny faces back in forth with my French friend who was behind us a ways in line. During the flight, they informed us we couldn’t land in Cork, due to the weather, and we would be redirected to Dublin. In Dublin, they directed us to buses (a four hour bus ride if I remember correctly). About forty five minutes outside of Cork, our bus ran over some metal and had a flat. Luckily there was the B & B we could park by and wait at. Having eaten nothing but two pieces of toast all day (it was about 10:45) I broke down and ordered a sandwich and a pint. We finally got back to Cork, however, they didn’t take us to the city, they took us to the airport, a fifteen minute drive outside of Cork. Luckily that is where our return bus tickets left from. My friend, exhausted and very irritated, commented that that trip back (which took 6 hours longer than it should have) couldn’t possibly have been worse, to which I replied “not true, we just made the last bus back to Cork by 5 minutes.”
1. Blarney castle does not have any bartizans, but nobody (but me and I’m sure a bunch of men wearing tweeds and drinking sherry) knows what the fuck a bartizan is anyway.
2. While in Ireland, I’ve taken a break from being a vegetarian. I still won’t get meat from a supermarket, but at the English Market (I probably should devout an entire blog entry to that place, it’s my favourite thing in Cork, oh, and I took McClure two or three times) the butcher I go to is a family butcher that only use range feed animals from their own farms right near Cork. Animal friendly (sort of), worker friendly, environmentally friendly, and cheaper. Liver and onions has become a staple in my diet, it’s a nutritional powerhouse. I don’t need to justify myself, fuck you.
3. I of course mean this in a tongue and cheek way. Also I would like to point out that I never once every considered doing so, though I guess C. Halseth at the Minot police thinks otherwise. Fucker. It’s an inside story. Anyway, I just meant that when I was 14 that is the sort of thing kids did to look badass and rebellious.
4. I am.
5. If you want understand some more of my mental pictures of the place, read Alan Moore’s From Hell or League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, as well as novels from the time.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Anthony Makes Pass At Irish Girls, Crashes, Burns. A Post Script Note: I Am A Golden God
A word of caution. This entry makes me look terribly shallow, and if you think it will lower your opinion of me in anyway, read on, because this shit is funny.
In World War II Adolph Hitler sent paratroopers on a mission. These paratroopers landed in the private estates of many noble English families. Their aim you may ask? Assassinate members of parliament perhaps? No, in fact, he sent them diplomatically. He attempted to rouse the British nobility into an uprising against the crown. Hitler wanted rally the barons, appealing to the spirit of those like Simon de Montfort who lead the second Baron’s revolt against Henry III. He also implored them to recognize their proud Germanic heritage, as Angles, Saxons, and Jutes once dominated what we now called England. For being one of the biggest geniuses of the 20th century, Hitler was incredibly stupid. The nobles had these paratroopers captured by the military. I don’t remember the name of this operation, but I’m sure Casey does.
My point in telling this story, you may ask? This endeavour undertaken by the Third Reich is comparable to an American trying to pick up an Irish girl. At first, when I got to campus, pubs, etc. I thought “Oh, my,” Irish girls are all beautiful. This is not true. I soon realized the way they dress, present themselves, and love to go out, etc. was all very attractive. But only from a distance. I was fooled, many times over, into thinking a girl was gorgeous, and then soon realized when she turned around, that behind the thick eye makeup and cool hair, my initial response was not to be trusted. Having said that, the ones who are attractive are ridiculously attractive. There really is no middle ground. I think the beautiful ones let it go to their head that the entire population of Irish males are fawning over them. That is probably why the Irish are famously silver tongued. They have to be, or good luck with that whole progeny thing. I have also noticed (and any Irish man and many Irish girls will confirm) they are incredibly gossipy, catty, and devious. The old “a woman scorned…” proverb particularly comes into play. If you anger one of them, you might as well emigrate. Having said that, I have meet a fair number of really cool, down to earth Irish girls in class or on mountaineering trips, that sort of thing, and I’m not making any sort of blanket misogynist statements. There have been instances where I have talked to a girl a pub for around half an hour, many of those instances purely platonic. However, when I asked for a number, or to hang out I’d get an excuse like “oh, my boyfriend would not like that,” or, “I live far away.” As a naturally out-going person, I find this frustrating. Further proof that this is not just my imagination, my friend Dan, who is Irish, informed me that he never met a single American who has ever hooked up with an Irish girl. And, he used to organize events from international students, and has several close American friends who are back in the states now. At this point, I don’t even try. I guess I’ll have to stick to getting shot down by Americans.
A post script note: I am a Golden God, All Lesser Men, Bow Before Me.
I have an A game* and a B game**. Many of you have witnessed this, or been on the receiving end of either. In my B game I imagine my self some charming, debonair cross between Cary Grant, Woody Allen, Tucker Max, and Ryan Adams. In reality, I act like a sort of mix between an 8th grader who listens to too much Weezer***, Jon Lovitz, Tucker Max, and Rico Suave. I lay it on way too thick, make an ass of myself, and then move to the corner to drink whiskey****. On my A game, I am completely indifferent, do not try at all, have no intention of hitting on anyone, and end up being really funny and charming. This does not happen often, usually I am trying my damnedest*****. On last Wednesday night, here follows a story of my A game.
I was just hanging out with my roommates relaxing, having a few whiskey sours. I get a text (all people do over here is text, because calling is so expensive) from my previously mentioned Irish friend Dan. He asks me if I want to meet him and some friends at a pub. Having nothing else to do, I think, why not? I’ll go for a pint, stay an hour then go to bed. I arrive, and he introduces me to his friends. They had just left a student government function, and were all wearing suits and ties. I was in my Ergs t-shirt and Pixies hoodie. I soon start talking to this Irish girl (not one of Dan’s friends, but I didn’t realize it at the time). She cute, tall, blond, and wear a red corset (later in the evening she points out some thing like “you know I’m really only wearing underwear right now,” I can’t make this shit up******). I have not showered in one, possibly two days. Half the people around me are wearing suits, and I am dressed like a ragamuffin. I tell her a few of my better stories, such as the Knacker incident, or the Donny’s going away party*******, and she was rolling with laughter. I ask her to tell me a story, when she can’t think of one, I ask a few questions such as “what is your favourite colour********” etc. I also rip into her for mentioning she likes a Nickleback song (that stupid rock star one, which is somewhat clever, but still).
At one point Dan starts to talked to me, and a guy cut in to talk to her (I’ll omit her name for tact, but she told me people joke with her and call her Barbie because she is tall, blond, and has a super-American name. So imagine a really American name, and insert it for the desired effect). Dan points this out to me saying something to the effect of “you know, he’s trying to cut in on you.” Caring little about that, but mostly just enjoying myself, I, with the utmost deft and cunning, swoop back in when he does a quarter turn. Soon after I ask if she wants to sit down. We move to a couch where there are already two people making out. I hesitate and suggest we keep standing. Knowing one them (I think) she pulls me toward her and bades me to sit. I’m in the process of telling a story, but she leans forward like she wants me to kiss her, and I mos def wait to finish my story. I’ll leave the gory details to you imagination, needless to say making out with someone in a pub is tacky enough (at least, I think so, but Irish folks do it all the time, hell, they’ll make out on the street). Every once and a while we’d stop and talk some more, I asked some more “get to know you questions.” She asks me one question, which was what one might call “impure” or “lewd.” I was quite taken aback by it, but I think she interpreted my reaction as playing it cool. I was not. Merely surprised. She, throughout the night, like the corset comment made a few statements, that for the sake of modesty (I really have no shame, I know full well that your over active imaginations will make the events more outrageous than my colourful prose ever could) I will not repeat.
At closing time we leave, and she gives me her number. I ask if she really wants to hang out again, knowing the sorts of games these sneaky Irish play. She insists that she does. As I leave Dan turns to me and says “do you realize what you have done? You have done what no other American has done.” I reply “I am a Golden God.” He confirms, “You are a Golden God.” He informs me that he has to tell his friends in the States what happened, because they tried their hardest to do for 5 months, what my dishevelled, unwashed, ineffectual self had just done. I walk home and think to myself “Damn, muthafucka, I thought you knew? Shit.”
The next day I sent Dan a text which I will now transcribe verbatim.
Me: “I am a golden god, all lesser men bow before me.”
Dan: “Word of your amazing deeds has reached your homeland. You’ll receive a hero’s welcome home.”
A Post Post Script note:
I haven’t texted her back yet, but I probably will in the next day or so. Because the Irish use primarily text messages and not phone calls to communicate, I now enjoy and enormous advantage. Anyone who knows me, and has seen the film Swingers, knows exactly what that advantage is. But those are thoughts for another day. Right now, I am leading gallant forces, riding across a plain. My Helm, breastplate and vambraces shine with the finest gold filigree. My blade gleams with righteousness and fortitude. My banner aloft, I cross the Lee as if it were the Rubicon. Sir Ian McKellan is at my right, dressed like Gandalf, and Sir Anthony Hopkins my left dressed as Hannibal Lector. I lead the Third Great Baron’s revolt, soon, I’ll have royal heads on a proverbial pike********. Mel Gibson will make films about me, and greatly exaggerate the details.
Retribution will be mine, bloody and swift, and the world will tremble beneath me.
*For A game reference, see Dano Colon for reference.
**For a B game reference, see Dano Colon for reference.
*** E.G. my 8th grade self.
**** See Dano Colon for reference.
***** See Dano Colon for reference.
******Really.
******* A few details. Donny’s going away party was at some random 40-something year-old woman’s house, who none of us knew. Zack read people’s runes. As we left, she said goodbye to us wearing nothing but a silky bathrobe. We went down the water slide at Roosevelt park pool naked. When the police came I half scaled a fence until I realized I was naked. We ended up shooting the shit with one of the only cool officers on the Minot police force. We each paid a 75 dollar fine in the morning.
******** The stupid autocorrect uses the E.U. version of English.
********* Very proverbial and not literal at all, I just want to cover my tracks in case Mi6 is reading this. It’s a metaphor, damnit!
In World War II Adolph Hitler sent paratroopers on a mission. These paratroopers landed in the private estates of many noble English families. Their aim you may ask? Assassinate members of parliament perhaps? No, in fact, he sent them diplomatically. He attempted to rouse the British nobility into an uprising against the crown. Hitler wanted rally the barons, appealing to the spirit of those like Simon de Montfort who lead the second Baron’s revolt against Henry III. He also implored them to recognize their proud Germanic heritage, as Angles, Saxons, and Jutes once dominated what we now called England. For being one of the biggest geniuses of the 20th century, Hitler was incredibly stupid. The nobles had these paratroopers captured by the military. I don’t remember the name of this operation, but I’m sure Casey does.
My point in telling this story, you may ask? This endeavour undertaken by the Third Reich is comparable to an American trying to pick up an Irish girl. At first, when I got to campus, pubs, etc. I thought “Oh, my,” Irish girls are all beautiful. This is not true. I soon realized the way they dress, present themselves, and love to go out, etc. was all very attractive. But only from a distance. I was fooled, many times over, into thinking a girl was gorgeous, and then soon realized when she turned around, that behind the thick eye makeup and cool hair, my initial response was not to be trusted. Having said that, the ones who are attractive are ridiculously attractive. There really is no middle ground. I think the beautiful ones let it go to their head that the entire population of Irish males are fawning over them. That is probably why the Irish are famously silver tongued. They have to be, or good luck with that whole progeny thing. I have also noticed (and any Irish man and many Irish girls will confirm) they are incredibly gossipy, catty, and devious. The old “a woman scorned…” proverb particularly comes into play. If you anger one of them, you might as well emigrate. Having said that, I have meet a fair number of really cool, down to earth Irish girls in class or on mountaineering trips, that sort of thing, and I’m not making any sort of blanket misogynist statements. There have been instances where I have talked to a girl a pub for around half an hour, many of those instances purely platonic. However, when I asked for a number, or to hang out I’d get an excuse like “oh, my boyfriend would not like that,” or, “I live far away.” As a naturally out-going person, I find this frustrating. Further proof that this is not just my imagination, my friend Dan, who is Irish, informed me that he never met a single American who has ever hooked up with an Irish girl. And, he used to organize events from international students, and has several close American friends who are back in the states now. At this point, I don’t even try. I guess I’ll have to stick to getting shot down by Americans.
A post script note: I am a Golden God, All Lesser Men, Bow Before Me.
I have an A game* and a B game**. Many of you have witnessed this, or been on the receiving end of either. In my B game I imagine my self some charming, debonair cross between Cary Grant, Woody Allen, Tucker Max, and Ryan Adams. In reality, I act like a sort of mix between an 8th grader who listens to too much Weezer***, Jon Lovitz, Tucker Max, and Rico Suave. I lay it on way too thick, make an ass of myself, and then move to the corner to drink whiskey****. On my A game, I am completely indifferent, do not try at all, have no intention of hitting on anyone, and end up being really funny and charming. This does not happen often, usually I am trying my damnedest*****. On last Wednesday night, here follows a story of my A game.
I was just hanging out with my roommates relaxing, having a few whiskey sours. I get a text (all people do over here is text, because calling is so expensive) from my previously mentioned Irish friend Dan. He asks me if I want to meet him and some friends at a pub. Having nothing else to do, I think, why not? I’ll go for a pint, stay an hour then go to bed. I arrive, and he introduces me to his friends. They had just left a student government function, and were all wearing suits and ties. I was in my Ergs t-shirt and Pixies hoodie. I soon start talking to this Irish girl (not one of Dan’s friends, but I didn’t realize it at the time). She cute, tall, blond, and wear a red corset (later in the evening she points out some thing like “you know I’m really only wearing underwear right now,” I can’t make this shit up******). I have not showered in one, possibly two days. Half the people around me are wearing suits, and I am dressed like a ragamuffin. I tell her a few of my better stories, such as the Knacker incident, or the Donny’s going away party*******, and she was rolling with laughter. I ask her to tell me a story, when she can’t think of one, I ask a few questions such as “what is your favourite colour********” etc. I also rip into her for mentioning she likes a Nickleback song (that stupid rock star one, which is somewhat clever, but still).
At one point Dan starts to talked to me, and a guy cut in to talk to her (I’ll omit her name for tact, but she told me people joke with her and call her Barbie because she is tall, blond, and has a super-American name. So imagine a really American name, and insert it for the desired effect). Dan points this out to me saying something to the effect of “you know, he’s trying to cut in on you.” Caring little about that, but mostly just enjoying myself, I, with the utmost deft and cunning, swoop back in when he does a quarter turn. Soon after I ask if she wants to sit down. We move to a couch where there are already two people making out. I hesitate and suggest we keep standing. Knowing one them (I think) she pulls me toward her and bades me to sit. I’m in the process of telling a story, but she leans forward like she wants me to kiss her, and I mos def wait to finish my story. I’ll leave the gory details to you imagination, needless to say making out with someone in a pub is tacky enough (at least, I think so, but Irish folks do it all the time, hell, they’ll make out on the street). Every once and a while we’d stop and talk some more, I asked some more “get to know you questions.” She asks me one question, which was what one might call “impure” or “lewd.” I was quite taken aback by it, but I think she interpreted my reaction as playing it cool. I was not. Merely surprised. She, throughout the night, like the corset comment made a few statements, that for the sake of modesty (I really have no shame, I know full well that your over active imaginations will make the events more outrageous than my colourful prose ever could) I will not repeat.
At closing time we leave, and she gives me her number. I ask if she really wants to hang out again, knowing the sorts of games these sneaky Irish play. She insists that she does. As I leave Dan turns to me and says “do you realize what you have done? You have done what no other American has done.” I reply “I am a Golden God.” He confirms, “You are a Golden God.” He informs me that he has to tell his friends in the States what happened, because they tried their hardest to do for 5 months, what my dishevelled, unwashed, ineffectual self had just done. I walk home and think to myself “Damn, muthafucka, I thought you knew? Shit.”
The next day I sent Dan a text which I will now transcribe verbatim.
Me: “I am a golden god, all lesser men bow before me.”
Dan: “Word of your amazing deeds has reached your homeland. You’ll receive a hero’s welcome home.”
A Post Post Script note:
I haven’t texted her back yet, but I probably will in the next day or so. Because the Irish use primarily text messages and not phone calls to communicate, I now enjoy and enormous advantage. Anyone who knows me, and has seen the film Swingers, knows exactly what that advantage is. But those are thoughts for another day. Right now, I am leading gallant forces, riding across a plain. My Helm, breastplate and vambraces shine with the finest gold filigree. My blade gleams with righteousness and fortitude. My banner aloft, I cross the Lee as if it were the Rubicon. Sir Ian McKellan is at my right, dressed like Gandalf, and Sir Anthony Hopkins my left dressed as Hannibal Lector. I lead the Third Great Baron’s revolt, soon, I’ll have royal heads on a proverbial pike********. Mel Gibson will make films about me, and greatly exaggerate the details.
Retribution will be mine, bloody and swift, and the world will tremble beneath me.
*For A game reference, see Dano Colon for reference.
**For a B game reference, see Dano Colon for reference.
*** E.G. my 8th grade self.
**** See Dano Colon for reference.
***** See Dano Colon for reference.
******Really.
******* A few details. Donny’s going away party was at some random 40-something year-old woman’s house, who none of us knew. Zack read people’s runes. As we left, she said goodbye to us wearing nothing but a silky bathrobe. We went down the water slide at Roosevelt park pool naked. When the police came I half scaled a fence until I realized I was naked. We ended up shooting the shit with one of the only cool officers on the Minot police force. We each paid a 75 dollar fine in the morning.
******** The stupid autocorrect uses the E.U. version of English.
********* Very proverbial and not literal at all, I just want to cover my tracks in case Mi6 is reading this. It’s a metaphor, damnit!
Monday, February 18, 2008
Anthony Finds Out What A Knacker Is, So Does His Face. A Valentine's Story.
I could attempt to say something about the hallow and commercial nature of Valentine’s Day, but frankly, it’s all been said and probably better than I could do. What I can tell you about, is one of the most memorable Valentine’s Days I’ve ever had, and lemme tell you, it’s probably a metaphor for something.
Wednesday, February 13th: I had the worst date of my life. My game was on point and then I made a fool of myself, as per usual. Fuck.
Thursday February 14th 6:00 P.M. I finish with 6 hours of class, head to the nearest grocery store and purchase a loaf of bread, a bottle of ginger ale, and the cheapest bottle of whiskey they have.
6:20 P.M. I return home, produce my study ma
terials for my exam the following morning, make a veggie burger, make a whiskey and ginger ale, and start to study.
7:00 P.M. I make another tall whiskey and ginger ale.
7:30 P.M I make my next whiskey and ginger ale.
7:40 P.M. I can list all the major types of pottery imported into Ireland in the 12th-14th centuries, details about their production, and most of their dates.
7:45 P.M. My roommate Brendan and two of his friends visiting from London begin to play beer pong with Murphy’s Irish Stout.
8:00 P.M. My roommate Charlie’s father, John (who was also visiting), starts to play beer pong as well.
8:15 P.M. I start to play beer pong.
9:00 P.M. The ginger ale is mostly gone, so I make a small glass. About 1/3 of the 700 ml bottle remains. This is in addition to the beers accumulated through beer pong.
10:05 P.M. I leave to go to the library. On the way I meet Charlie returning from class. I tell Charlie that his dad is playing beer pong, get excited, and walk back with Charlie to our apartment.
10:45 P.M. We leave to go to a pub (unfortunately, Mr. Sipes does not follow).
11:00 P.M. I order a pint.
11:05 P.M.-12:30 A.M. I have a very vague notion of what happens at the pub until I leave.
12:30 A.M. I leave the pub and acquire a cigarette from someone on my way out.
12:38 A.M. I’m half way home or so.
12:38 A.M. Having not yet lit my smoke, I approach a group of five guys and ask for a light.
12:38 A.M. The group of men encircle me. If they were snapping, it would have been West Side Fooking Story. They are all dressed in the same sort of white track suits, buzzed hair with stupid lines buzzed into the sides. Gold chains. Gold earrings.
12:39 A.M. They start talking shit.
12:39 A.M. Confused, I say something like “hey, all I want is a light.”
12:40 A.M. One of them slaps me in the ass, the others laugh.
12:40 A.M. Having had enough, I decide I am not going to let some busted-ass, low rent, soccer hooligan, fuck wit, who dresses like a Florida retiree, fucking boyo, step to me. I throw my dukes up.
12:41 A.M. Busted-ass, low rent, soccer hooligan, fuck wit, who dresses like a Florida retiree, fucking boyo punches me in the face.
12:41 A.M. Shit talking continues.
12:41 A.M. I say something to the effect of “there’s five of you, how about I call my buddy Eidan, he’s Garda*, we’ll get sorted. But he won’t arrest you he’ll just help me kick your ass.
12:42 A.M. My assailants in matching attire back off and say “we’re cool…we’re cool.”
12:42 A.M. I say something like “then why you hit me you fucking bitches,” as they walk away.
12:43 A.M. I start to walk home again.
12:50 A.M. I tell my roommates the story. I never smoked the cigarette.
Prologue: The next day I told several Irish people (I went on a mountaineering club trip after my test, which went rather well) my story. The general consensus was, you never talk to dudes dressed like that, especially late at night when they are in a pack. Some people asked things like “what were you doing on the North side?**” I was informed that the sorts of people that confronted me are generally referred to as Knackers. A knacker is a busted-ass, low rent, soccer hooligan, fuck wit, who dresses like a Florida retiree, fucking boyo. They wear white track suits, buzzed hair with stupid lines buzzed into the sides. Gold chains. Gold earrings. They often carry knives, and go out looking to start fights. Some may be from the travelling community (think the Pikies in Snatch), but most are local fucks trying to act tough. I told Eidan the story last night, and he informed me of two things. If I have called him, he would have been there in 5 min, with a truncheon. Secondly if they were actually from the travelling community, they most definitely would have tossed my ever-living shit.
Next Valentine’s day, I think I’ll go back to my customary getting drunk and drawing pictures. That way, my face won’t be still tenderized four days later. Oh, and I think the ass-jackets stole my Eels hat.
*Garda are the Irish police force. I’ll cover more eventually in the forthcoming people, places, things, glossary, but Eidan is one of the few Irish people I hang out with consistently.
** The North Side is the rougher portion of Cork. I was not in fact on the North Side, but in a much safer stretch I walk every single day. I just had a bit of bad luck and no intimate knowledge of the shittyness of knackers.
Wednesday, February 13th: I had the worst date of my life. My game was on point and then I made a fool of myself, as per usual. Fuck.
Thursday February 14th 6:00 P.M. I finish with 6 hours of class, head to the nearest grocery store and purchase a loaf of bread, a bottle of ginger ale, and the cheapest bottle of whiskey they have.
6:20 P.M. I return home, produce my study ma
terials for my exam the following morning, make a veggie burger, make a whiskey and ginger ale, and start to study.
7:00 P.M. I make another tall whiskey and ginger ale.
7:30 P.M I make my next whiskey and ginger ale.
7:40 P.M. I can list all the major types of pottery imported into Ireland in the 12th-14th centuries, details about their production, and most of their dates.
7:45 P.M. My roommate Brendan and two of his friends visiting from London begin to play beer pong with Murphy’s Irish Stout.
8:00 P.M. My roommate Charlie’s father, John (who was also visiting), starts to play beer pong as well.
8:15 P.M. I start to play beer pong.
9:00 P.M. The ginger ale is mostly gone, so I make a small glass. About 1/3 of the 700 ml bottle remains. This is in addition to the beers accumulated through beer pong.
10:05 P.M. I leave to go to the library. On the way I meet Charlie returning from class. I tell Charlie that his dad is playing beer pong, get excited, and walk back with Charlie to our apartment.
10:45 P.M. We leave to go to a pub (unfortunately, Mr. Sipes does not follow).
11:00 P.M. I order a pint.
11:05 P.M.-12:30 A.M. I have a very vague notion of what happens at the pub until I leave.
12:30 A.M. I leave the pub and acquire a cigarette from someone on my way out.
12:38 A.M. I’m half way home or so.
12:38 A.M. Having not yet lit my smoke, I approach a group of five guys and ask for a light.
12:38 A.M. The group of men encircle me. If they were snapping, it would have been West Side Fooking Story. They are all dressed in the same sort of white track suits, buzzed hair with stupid lines buzzed into the sides. Gold chains. Gold earrings.
12:39 A.M. They start talking shit.
12:39 A.M. Confused, I say something like “hey, all I want is a light.”
12:40 A.M. One of them slaps me in the ass, the others laugh.
12:40 A.M. Having had enough, I decide I am not going to let some busted-ass, low rent, soccer hooligan, fuck wit, who dresses like a Florida retiree, fucking boyo, step to me. I throw my dukes up.
12:41 A.M. Busted-ass, low rent, soccer hooligan, fuck wit, who dresses like a Florida retiree, fucking boyo punches me in the face.
12:41 A.M. Shit talking continues.
12:41 A.M. I say something to the effect of “there’s five of you, how about I call my buddy Eidan, he’s Garda*, we’ll get sorted. But he won’t arrest you he’ll just help me kick your ass.
12:42 A.M. My assailants in matching attire back off and say “we’re cool…we’re cool.”
12:42 A.M. I say something like “then why you hit me you fucking bitches,” as they walk away.
12:43 A.M. I start to walk home again.
12:50 A.M. I tell my roommates the story. I never smoked the cigarette.
Prologue: The next day I told several Irish people (I went on a mountaineering club trip after my test, which went rather well) my story. The general consensus was, you never talk to dudes dressed like that, especially late at night when they are in a pack. Some people asked things like “what were you doing on the North side?**” I was informed that the sorts of people that confronted me are generally referred to as Knackers. A knacker is a busted-ass, low rent, soccer hooligan, fuck wit, who dresses like a Florida retiree, fucking boyo. They wear white track suits, buzzed hair with stupid lines buzzed into the sides. Gold chains. Gold earrings. They often carry knives, and go out looking to start fights. Some may be from the travelling community (think the Pikies in Snatch), but most are local fucks trying to act tough. I told Eidan the story last night, and he informed me of two things. If I have called him, he would have been there in 5 min, with a truncheon. Secondly if they were actually from the travelling community, they most definitely would have tossed my ever-living shit.
Next Valentine’s day, I think I’ll go back to my customary getting drunk and drawing pictures. That way, my face won’t be still tenderized four days later. Oh, and I think the ass-jackets stole my Eels hat.
*Garda are the Irish police force. I’ll cover more eventually in the forthcoming people, places, things, glossary, but Eidan is one of the few Irish people I hang out with consistently.
** The North Side is the rougher portion of Cork. I was not in fact on the North Side, but in a much safer stretch I walk every single day. I just had a bit of bad luck and no intimate knowledge of the shittyness of knackers.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Celtic Tiger Mauls Through My Pocket Book, Liver.
When humans shifted from Palaeolithic societies to Neolithic, the nomad traded and atalatl for an ard. The change to a sedentary, agrarian lifestyle meant that these people found themselves at the whims of weather and harvest for their survival. Thus, food preservation became a necessary task. One of the first things that effectively preserved grain was beer. Indeed, some scholars postulate that the creation of beer predates even bread. In many civilizations, beer was drunk every day at every meal, and indeed without it, people would not have the requisite calories for survival. Further, poor water sanitation also promoted beer as the preferred liquid consumed. However, this function of beer has really ceased in the industrialized world.
But now, I actually depend on beer for sheer calories, or else I would waste away to nothing. I have quickly discovered that everything is expensive in Ireland. Food, travel, alcohol, and sort of good or service. For a base of comparison, the McDonald’s €uro saver menu advertises sandwiches for the low, low price of 2€. The exchange rate is currently 1.55 American Dollars to one Euro. That means, something, back home, that would normally be on the dollar menu cost three dollars here. During the 90’s Ireland’s economy underwent a massive boom, due to all sorts of economic policies and entry into the EU. They refer to it as the “Celtic Tiger.” Wages rose steeply. So did prices. Minimum wage here is around 7-8 euro. The job I had this summer would have paid me 15-20 euro an hour, rather than the 7.50 U.S. I received for sheetrocky red neck goodness. No, I’m not bitter, really.
Still, the learning curve is steep. There are ways to live somewhat on the cheap:
Do: Eat good bread, eggs, and other cheap produce from the English Market. Pregame at a good pace with a decent meal and only buy one or two pints at the pub.
Don’t: Attempt to make any sort of Japanese food. Get blackout drunk, speak with some Italians in Spanish, and then proceed to buy a round for a bunch of strangers.
Here are a few of my other initial observations about Ireland:
1. These people can’t fooking drive. The roads are fooking horrible, and basic automotive conventions, such as turn signals, are optional. There have been instances when, even though I have a fooking green walk signal, three fooking cars wiz fooking past me. There was one time where a car actually ramped up on to the fooking sidewalk to hang a Uie (is that how you would write the slang for U-turn?) right in front of my fooking pedestrian self.
2. The Irish have a reputation for fighting. I have seen more black eyes in my tenure here, than the proceeding five years in the states. I've seen kids fighting in an alley way by my apartament.You be the judge. Having said that, no guns, so, fair enough.
3. The stereotypical Irish accent Americans imagine the Irish use, is really only representative of crotchety old men. I have not heard anyone say “oh Jaysus.” They do say “fook” a great deal. For example, where we might say, “oh, for goodness sake” they say, “oh, for fooks sake.”
4. Their usage of the filler word “like” is quite interesting. Where we might say something to the effect of “it was, like, awesome,” they would say “oh, it’s grand, like.” In their usage, it’s is almost as though they combine the hyphen and comma before the word “like.” Like this: -,like.
5. All this reputation about terrible food is absolutely false. The English Market (more on that later), rocks my world. I would give some sort of bone marrow transplant or something to get the olive stand magically transported to Collegeville, MN.
6. They mos def drink as much as everyone says. And not just young people. There are particular pubs where 40+ is not the exception, but the rule. They're parting like the young folks are. On the most weekends, depending on the street, it will be filled with stumbly characters from all walks of life.
7. It does rain all the fooking time here. Seriously.
More to come soon, including a glossary of people, places, and things. And the next two intended entries:
Anthony finds random shit-tanked Irish man asleep on his couch. Hilarity does not ensue.
Anthony makes first pass at Irish girls, crashes, burns.
But now, I actually depend on beer for sheer calories, or else I would waste away to nothing. I have quickly discovered that everything is expensive in Ireland. Food, travel, alcohol, and sort of good or service. For a base of comparison, the McDonald’s €uro saver menu advertises sandwiches for the low, low price of 2€. The exchange rate is currently 1.55 American Dollars to one Euro. That means, something, back home, that would normally be on the dollar menu cost three dollars here. During the 90’s Ireland’s economy underwent a massive boom, due to all sorts of economic policies and entry into the EU. They refer to it as the “Celtic Tiger.” Wages rose steeply. So did prices. Minimum wage here is around 7-8 euro. The job I had this summer would have paid me 15-20 euro an hour, rather than the 7.50 U.S. I received for sheetrocky red neck goodness. No, I’m not bitter, really.
Still, the learning curve is steep. There are ways to live somewhat on the cheap:
Do: Eat good bread, eggs, and other cheap produce from the English Market. Pregame at a good pace with a decent meal and only buy one or two pints at the pub.
Don’t: Attempt to make any sort of Japanese food. Get blackout drunk, speak with some Italians in Spanish, and then proceed to buy a round for a bunch of strangers.
Here are a few of my other initial observations about Ireland:
1. These people can’t fooking drive. The roads are fooking horrible, and basic automotive conventions, such as turn signals, are optional. There have been instances when, even though I have a fooking green walk signal, three fooking cars wiz fooking past me. There was one time where a car actually ramped up on to the fooking sidewalk to hang a Uie (is that how you would write the slang for U-turn?) right in front of my fooking pedestrian self.
2. The Irish have a reputation for fighting. I have seen more black eyes in my tenure here, than the proceeding five years in the states. I've seen kids fighting in an alley way by my apartament.You be the judge. Having said that, no guns, so, fair enough.
3. The stereotypical Irish accent Americans imagine the Irish use, is really only representative of crotchety old men. I have not heard anyone say “oh Jaysus.” They do say “fook” a great deal. For example, where we might say, “oh, for goodness sake” they say, “oh, for fooks sake.”
4. Their usage of the filler word “like” is quite interesting. Where we might say something to the effect of “it was, like, awesome,” they would say “oh, it’s grand, like.” In their usage, it’s is almost as though they combine the hyphen and comma before the word “like.” Like this: -,like.
5. All this reputation about terrible food is absolutely false. The English Market (more on that later), rocks my world. I would give some sort of bone marrow transplant or something to get the olive stand magically transported to Collegeville, MN.
6. They mos def drink as much as everyone says. And not just young people. There are particular pubs where 40+ is not the exception, but the rule. They're parting like the young folks are. On the most weekends, depending on the street, it will be filled with stumbly characters from all walks of life.
7. It does rain all the fooking time here. Seriously.
More to come soon, including a glossary of people, places, and things. And the next two intended entries:
Anthony finds random shit-tanked Irish man asleep on his couch. Hilarity does not ensue.
Anthony makes first pass at Irish girls, crashes, burns.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
There is nothing like quitting smoking to bring out your general distain for rest of humanity (as of writing this, it have been over a month, cheers). There is no worse place to get nic fits than an airport. It naturally follows that in such a state there are particular things I do not desire. Invasive surgery. Any sort of sentence detailing the merits of Dave Mathews Band. Essays that begin with passively constructed sentences. Dave Mathews Band. Neo-Conservative rhetoric. Airports.
I hate airports.
I told my roommate about this particular putrid hatred, to which he countered (something to the effect of), "You just don't appreciate the marvels of modern technology." The monolithic combination of lift, turbines, and government regulation, it is kind of incredible when you thing about it. Fair enough. Though, unswayed in my curmudgeony, I point out what I find one of my more clever observations (I think). Airports hold tens to tens of thousand of people. Every single one of them wants to be somewhere else. I am not an exception. I won’t give the long boring tale of my flights from Minneapolis to Las Vegas to El Paso to Houston to Minneapolis to Newark to Shannon, no. That run on sentence is long enough. But I will give you a few highlights, observations etc.
1. In multiple airports, I saw iPod vending machines. That’s right, I kid you not. You can go up, swipe your credit card, and then conveniently get iPod, digital camera, or some such accessories. Of course, this presupposes that you have a laptop with you to put music on said iPod, in which case, you could just listen to music from said laptop. Or, you have to wait until you arrive at some place where you can put your music on your hand-held, music player that was just delivered to you in the manner of Cheetos, or Famous Amos cookies. However, this is no more convenient than going out and buying one at a store. The marketing powers that be, must bank on the novelty of the whole thing to sell their product in this fashion. They must make millions. Sigh, history major, sigh.
2. In Newark I met a few folks including a large rowdy choir group and one person I have class with. I met another girl at the airport bar before take off. We chatted for a while. She is a (and I was not clever enough to come up with this string of verbiage, so I’ll give Woody Allen credit) New York, Jewish, left-wing, liberal, intellectual, Central Park West, Brandeis University, the socialist summer camps and the, the father with the Ben Shahn drawings, right, and the really, y'know, strike-oriented kind of, red diaper studying in Dublin for the semester. She kind of reminded my of my ex-girlfriend. And she also made me realize that my ex-girlfriend should have been born a New York, Jewish, left-wing, liberal, intellectual, Central Park West, Brandeis University, the socialist summer camps and the, the father with the Ben Shahn drawings, right, and the really, y'know, strike-oriented kind of, red diaper…
3. In the Las Vegas airport I was board and hungry due to a four-hour delay. I should add fast food to the list of things I hate, though, oddly enough, it does not contribute to the pangs of a tobacco-free travel. So I got a veggie burger and fries. None of this really has to do with anything except that it leads up to my observations about the cashier in the context of Iron Age history. In 1st century B.C.E. Julius Caesar conquered Gaul, which is now modern France. The Romans and Gauls fought the final decisive battle at a hill fort called Alesia. In the end, Caesar slaughtered children and stuff as per usual, and the Gaulish leader, Vercingetorix, was put to death in a gruesome and shameful manner. I think Alesia is one of the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard. I’ve used it in songs and other writings as both a metaphor and for its general pleasing quality. I plan on, upon breeding , to name a (female) child this. I have only met on person with this name. It was a girl on an archaeological dig I worked on when I was in (I think) middle school. When asked what her name meant, she replied something to the effect of “It’s a city in France, my dad’s a history buff.” I also remember her liking punk rock. I should have been in love. Oh, the errors of youth. Anyway, in the Las Vegas airport, the person working at the Burger King was named Alesia. Sometimes, I can be a very shallow and thoroughly disreputable person. And sometimes you meet a person and have to feel very much sorry for how absolutely unattractive they are. In the words of the band Butt Trumpet, “What the fuck did you do to you?” This second Alesia was one of those people. Question one: How did she get that name? Question two: Does this ruin the name for me forever? Question three: What level of hell does this put me in? Am I free and easy enduring only infrequent invasive surgery while Dave Mathews is playing, or am I in the belly of the beast thumb wrestling Brutus and Judas?
A post script note, I cannot use footnotes in the blog.This sucks. However, if I were able to use them please insert the following footnote after the words upon breeding. Footnote: If I, in fact, do breed.
For future posts, I'll figure out a different way to footnote. I'm crafty like that.
I hate airports.
I told my roommate about this particular putrid hatred, to which he countered (something to the effect of), "You just don't appreciate the marvels of modern technology." The monolithic combination of lift, turbines, and government regulation, it is kind of incredible when you thing about it. Fair enough. Though, unswayed in my curmudgeony, I point out what I find one of my more clever observations (I think). Airports hold tens to tens of thousand of people. Every single one of them wants to be somewhere else. I am not an exception. I won’t give the long boring tale of my flights from Minneapolis to Las Vegas to El Paso to Houston to Minneapolis to Newark to Shannon, no. That run on sentence is long enough. But I will give you a few highlights, observations etc.
1. In multiple airports, I saw iPod vending machines. That’s right, I kid you not. You can go up, swipe your credit card, and then conveniently get iPod, digital camera, or some such accessories. Of course, this presupposes that you have a laptop with you to put music on said iPod, in which case, you could just listen to music from said laptop. Or, you have to wait until you arrive at some place where you can put your music on your hand-held, music player that was just delivered to you in the manner of Cheetos, or Famous Amos cookies. However, this is no more convenient than going out and buying one at a store. The marketing powers that be, must bank on the novelty of the whole thing to sell their product in this fashion. They must make millions. Sigh, history major, sigh.
2. In Newark I met a few folks including a large rowdy choir group and one person I have class with. I met another girl at the airport bar before take off. We chatted for a while. She is a (and I was not clever enough to come up with this string of verbiage, so I’ll give Woody Allen credit) New York, Jewish, left-wing, liberal, intellectual, Central Park West, Brandeis University, the socialist summer camps and the, the father with the Ben Shahn drawings, right, and the really, y'know, strike-oriented kind of, red diaper studying in Dublin for the semester. She kind of reminded my of my ex-girlfriend. And she also made me realize that my ex-girlfriend should have been born a New York, Jewish, left-wing, liberal, intellectual, Central Park West, Brandeis University, the socialist summer camps and the, the father with the Ben Shahn drawings, right, and the really, y'know, strike-oriented kind of, red diaper…
3. In the Las Vegas airport I was board and hungry due to a four-hour delay. I should add fast food to the list of things I hate, though, oddly enough, it does not contribute to the pangs of a tobacco-free travel. So I got a veggie burger and fries. None of this really has to do with anything except that it leads up to my observations about the cashier in the context of Iron Age history. In 1st century B.C.E. Julius Caesar conquered Gaul, which is now modern France. The Romans and Gauls fought the final decisive battle at a hill fort called Alesia. In the end, Caesar slaughtered children and stuff as per usual, and the Gaulish leader, Vercingetorix, was put to death in a gruesome and shameful manner. I think Alesia is one of the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard. I’ve used it in songs and other writings as both a metaphor and for its general pleasing quality. I plan on, upon breeding , to name a (female) child this. I have only met on person with this name. It was a girl on an archaeological dig I worked on when I was in (I think) middle school. When asked what her name meant, she replied something to the effect of “It’s a city in France, my dad’s a history buff.” I also remember her liking punk rock. I should have been in love. Oh, the errors of youth. Anyway, in the Las Vegas airport, the person working at the Burger King was named Alesia. Sometimes, I can be a very shallow and thoroughly disreputable person. And sometimes you meet a person and have to feel very much sorry for how absolutely unattractive they are. In the words of the band Butt Trumpet, “What the fuck did you do to you?” This second Alesia was one of those people. Question one: How did she get that name? Question two: Does this ruin the name for me forever? Question three: What level of hell does this put me in? Am I free and easy enduring only infrequent invasive surgery while Dave Mathews is playing, or am I in the belly of the beast thumb wrestling Brutus and Judas?
A post script note, I cannot use footnotes in the blog.This sucks. However, if I were able to use them please insert the following footnote after the words upon breeding. Footnote: If I, in fact, do breed.
For future posts, I'll figure out a different way to footnote. I'm crafty like that.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
A promise of posts to come.
So. Across the atlantic. I. Yet again. Write sentence fragments. That is to say, not much is that different. But. If I do have any for humanity, it's pretty well embodied in John Smith and Jolene Brink.
Having said that. My story is soon to follow.
Suckas.
Mo'Fucka. I thought you knew? Shit.
I meant to write "hope for humanity," but I think I like the ambiguity better.
Having said that. My story is soon to follow.
Suckas.
Mo'Fucka. I thought you knew? Shit.
I meant to write "hope for humanity," but I think I like the ambiguity better.
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