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!

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.

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.