OCTOBER

1 OCTOBER - RETURN TO NORMALCY

 September slipped by unnoticed - I never even had a chance to realize it existed.  There is no real distinct change between seasons here, a few drops on the thermometer, a slightly colder chill in the air, the return of the smell of burning coal in the air should have been enough to tell me summer was over and autumn had begun, but I still in some ways, still expected summer to start...  The rain also falls a little bit harder and the grey clouds overpower sky and rule the day, making one question whether the sun will ever shine again.  That's the setting, here's the details:

Of course the NY attacks hit everyone pretty hard here, and it has to be chalked up as the most awful and surreal events ever witnessed - being in Ireland when everything went down really made me feel just how far the 3000 miles separating Ireland and the US really is.  My friends and I returned to our desks from the canteen joking and laughing, and when we first heard news of the first plane hitting, I kinda laughed it off, thinking back to the bomber that ran right into the Empire State Building.  When the second one hit, I felt fortunate to be living in a Nuclear free city.  The feeling of horror and devastation was felt most at work - my closest tie to anything back in the US - suddenly, trivial matters really become so and I spent the week digging up the latest news, pictures, and probably saw those planes disappear 10,000 times before I could even imagine it happened.  It was like some horrible car crash that you can't watch, but is so unbelievable you just can't look away.  I tried cooking dinner, but didn't exactly succeed too well, as I rushed in every few minutes to catch the latest news.  The Pentagon, Pittsburgh.  I woke up the morning after on the couch in front of the TV with SkyNews still on - the images repeated 10,000 times more on my closed eyelids - my head aching like a bad hangover.  My worst fears it all wasn't just some horrible nightmare were confirmed when New York's skyline was still engulfed in smoke and ash. 

As a show of solidarity with America, Ireland cancelled everything that Friday as a National Day of Mourning.  All shops, gas stations, companies (except American ones, which, oddly enough, remained open) shut down for the day.  It reminded me of Good Friday, the single most eerie day in Ireland - when no drink spills out of any taps, and there is a paranoid uneasiness to the entire day.  People called radio shows reporting and shaming companies and businesses that planned to stay open that day, but, as things go, quite a few pubs hung signs on their windows explaining they wouldn't open until 5:00 PM, as a show of respect for America.  I can't complain though, the alcohol was a welcome diversion from the constant news reports.  My Uncle left New York the Sunday before, and arrived in Dublin for his first taste of life outside North America.  By the time I picked him up from the train station in Cork on Wednesday, he was already cursing his decision to leave the US, and thought he'd never make it back.  I don't doubt next time I'm over his house that I will see his passport, with one lonely Irish stamp, framed from eternity with the front page of Wednesday's Irish Examiner hanging on the wall. 

But life goes on, and through it all, I gave him the two penny tour of Cork, missed out on Blarney Castle because I was oblivious to the fact the season's had changd and late summer opening hours ended weeks ago.  We did hit most of the sites, got a nice driving tour of the narrow roads of North Cork, and then headed out to the Rings of Kerry and Dingle for the weekend.  Strolling along the crystal clear and surprisingly warm waters of the little inlet at Derrynane Beach made the news updates that dotted the driving tour of the peninsulas seem light years away.  Neither pictures nor words can do much justice to this beach - it was the singular most remarkable sight I've laid eyes on in Kerry or Dingle.  After returning to Cork, my Uncle's visit culminated with the obligatory stops at Hillbilly's Chicken and the Hairy Lemon (neither has ever disappointed any foreign visitor), and he was able to get back to New York without delay.  I was not so fortunate, I came down with the flu that would cramp my style the next couple weeks. 

Weekends never slow down, no matter what your body may try telling you, and without fail another one started with the usual suspects convening at the Raven, which has become the traditional starting point for most weekends, with good reason - the girls are amazing, the bar staff delightful (gorgeous women who serve beer are saints), and it's an easy destination for the half dozen of us to agree upon with little disagreement.  While looking out the large windows (another Raven plus - you can soak up the atmosphere and watch the world go by) I noticed an old man cross the street with a crick in his back and a studder in his step.  The real joy was that he unknowingly moved in complete rythym to the techno pop anthem that the Raven always spills out every night.  It was something to relish.  The night ended with us getting dragged on over to Plato's, about as swarmy and decadent disco as one can imagine, smack dab in the middle of Cork's later nightlife.  Conversations bounced around the group, and Gearoid and I were talking about the New York attacks when the speakers started bellowing out Celtic Symphony - "here we go again, we're on the road again, to paradise" - and the dance floor went mad.  The moment wasn't lost on either of us - we watched as the frenzied crowd (all drunken louts out for a good time) joined in and screamed the pro-IRA chorus - "oh ah up the 'RA, say ooh ah up the 'RA" - with fists in the air, right in Cork city - just days after seeing the footage of Palestinians celebrating the attacks.  Most of the IRA's completely ignorant statements after the attacks are absolutely sickening.  Apparently, it's only murder if you wear a towel on your head.

But, as I drowned my cold in an uneasy balance of chicken soup and stout ale, I managed to break new ground on the pub front (two to be exact - Costigans and  the Oyster Bar) - on a Wednesday night nonetheless.  It's reassuring to have lived here nine months and still find new stomping grounds.  While setting up plans for a casual night out ('just a couple of beers'), I knew I was in for a big night when I decided to take the bus into town.  Being half sick and somewhat responsible, I told Gearoid I didn't want to go full throttle, because I knew I lacked the strength to go for a full session.  He told me that in most countries, that statement would pass for English, but in Ireland, it just doesn't make sense.  The night started at the Hairy Lemon as I flipped through the Evening Echo - waiting for Gearoid to stop in.  I ran across two stories about the gardes that shed some light on the gentle character of what it takes to be Irish.  The garde stories tend to be the best reading on any given day.  One of the articles managed to spin a gentle, yet stern article about two nice Irish women getting arrested on a drunk and disorderly charge (on the rough and ready Barrack Street, not a place for the weak of heart).  The story began delicately with the line, 'The night that began so comfortably soon turned otherwise'.  Basically, the two girls got into a row outside a pub, had their arguements broken up by two gardes, who were likewise assualted, one having his glasses knocked off.  The tone of the second article was just as pleasant, almost written like it was a little parable.  It was a nice story about a drunkard who was arrested twice in two weeks on Patrick Street for 'Being a Danger to himself and others in the vicinity'. (Actual charge, no lie)  The judge also was quoted as saying the evidence showed the charges were more for endangering himself than others.  The drunkard's story would be rehashed later on that night by Gearoid and I, as we headed from one pub to another we chastised a drunk for being a danger to himself and to others in the vicinity.  He was falling over and somehow spun around and stood at attention when we broke the news to him.  We laughed, he soon started pointing and muttering sweet nothings at the wall, and we continued on to All Bar One.  After a few nightcaps back at the Lough, an hour of sleep and it was back at work for 8:30.  There's a weird, indescribable adrenaline rush to getting through that next day on that little sleep, but the true test is just how strong you can go the next night.  Most nights I function at about sixty percent.  That's what the Hairy Lemon is for.  A couple Black Russians, a Guinness or two to top things off, and your head is on right again...

3 OCTOBER - COMEBACK SPECIAL

A couple weeks ago I ran into town on Saturday morning, which always has a therapeutic feeling.  After picking up some odds and ends here and there, snapping various pictures of yellowed signs, peeling paint and rusty drainpipes, I headed into the Hairy Lemon around one to gather my thoughts.  I was one of the first patrons of the day, Peter the bartender was looking like he was in worse shape than I was.  After settling in, flipping through some of the local rags ('It's about time they brought back the Page 3 girls' was a quote), and watching Scotland demolish Ireland in rugby, I needed to get back home and catch a nap before the night began.  Yes, double sessions have begun.  That night would be a wild cacophony of needless debauchery split between the Raven and Cubin's, one of the slimiest clubs in town.  I didn’t get far from the Lemon when I passed the Uneeda Records shop next door and, through fate or circumstance, perhaps a little of both, Elvis’ Back To Memphis CD caught my eye.  A big impulse buy, it’s turned out to be the best nine pounds I’ve spent.  

The CD was recorded right after his big Comeback Special in ’69, without a doubt the musical apex of Elvis’ larger than life little life.  The music is intense and bluesy, his voice stronger than ever.  Sung before the obscenity of his jump suit days, there are no songs about teddy bears or dancing with wooden chairs.  They've got a wistful but strangely upbeat tone to them, and the album is a little known gem.  It's chock full of a still undeniably cool Elvis pouring his heart out, and you can hear his extiement in his voice.  All the songs contain a sense of wanderlust and refusal to settle down, two themes ready to burst out at the seams these days.  at the end of the month I’m finding myself sorting out the remnants of my so called American life.  I make my own big Comeback Special (move over Jordan), trading the joys of life in Ireland for toiling in America once again when I touch down in Kansas City on the 29^th of October. 

The transition is almost guaranteed not to be an easy one, so with time off from work readily available, I’m striking out on my own and hitting the open road.  I’m spending almost a week in KC, followed by another two crisscrossing my way across the Eastern States on my way back to the Great Northeast.  I think New York is a required stop, as Chicago and North Carolina are shaping up as well.  Of course, there’s not much to compare the feeling of hitting those long, open highways with no itinerary, eating some greasy chicken fried something or other, and stopping in at some Flying J truckstops for fuel.  I find waltzing into any Walmart and asking the poor little lady behind the Customer Service desk how to get to a city two states over is always a particularly nice treat.  I just hope I can recognize the country again. 

Elvis Presley

Back to Memphis

Released: Nov 1969

The lineup:

Inherit the Wind

This Is the Story

Stranger in My Own Hometown

A Little Bit of Green

And the Grass Won’t Pay No Mind

Do You Know who I Am

From a Jack to a King

The Fair’s Moving On

You’ll Think of Me

Without Love

18 OCTOBER - GUNS A BLAZING

5-6-7 of October
As all good binges go, this one is scheduled to last about six weeks, the last three weeks in Ireland, and the first three on the road back in the good ol' US of A.  It'd be poetic to say the weekend of the 5th started out innocently enough, but I received notice informing me otherwise a week in advance.  While displaying some poor form at the Roundy one night (looped on Irish Robitussin and still suffering the ill affects of non-sleep and the remnants of my cold), I ran into the Sisters Niall - Norma, Gina, Vivian and got an invite to Norma's 30th the next weekend.  Within days I had received the big invite for the weekend, a stag night in Ennis in County Clare with Johnny Clifford.  I received warning via email telling me to take it easy for the week and prepare for 20 pints.  Jim O'Sullivan backed up the warning, telling me nights out with Paddy (the lucky bachelor) usually get out of hand fast.  I managed a few quiet nights out at the Hairy Lemon, continuing to soak up the ambiance and devour Hillbilly's breast in a buns on a nightly basis. 

Friday came along and Gearoid, Colm and I got to the Western Star early to down a few pints before heading into the back room.  The back room was booked for the 60-80 guests that would be in attendance, and the karoake machine was plugged in, an ominous crackle of showmanship rifled through the air.  As we mingled with the Cork crowd I've gotten accustomed to running into every weekend, I was introduced to a few new faces (I was introduced as a 'chancer' to some, but ended up being called a 'traveler' by others, more on the Cork slang later).  There was a slight air of apprehension towards the karaoke despite Colm's boasts of being the master showman, as he was too wrapped up chatting up his 'nasty neighbor' (his words, not mine).  Soon, Norma got up and started the festivities, with a sterling rendition of a song I just can't remember anymore.  A few more beers and Gearoid was crooning something or other, surrounded by his clan of Griffins in attendance. 

I could hold out no longer, and debating the merits of Tom Jones, Ruby Don't Take Your Love to Town, and some AC/DC, I eventually decided on Sweet Caroline.  I had worked the crowd enough to already be a draw, and the night's DJ made a few comments about my showmanship even before the song began.  Where it began, I can't begin to knowin', but I soon realized I had the crowd eating out of the palm of my hand, complete with a full dance floor of folks of all ages waltzing, shaking and dancing along.  Gearoid and Colm stood at the bottom of the stage, holding balloons, swaying to the upbeat tempo and  doing their best impersonations of the two old men on the Muppets.  I looked up at the television screen filling in the holes in the lyrics and the words burnt a sizable impression on my brain: 15 second musical interlude.  Now, although my arm trick was officially on the 1st of January, 2001in Budapest, Hungary with all the pomp and circumstance the changing of a millennium can afford, my mind knew exactly what to do at that moment.  A shocked crowd could only marvel at the rusty marvels on display before them.  I got through two full rotations before picking up the microphone and continuing on, exactly on queue.  The timing was impeccable, but the best was yet to come. 

After getting a variety of hugs, handshakes, and toasts from the adoring public, I rejoined the conversations with the Sisters Niall.  Soon, Gearoid, Niall and Gina took the stage to end the night with their take on Tone Loc's Funky Cold Medina.  The dance floor was empty, and I once again reached for my shot at infamy.  I tucked in half my shirt, strutted onto the dance floor, already catching the attention of everyone in the hall, and immediately dropped to the floor and started breakdancing.  This was an over the top performance to say the least.  Worms, coffee grinders and backspins, all punctuated with a cheering crowd that got to see the arm trick one last time, and then I grabbed Norma and finished strong dancing with the birthday girl. 

Efforts to retrieve the security video that overlooked the stage and dance floor have proved fruitless. 

The next day I awoke a bit sore, and slightly tentative about the 20 pint day I had set myself up for.  Johnny Clifford dropped by around 3, and we were on the road for all of two minutes before the Angler's Rest beckoned.  We had our second pint in Blarney, where we met up with a distinguished local in a nice suit and gold watch on at least a three day bender of his own.  We drove his drunken bones home, and headed up to Limerick to meet up with the boys that would comprise the Ennis crew.  I always thought the biggest lie in Ireland was 'going out for a couple pints.'  I was wrong.  The biggest lie in Ireland is 'we'll only have one'.  That one pint in Limerick effortlessly turned into ten.  The crew was assembled, and the hot Limerick crowd sauntered through the door.  Limerick has a reputation for beautiful women, and the old saying goes something along the lines of 'slow horses, fast women'.  Introduced to a few, the charm levels and beauty were off the charts.  I was chatting up one of the most beautiful girls I have ever dared to talk to - and were carrying on as the beers kept flowing.  Even after an interruption in the conversation Kim would find me again and start up where we left off.  Fresh off a year in Australia, this brown haired goddess was a couple years younger and had even been to Kansas City.  After chatting with her for a couple hours, 1999 All Ireland Cork hurling champ Pat Buckley interjected and asked what my surname was.  In her own innocent and enchanting way, Kim asked what my first name was.  I don't think the Pat and I have seen each other since without laughing over that moment.  But, the sun fell, and we were still about 40 minutes from Ennis.  I cannot offer a rational explanation as to why I left with the boys that night to head to Ennis, my entire soul fills with shame just thinking about this, but I headed out the door with promises to meet again. 

The ride must have proved long to the sober John Morley, stuck with the driving details, as Johnny, Pat and I laughed and cackled the whole way up, devouring some godawful Burger King on the way up.  It flew for the rest of us.  Ennis is a sweet town, more than accepting of folks out for a drunken good time, and pubs packed to the gills with drink and partying people.  After checking in to the hotel, we headed through three pubs, putting an exclamation point on each round we bought with a shot of some whiskey.  Then we met up with the official party at the hotel bar, drank until it closed, and then headed to the hotel's disco.  The four of us tried getting in the back door for residents, but the Russian bouncer would have no part of it.  Pat went to get the woman behind the bar to get us in, but Johnny and I, impetuous as always, forged ahead, and walked right past the line that snaked out the door into the wet, misty night and past the bouncers to hit the dance floor.  A more timid John Morley got stopped at the door and spent twenty minutes expressing his dismay we got in and he didn't.  Johnny would later try bribing the doorman with a fiver, but to no avail, apparently, this guy was incorrigible.  The dance floor was mad, the drinks turned to vodka, and Johnny was putting on quite the display on the dance floor.  Unnecessarily topless, he goaded the members of other hen parties, hit on a couple of 40 year old women, and was a sight to behold.  After the lights turned on at the club, we headed back into the hotel for some after hours drinking in the Resident's pub.  To get there, you had to walk behind the bar, through the kitchen, and under a passageway under a clock.  The Alice in Wonderland setting opened up into a dark wooden setting perfect for drinking, and filled with a hen party of lusty Irish lasses.  I don't know what time it closed, but I needed to ask at the front desk for the key to the room.  I was greeted with a 'good morning' and the words did nothing to please the slippery stupor I had drank myself into.

I spent the night on the floor, curled up under some drapes, and we recounted the previous night's activities over a few pints at breakfast.  No matter how many times the same stories were retold that morning, they were still entertaining, listening to the subtle differences from one person to the next, and the pints soothed many an uneasy stomach and a splitting headache.  After a while, we built up enough steam to leave Ennis around 3 and made plans to meet for a pint at Mulligan's back in Cork City.  About 6 of us started there, and the war of attrition was on, as was the war in Afghanistan.  Slowly, one by one, the weak headed for home, and Johnny and I were left wondering how we just finished another dozen pints as we headed home around 9:30.

Three weekends to go....

22 OCTOBER - MADNESS IN MACROOM

 After months and months had passed from the initial invitation for a good night out in Macroom, I finally pinned down Peter and Nora on a weekend they were free and gathered up the troops to head west.  This is the best description I can provide.

13 Oct 2001
A small town 20 miles west of Cork, Macroom's center has some nice colorful buildings clumped around the dark remnants of a castle and for months, I've heard about the insane pubs there.  Driving in, Gearoid, Catherine and I got a good laugh about the fact we were driving 20 miles just to go drinking surrounded by different scenery.  The three of us met up with Colm and Niall there.  Niall was decked out in an all too tight red CCCP sweatshirt (complete with zipper), and looked exactly like a Soviet Olympian five-six years past his glory days.  Smoking cigarettes and drinking beer did nothing to take away from this.  It didn't take long for the festivities began, and the pub crawl was on.  The first pub (I believe its tradition in Macroom to refer to the pubs the next day by number in order) was a real old fashioned haunt - complete with a drunken old crank shouting in the corner of the pub.  There was also a sign on the far wall pointing the way to some back room that read  'THE Quiet Room.  For Loners'.  It was here the first pints slowly washed away any remaining ill affects from the night before.  Colm, Niall and I all went a bit harder than expected the night before and Colm still hadn't slept yet.  He's an angel on schoolnights - adamantly refusing to be tricked into going out for even one pint - but I think he would feel cheated out of something if he slept on the weekends. 

We crossed the bridge in the chilly October air and quickly warmed up in pub number two - a great place with small ceilings held up by posts carved from tree trunks - complete with branches and all.  The tables were strewn throughout the pub in some haphazard but harmonious way, all oddly shaped cross sections of giant tree trunks.  Gearoid looked around the table and announced that one seventh of us wasn't going to make it to the nightclub - Colm looked around nervously, realized who he was talking about, and exclaimed, 'That's a good bet for all of ye!!!'  We then headed across the way to pub number three - the most dramatic of all the pubs in Macroom - a stone building with half of the ground floor a giant arch, making enough room for a tiny bar and a staircase to the full throttle second floor with a great view.  The pub was tremendous upstairs - crazy green floral murals covered the ceiling where crisscrossed beams of tree trunks (popular Macroom theme) held up the roof.  There was some slight but noticeably dramatic lighting that added to the ambience, as did a great jukebox.  Colm threw on some Neil Diamond to try to goad me into performing my arm trick, but he and Catherine almost fell over and seriously hurt themselves when they gave it a shot.  Gearoid looked at his girlfriend and shook his head, and just placed all the blame on me.

Pretty riled up at this point, we headed over across the way to a pub with the largest and heaviest table I've ever seen.  I also ordered, 'two pints, a Coors Light, and that six punt bucket'.  The pub doubled as a second hand shop for assorted wares.  I took an immediate liking to the bucket hanging above my head.  The owner told me to come back later, when it was less busy, but I did get the pints.  Peter and Nora also said the owner really doesn't like to sell his wares.  In the backroom, lined up like knights around the table, I ended up doing some drunken drawing on beer mats.  Mostly for show, there was some skill displayed, but I ended up distributing the beer mats to unsuspecting locals via their car's windshield wipers as we finally headed up to Fitzi's Club.  Somehow, we all got past the bouncer, and the club opened up into the modern stomping grounds of Macroom's young clubbers and other hangers on.  Colm, who was in the worst shape among all of us, did make it in, and proceeded to try to get me kicked out.  He approached the burly guy dressed in black that was by our table.  He told him I had too much to drink and should be sent home.  The man, not a bouncer, then leaned over, knocked over his pint and almost fell to the ground.  Some nights those things just happen.  Before heading out at closing time I got destroyed in foosball by Niall, perhaps that was his Soviet Olympic sport. 

We headed back to the house for a nightcap, along the way Gearoid and I taunted Colm on his nasty neighbor girlfriend, as his mobile rang with his sweetheart a-calling.  Back at the house bottles of wine disappeared like mad, music pumped through the house, and general insanity had found a home.  At one point around 5:30 there was a knock at the door.  Our first thought - gardes - was wrong - it was a straggler looking for a place to sleep for a few hours.  Minus that distraction, things raged on.  Taz, my trusty Polaroid, produced some prize winning shots, and goes a way towards documenting the madness. Everyone made it up the next day, a bit ragged around the edges, but well enough to enjoy the full throttle Irish breakfast - at 4 pm. 

24 OCTOBER - 2001 REPATRIATION TOUR

For the sake of homeland security, please don't distribute to strangers.
Tentative schedule, subject to change: 

30 OCTOBER - DUTCH DELIGHTS

I finally made it out of Ireland, 24 hours later than my original schedule had been drawn up as.  The fatigue that had been building up for some time caught up with me a while ago, so it was not too much a surprise that I had woken up with the sunlight pouring into my room, SkyNews still broadcasting loudly into my room overlooking Manor Hill.  Despite Gearoid's noble efforts, the Jazz Festival, booked flights to Dublin and the Bank Holiday Monday had more to say with my extra day in cork City.  So i made it out of town after a wild series of mishaps, along with wildly outrageous coincidences making even the most level headed minds think the grand conspiracy life is is breaking down and the Matrix is showing its rough edges.  These will be detailed in length further down the line, for now I'm in a smoke filled internet coffee shop (strangely enough across from the Blarney Stone pub) in Amsterdam.

Given the choice of soaking up some of its extreme culture (Van Gogh's museum is open this time in the city), I've decided to just soak up the warm sun and wild architecture.  The buildings are even thinner than I had imagined, and the traffic is enough to kill a man.  Still, this is the best layover of my life.  I leave for Minnesota around 4:30, and am scheduled to take the 7:07 into K-town tomorrow morning.  I think the breaks in between flights can only benefit my temperament upon arriving back in America's Heartland. Flying standby is one thing, flying standby after Osama is another.  I straight up had no chance to catch the scheduled Minneapolis 10:45, and after seeing the security check (full opened bag search of both checked suitcases) I wasn't too surprised.  Instead of the quiet 'Auf Wierdersin's and 'Adios's I would deliver on my way past flight attendants while deboarding planes, today I chose to break out my best American accent and let out a big 'Thanks'.  This was in part to seeing the Dutch baggage handler with a big American flag taped to back as he unloaded bags. OK, the mind is starting to reel, I have 55 minutes to hit the Central Station or else I miss my next, even more important, flight. 

Yesterday was spent in Cork shopping deserted malls, watching 'American Pie 2', a dull film that still managed to hint at my missed flight more than once (Among them: The Bulmer's commercial set to the Rolling Stones 'Time is on my side'.  Last night was a top priority 'First Day of School' School Night Status (think double secret probation from Animal House), as no alcohol or pubs were allowed on the schedule.  The night ended at KC's Chipper in Douglas, where I looked up and saw a bumper sticker on the grill exhaust that read ' Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore'.

 No truer words were spoken Dorothy.

I've got 50 minutes to go..