June 2001 

9 June 2001

Haulie and Mick's All American BBQ Bash
First of all, an explanation on the names attached to the Irish American decadent event of the year. I picked up the nickname Mick early on in my stay in Ireland, and shortly after Michael’s arrival, his closest Irish co-hort, Johnny Clifford, nicknamed him Haulie, short from the Irish name for Michael.  (Side note - When Johnny and I met, I was dubbed Haulie Doe (Haulie 2).) 

I had spent the week before the party preparing like mad while Michael wined and dined some German customers in London.  In these slow economic times, everyone has to do their part to keep the international economies spinning, and Michael and I chip in when possible.  (Just as a note to how 'slow' the economy is - EMC's revenue is expected to drop this year from a 30 percent growth rate to 20 percent growth.  Investors throughout the world got skittish and trillions of dollars in paper wealth was washed off the face of the planet)  I had cleaned the house, moved the stereo to the most central location I could find, and started doing four 18x24 drawings for the front entrance - a long hallway with some fitting red, white and blue striped wallpaper.  I chose Washington, Lincoln, Kennedy and our current leader to represent America.  In order as they hung on the wall, the portraits turned out like so: Washington, modeled after our dollar bill, looked disgruntled to have to sit for yet another portrait.  Lincoln, facing right, was distorted to emphasis his unruly hair and some of his more homely features.  I tried giving Kennedy some worried and aged eyes and succeeded, (I think that’s his most striking feature, along with his tidy and overblown hair), and he turned into looking like a mafia crime boss (probably one of his most striking features).  When I got to W, I just couldn’t bring myself to approach the drawing with any sense of seriousness, so I used a picture of him giving a speech in true demagogue style - small eyes, wide open mouth, slight beads of sweat on his brow.  I started with his unruly hair at just below the middle of the page, handling the charcoal with a devil may care attitude, just fitting the bottom lip on the bottom of the page.  It looked like he slipped right off the page, I was pleased.  He also hung closest to the door.

I also did to do some grocery shopping during the week, buying up some red, white and blue napkins, Heinz ketchup, French’s mustard.  Shopping for strictly American kitsch in Ireland is a bigger ordeal than one would think.  Battling the inconvenience of early closing hours, lack of mega stores that house every item every sold by man under one roof, and the simple fact of not being in the US make any truly American party preparations harder than one would think.  I was ready to head to the English market and pick up some of KC’s own Gates BBQ sauce, but I received an unexpected package from Miss Agers in Kansas City (which I refer to as ‘Kansas’ to everyone I meet in Ireland).  It contained two bottles of the President’s Choice - Arthur Bryant’s BBQ Original Sauce.  The battle was engaged, and I was in heaven.  We were now ready to go with the two sets of wiffle ball bats that arrived.  One set hand delivered through a complex chain of EMC couriers from the woman formerly known as Miss Quinn (my first boss at EMC) and one sent direct from Schenectady, NY (home of the 1954 Little League World Champions) by my Uncle Garry.

Saturday arrived, and after picking up over 20 pounds of chicken, hamburg (minced meat) and ribs, we were ready to go after finally picking up and assembling a couple of barbecues.  Michael felt wonderful buying the case of Budweiser cans for us (gone well before the night was out).  I threw on a pair of jeans, and wore a Coors Light t-shirt.  Happy hour begin at 5, with Miles Davis and Frank Sinatra filling the air as the guests started to arrive.  I made some quesadillas as appetizers, and the trays of P&J Ritz cracker sandwiches I prepared disappeared fast.  The shelves in our extra room that are filled with bits of America - postcards from around the states, a little Statue of Liberty statue, OJ postcard, Bill & Hillary from 1976, and miscellaneous goodies from the states (a picture of Nixon & Elvis, world’s largest cantaloupe seeds from NC) - were a big hit with the Irish folks strolling through the house.  So was the size of our bathrooms.  The weather held out - after on and off drizzles all day, the sun finally shown through and allowed a game of home run derby to take place in the backyard (complete with a couple jumps over the neighbors walls for some foul balls).  As the BBQ started in earnest, with music running from Creedence to Skynyrd to Neil Diamond to Elvis, the American theme reached its full potential when I pulled out the American red, white and blue socks I’ve saved for such an occasion.

Johnny Clifford and his girlfriend Neve were among the first to arrive.  After polishing off my first beer, I was standing at the front door and turned to Neve and told her half sarcastically that “I have to make this an official American BBQ’.  I crunched the Bud can and tossed it on the lawn.  I repeated this act in front of her for her pure delight after my second can evaporated in the heat (Bud goes down like water after drinking Guinness for four months).  Heading out to greet Gearoid and his friend Colm later on (who arrived with a case of one liter Bulmers cider bottles), I noticed a few crunched cans of Stag beer (what Neve was drinking) out on the lawn as well.  I didn’t think anything of it but just thought that it was slightly odd. 
The crowd reached a fevered pitch as the first burgers came off the grill.  I had my first taste of red meat since February 19, 2001.  I honestly can say I can’t remember a more anticlimactic event since my arrival in Ireland.  The burger was great - cooked well, doused in toppings, but I had mind set to tasting the Arthur Bryants, so the burger was eaten without thinking about it, let alone savoring it.   I didn’t have to wait long for heaven to be served - the roar of approval and sound of satisfaction started outside by the grill, and slowly snaked its way through the crowd - the Bryants soaked chicken made its Irish debut.  I was a bit apprehensive about serving it - I wasn’t sure how the Irish tongues accustomed to the relatively bland tastes of the Irish cuisine would react - but the sauce blew everyone away.  I almost cried when I tasted the sauce again.

A big wiffle ball game broke out on the green a couple houses up, and I was keeping things going, mingling through the crowd, swapping CDs when the time was right.  Gearoid did report to me the neighbor two doors up was displeased with the cans that were popping up in my front lawn.  I went out to talk to him, and he said there was a 1600 pound fine for each can found.  I didn’t believe a word, but played his game and made sure the cans were picked up.  I came back, and told Johnny C and Neve about the controversy.  They were both disgusted, and Neve was quoted as saying, ‘But it’s an American tradition.  How else will people know where the BBQ is?’   She told the whole story to a bunch of other folks, explaining that’s what happens in America.  Inadvertently, I caused this smart girl to believe that all American BBQs begin with filling the front lawn with smashed cans so the neighbors and guests know where the party is.  Cultural misunderstandings aside, I do think there is some beauty in all of this, so I never corrected her.

As the night turned dark, the party continued on, empty Coors Light and Bud cans everywhere, and good craic everywhere.  Taz, my Polaroid camera, made his obligatory appearance and delivered with some fantastic shots.  Steve Martin’s The Jerk was the highest quality film we could find for late night viewing (we had Animal House and Blues Brothers on our wish list).  The remaining partygoers were sharply divided - half were completely confused and slightly offended, but others realized the brilliance of the film, from Navin Johnson's black roots to the beauty of eating Pizza in a Cup.  There were only about 4 of us still standing after 3, and that’s when Johnny Cash made his full throttle appearance at the party.  I can’t imagine American music without the man in black, and it was nice to be surrounded by Irish folks who realized his genius.  We rifled through the Tayto crisps bag for our favorite flavours, and the Doors carried us through to dawn, and we tried holding on until ‘The End’.  I made it, with a Coors Light in hand, belly full of Arthur Bryants, next to an empty case of Bulmers liters. 

The next day we invited a few folks over for a leftover BBQ, reveling in the Arthur Bryant’s sauce once again.  That Monday, as Michael and I were heading into town, our next door neighbor (who is a cool guy, but was in Kerry fishing the night of the BBQ) said hi and asked us how things went.  I told him it was a great time and he said he heard we tried growing some Budweiser plants in the front yard.  He had warned us of his neighbor a couple days beforehand, and I told him that guy just needed to settle down.  He agreed, and told us, “There’s an old Irish saying, it says ‘Fuck the neighbors’.”  It’s good to have allies in the hood.

Sent:                Thursday, June 14, 2001 1:10 PM

Subject:                new car scent

14 June, 2001

Flag day in Ireland led to a lot of questions from the co-workers about what exactly Americans do on Flag Day.  I did my best to explain a general respect for the Stars and Stripes without painting all Americans as flag waving neo-fascists saluting the flag with a Budweiser in one hand and a shotgun in the other.  I was only partially successful.  It was also four months ago today I arrived on the Emerald Isle.  I looked at the odometer in my 98 Ford Mondeo and noted I had just passed 3,850 miles since my arrival.  I got into work, sat through a meeting, and when I got back to my desk I had an email waiting about my car.  I called about it, and I needed to 'trade it in' for a 2001 Ford Focus. 

I can honestly say I've been in Ireland longer than my car - it's a month old with 897 miles on it.  When I arrived, I grabbed my tape from the radio as the last official act in 98C0423, and noticed my silver destiny ahead - it was being spray washed - flying in the face of the pouring rain that was falling from the sky.  Like all service everywhere in Ireland, I was embarrassed to be at the receiving end.  Sean called me and asked for my forgiveness of the inconvience of trading cars, but assured me this is a much better car, detailing the AC, ABS, and a plethora of other features that went above and beyond the simple stop and go features I'm really interested in.  When I met up with Sean, a very nice and proper older Irishman, who was even more accomodating in person, and he continued to apologize.  He drove me to fill the tank, and let me on my way, also apologizing for the CD player - he knew my old car had a tape deck, and also offered to swap them if I so desired. 

I reassured Sean everything was fine and I thanked him for his efforts.  I immediately noticed the jump the engine had when I stepped on the gas.  So this is what it feels like to drive a car built in the same decade you're living in...

http://www.fordvehicles.com/cars/focus/

 Sent:                Thursday, June 21, 2001 12:56 PM

Midsummer's Day Dream

Last night I headed into town and made plans to meet up with Gearoid and his wild sisters at the Western Star, a trendy young hotspot on the borders of Cork City and the UCC (University of Cork City).  After a couple of pints, we walked on over to Fitzgerald's Park for the attraction of the night - a live, outdoor production of Shakespeare's A Midsummer's Night Dream.  Tonight (Midsummer's night) is the true opening night, but we scored tickets to the Critic's Opening.  The show started at 9:30 baked in full sunlight, basking in the glory of the late setting sun, and the sold out crowd was wisked through the eccentric park by a group of minstrels who reminded me of a disjointed Tijuana Brass.  We were led to the opening scene, a giant set built in the lake, where the Duke of Athens (who was played by a girl) came on stage decked out in full Texas garb and an attempted accent.  It sounded more like Steve Martin and Dan Akroyd's Wild and Crazy Guys than anything from San Antone, but was nice to see an effort made.  The other cast members were in more traditional Shakespeare garb, and I immediately became enamoured with Helena, a busty and fiesty character with some long black flowing hair who stole most of the opening scene.  When the scene ended, the minstrels led the crowd to the next stage in the park, and the next three hours unfurled before our eyes. 

The groundling humour hit the spot, and Gearoid's dry comments added with an under the breath sarcastic touch here and there cracked both of us up, and the crowd was loving every minute of the excellent performance.  The park was part of the star - filled with sculptures, palm trees, weird shrubbery, it lent itself to some great sets with little changes necessary. Fairies dressed in black clung to trees, with their eyes wide open, shifting from one tree to the next in a mechanical but mystical trot.  After the sun had gone down, the play was being lit by hand held spotlights - this only added to the Blair Witch affect.  As the sky got darker and darker (and the night colder and colder) moving from one scene to the next became an event in itself - not being able to see trees, shrubs, and people even feet in front of you.  The scene of the night was when the head fairy (also played by the same girl who was the Texan Duke) sat up on a twenty foot pole - for no reason - with a giant palm tree behind her - lit from below by one of the lanterns as the devilish and mischievous Puck raced through the crowd, climbed trees, recited lines upside down from branches ten feet in the air.  It was some magnificent stage direction and use of the park.  The plump Irishman who played Bottom, and the troupe of actors who played the working class bums who put together the worst play ever produced at the weddings at the finale - were all amazing.  It was like the Wizard of Oz met the Confederacy of Dunces with a slice of Waiting for Guffman thrown in for good measure. 

The play held up the whole night - and as the sun raced west and disappeared somewhere over America, Gearoid and I ran into a couple of American California Valley girls during intermission.  We only eavesdropped and laughed - the conversation was surreal itself - and indescribable.  As we walked over to the intermission area, I turned to Gearoid and told him, "I can't believe I was flown here from America to review this play."  The raised eyebrows and look of confusion of the people next to us (on Critic's Night) was priceless.  The lines of the night were spoken by a seven year old near the climax of the play.  As the careless actions of the fairies and their love potions were  finally fixed (it was, after all, a comedy) and Helena woke up in a hammock next to her real lover and kissed him, the seven year old told them to 'Get a room'.  Not resting her laurels on that line, when the Texas Duke showed up speaking in an over the top macho bravado, she told her mother that 'that role was miscast.

 Sent:                Friday, June 29, 2001 8:59 AM

With Michael's return to the United States of America scheduled for tomorrow (30/6/2001) at 3:00, the last couple weeks have included some fierce drinking nights and big celebrations.  Able to reflect some on the past four months (three with Michael), I've been busy hunting down the future too - some of the things that have clouded my judgment to varying degrees:

*  A beautiful innocent blonde whom I think works in the Engineering Dept.  I've seen her the last couple of days in the canteen at breakfast and lunch, today we exchanged glances and smiles.  Big summer BBQ for all Cork employees in two weeks at the dogtrack, I'm expecting the best.

*  Planning some weekend getaways to Scotland and assorted venues throughout the Republic.  Staying far away from the North during July - that's when those English bastards march through Belfast and cheer their tyranny.  For homework, you should read a little about the Battle of the Boyne, when the English completely slaughtered the Irish in 1690.  Cheap airfares to some sunny destination for the August bank holiday - I've tossed around the Canary Islands, Morroco, Cairo, Istanbul, Athens, and a bunch of little islands in the Meditterean (including, but not limited to, Crete, Malta, and Majorica) as possible spots for a break from this island.  The current front runner is 5 days of bliss in Barcelona.  244 pounds round trip. 

*  Time to write down the rules to American Cricket, a game invented this week by Michael and I.  Played with a hurley and a wiffleball bat, standing in two rooms, trying to hit the wiffleball out of an open window and a sliding door.  This game has the potential to surpass even Monster Truck Shows and Strongman Competitions in global appeal.  A ticket to the sold out Munster Hurling final - County Limerick v. County Tipperary.  Scalped tickets could run as high as 90 pounds.

I'll flesh all these out soon, along with some assorted tales that could use some telling.  For now, I've got to get ready for Michael's last big night in Cork.  Murphy's away!!

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