So I actually wrote this about two weeks ago, on the night it happened, but waited until now to post it. Enjoy:
It is 3:20 in the morning, and I have to post this blog before I forget it. I was out in Dublin tonight, wasted as usual, and wound up at a club in the (touristy) Temple Bar district with my buddy Todd from the hostel I'm staying at.
"Five euro cover," the woman at the door said. Todd decided that was too much and headed home. I figured on rolling the dice and taking a look around the club. I pay the money, get the fucking stamp on my hand and go in. Downstairs I head straight for the bar and order a pint of Carlsberg. There are two blondes next to me, one cute and one not. I make eye contact with the cute one, give her the smile-and-nod, and get a smile in return, which I figure is a good sign. The bartender brings me my pint, I pay for it, and when I turn back the cute one is gone but the ugly one is still there. I figure I'll make some friends, build up some credit, so I say "Are you from Dublin originally?" and give her my friendliest smile.
I get the straight-up nasty look, the turned back, and not even a word of acknowledgement.
Now I've gotten the noncomittal "yeah," the "no thanks," and the polite-smile-but-cold shoulder, but I've never gotten the total rudeness this bitch gave me. It offended me. It's the first time in Dublin anyone was genuinely an asshole to me. I took it personally. A quick lap around the club while chugging my pint proved that there were a few cute girls, but nothing special, and I realized that Todd had the right idea when he left earlier. I hate clubs anyway, and I should never have wasted my time or money. As I'm leaving, I see the blonde bitch with her cute friend by the door. Drunk and feeling belligerent, I tap her (the bitchy one) on the shoulder as I point to the cuter one.
"By the way," I say as loudly as I can, "your friend is hotter. Cheers."
The look on her face and the way her eyes widened when I said that made me think I was about to get assaulted. I walked out of the club, expecting to be hit in the back of the head, and breathed a sign of relief when I saw the bouncer out front. At least if she attacked me, the bouncer could vouch that I hadn't "provoked" it. The last thing I need is an international arrest record.
Anyway, I'm fucked up and proofreading this is taking too much effort. I'll update soon with more (and better) news. Till then, cheers.
-Brendan
PS: While I was typing this, Todd showed up at the hostel and told me he got a delicious 5-euro cheeseburger while I was having adventures with Dublin's cuntish underlife. If there was any sign I needed that I have bad judgment, that was it.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Holy shit, I did it
First of all, the name of this blog (if you know me) does not mean what you think it does...does not necessarily mean what you think it does. Green is my favorite color, and since I'm starting this trip (the first of many) in Ireland, it seemed appropriate. THAT'S ALL.
Anyway, my trip started after a hectic dash around DC to take care of some final odds and ends before making it back to my apartment in time for the Supersuttle...which, somehow, I did. If you saw me that day you know how manic I was. (Whoops, bad word choice.) Once I got to the airport and through security, I did what any red-blooded American of Irish descent who hates to fly does on St. Patrick's Day...I got wasted at the bar.
Okay, okay mom, not wasted, but I had a couple of Jamison whiskeys-and-soda, and a beer to go with my mixed greens and turkey sandwich. I tell myself that eating healthy makes up for the alcohol I consume. Don't ruin it for me.
The bartender was a nice enough guy with bad teeth and (I think) a French accent named Ilir, who went out of his way to get me a seat at the bar but looked surprised when I ordered the Jamison. The stuffy British couple next to me gave me a weird look too. I guess not a lot of 22-year olds drink Irish whiskey. Anyway, the Brits soon left and another guy -- maybe in his late forties/early fifties -- sat down. The TV was on ESPN and PTI was on, and Kornheiser was asking Jim Boehiem (or Jim "Motherfuckin National Champion" Boehiem, as we call him in Syracuse) some bullshit about the NCAA. (Side note: American University made the tournament for the first time EVER. That's fuckin right, doggy.)
"Great man," I said pointing to the TV when Boehiem came on. The expression of the guy next to me indicated that he had no idea what the hell I was talking about, and the slight accent I couldn't place as he muttered something made me realize what a dumbass I was: this guy wasn't from the US.
"Oh, do you follow American basketball?" I asked weakly, trying to recover.
"No," he said. "I like American football, but we don't watch basketball much in Ireland."
I blinked. The accent I couldn't place was Irish. Some mick I am.
"Really," I said. "What part of the country are you from?"
"Dublin," he replied. I quickly explained that I was on my way to Dublin, and asked him if there were any particular places I should check out. He started warming up as he ticked off a handful of pubs and literary museums. We chatted about Joyce, Hemingway, Twain and Melville for a little while, and I explained that I was (past tense) a literature major.
"I'm Brendan, by the way," I said, extending my hand. He started laughing.
"You must be Irish," he said. "I'm Brendan, too."
I took this as a sign. On my way to Dublin, I got drunk with a guy from Dublin named Brendan.
At some point during our conversation, the obnoxious British guy on the other side of me started talking loudly about Irish Republicans with their "US-supported terrorism" and their "revolutionary songs" tha people sing. Now, the conflict between Northern Ireland and the Irish Republic is a long and complex one -- and far be it from me to minimize or gloss over the losses suffered and inflicted by both sides -- but did this dipshit really need to start bitching about it while sitting next to an Irish-American (okay, American of Irish descent) and two seats down from a real Irishman, in the middle of an airport bar, and on St. Patrick's day of all days? The guy kept getting louder and louder, and I was about to tell him to fuck off when the guy he was talking to basically did it for me and rather abruptly excused himself. Brendan and I continued our conversation about Moby-Dick while this limey dick drank gin through his stained teeth and kept hating his life.
Eventually I said good-bye to Brendan and got on my plane. The flight to Newark was uneventful. I bought a bottle of duty-free Patron tequila for $35, which I figured was a good investment and a great way to make friends at the hostel.
The flight to Dublin was, among other things, my first experience with airline food other than peanuts. I got what Chuck Palahniuk called -- in Fight Club -- a "chicken cordon bleu hobby kit" (or, in this case, a chicken cacciatore hobby kit). Not bad, if you don't mind the feeling of your colon weeping. (Also, apparently "pour it on" is a registered trademark of whatever company makes the packaged salad dressing used by Continental Airlines. WTF? How do you trademark a phrase like "pour it on"??)
Anyway, I'm rambling and I'm taking up too much time on the computer at the hostel, so I'll wrap this first post up. A few other random things:
-Ireland from 30,000 feet up, especially the western coast, is breathtakingly beautiful -- and I don't use a cheesy word like "breathtakingly" lightly (or the word "beautiful," for that matter).
-Shitting at 30,000 feet is decidedly not beautiful, nor is it pleasant. It is, however, more pleasant than shitting in New Jersey.
-It's interesting how the Irish use different words for things. For instance, signs don't say "restrooms" or "women" and "men," they say "toilets," "ladies" and "gents." An elevator is a "lift." An ATM is a "cash machine." Police are not "cops" or "po-pos," they're "garda." Etc.
-The friendly guy who worked at the airport bus stop, after telling me how to get to my hostel, asked me about the upcoming presidential election. I mentioned that I liked Obama. He then proceeded to say that the current administration should be tried as war criminals and told me he saw a documentary the other night about Marines who had raped and murdered some people in Iraq. I stood in silence for about three seconds, unsure of how to respond. Then, after literally three seconds, he grinned, said "enjoy your stay," and strolled away.
-Of course, the really hot Australian girl with the blue eyes and the long dark hair I struck up a conversation with in the lounge of my hostel was about to fly to Scotland. Figures.
-Getting around is really difficult when none of the streets have any signs.
All right, I'll get my digital camera working so I have some pics up for you in my next blog entry tomorrow. For those of you who are interested, I am staying at the Avalon House on Aungier (pronounced AIN-ger) St. near Trinity College and St. Stephen's Green.
Slainte!
-Brendan
Anyway, my trip started after a hectic dash around DC to take care of some final odds and ends before making it back to my apartment in time for the Supersuttle...which, somehow, I did. If you saw me that day you know how manic I was. (Whoops, bad word choice.) Once I got to the airport and through security, I did what any red-blooded American of Irish descent who hates to fly does on St. Patrick's Day...I got wasted at the bar.
Okay, okay mom, not wasted, but I had a couple of Jamison whiskeys-and-soda, and a beer to go with my mixed greens and turkey sandwich. I tell myself that eating healthy makes up for the alcohol I consume. Don't ruin it for me.
The bartender was a nice enough guy with bad teeth and (I think) a French accent named Ilir, who went out of his way to get me a seat at the bar but looked surprised when I ordered the Jamison. The stuffy British couple next to me gave me a weird look too. I guess not a lot of 22-year olds drink Irish whiskey. Anyway, the Brits soon left and another guy -- maybe in his late forties/early fifties -- sat down. The TV was on ESPN and PTI was on, and Kornheiser was asking Jim Boehiem (or Jim "Motherfuckin National Champion" Boehiem, as we call him in Syracuse) some bullshit about the NCAA. (Side note: American University made the tournament for the first time EVER. That's fuckin right, doggy.)
"Great man," I said pointing to the TV when Boehiem came on. The expression of the guy next to me indicated that he had no idea what the hell I was talking about, and the slight accent I couldn't place as he muttered something made me realize what a dumbass I was: this guy wasn't from the US.
"Oh, do you follow American basketball?" I asked weakly, trying to recover.
"No," he said. "I like American football, but we don't watch basketball much in Ireland."
I blinked. The accent I couldn't place was Irish. Some mick I am.
"Really," I said. "What part of the country are you from?"
"Dublin," he replied. I quickly explained that I was on my way to Dublin, and asked him if there were any particular places I should check out. He started warming up as he ticked off a handful of pubs and literary museums. We chatted about Joyce, Hemingway, Twain and Melville for a little while, and I explained that I was (past tense) a literature major.
"I'm Brendan, by the way," I said, extending my hand. He started laughing.
"You must be Irish," he said. "I'm Brendan, too."
I took this as a sign. On my way to Dublin, I got drunk with a guy from Dublin named Brendan.
At some point during our conversation, the obnoxious British guy on the other side of me started talking loudly about Irish Republicans with their "US-supported terrorism" and their "revolutionary songs" tha people sing. Now, the conflict between Northern Ireland and the Irish Republic is a long and complex one -- and far be it from me to minimize or gloss over the losses suffered and inflicted by both sides -- but did this dipshit really need to start bitching about it while sitting next to an Irish-American (okay, American of Irish descent) and two seats down from a real Irishman, in the middle of an airport bar, and on St. Patrick's day of all days? The guy kept getting louder and louder, and I was about to tell him to fuck off when the guy he was talking to basically did it for me and rather abruptly excused himself. Brendan and I continued our conversation about Moby-Dick while this limey dick drank gin through his stained teeth and kept hating his life.
Eventually I said good-bye to Brendan and got on my plane. The flight to Newark was uneventful. I bought a bottle of duty-free Patron tequila for $35, which I figured was a good investment and a great way to make friends at the hostel.
The flight to Dublin was, among other things, my first experience with airline food other than peanuts. I got what Chuck Palahniuk called -- in Fight Club -- a "chicken cordon bleu hobby kit" (or, in this case, a chicken cacciatore hobby kit). Not bad, if you don't mind the feeling of your colon weeping. (Also, apparently "pour it on" is a registered trademark of whatever company makes the packaged salad dressing used by Continental Airlines. WTF? How do you trademark a phrase like "pour it on"??)
Anyway, I'm rambling and I'm taking up too much time on the computer at the hostel, so I'll wrap this first post up. A few other random things:
-Ireland from 30,000 feet up, especially the western coast, is breathtakingly beautiful -- and I don't use a cheesy word like "breathtakingly" lightly (or the word "beautiful," for that matter).
-Shitting at 30,000 feet is decidedly not beautiful, nor is it pleasant. It is, however, more pleasant than shitting in New Jersey.
-It's interesting how the Irish use different words for things. For instance, signs don't say "restrooms" or "women" and "men," they say "toilets," "ladies" and "gents." An elevator is a "lift." An ATM is a "cash machine." Police are not "cops" or "po-pos," they're "garda." Etc.
-The friendly guy who worked at the airport bus stop, after telling me how to get to my hostel, asked me about the upcoming presidential election. I mentioned that I liked Obama. He then proceeded to say that the current administration should be tried as war criminals and told me he saw a documentary the other night about Marines who had raped and murdered some people in Iraq. I stood in silence for about three seconds, unsure of how to respond. Then, after literally three seconds, he grinned, said "enjoy your stay," and strolled away.
-Of course, the really hot Australian girl with the blue eyes and the long dark hair I struck up a conversation with in the lounge of my hostel was about to fly to Scotland. Figures.
-Getting around is really difficult when none of the streets have any signs.
All right, I'll get my digital camera working so I have some pics up for you in my next blog entry tomorrow. For those of you who are interested, I am staying at the Avalon House on Aungier (pronounced AIN-ger) St. near Trinity College and St. Stephen's Green.
Slainte!
-Brendan
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