Luther Hackman just won me a bet

Wow. Never before has such circumstantial evidence that I alone had paid such dividens. Luther Hackman, former add-on to the Darrell Kile trade and Cardinals middle reliever, given away for the immortal Brett Tomko, has tested positve for steroid use, five plus years after I received information from an anonymous source that he was actively seeking performance enhancing drugs to cure his ailing shoulder. To all those people who deemed me as a sensationalism spewing conspiracy theorists, I have one dignified response: "Ha!" Now all that has to happen is for Fernando Tatis to be brought up on cocaine dealing charges and I'll have enough corroborated evidence to write an expose on the 1999-2002 Cardinals in the fashion of the "Bronx Zoo" or "Ball Four"

The past weekend was busy: on Saturday I went to a talk about postmodernism. Now, I'm no big city lawyer, but it seems to me that if you were going to give a talk on a subject, you would at least be kind enough to your audience as to what postmodernism actually was. Instead the two main speakers gave two different descriptions, and mostly relied on examples of things I couldn't relate to, such as Thomas Pynchon, Schoenberg, and Tom Stoppard. I've heard of all those people, but I don't really know anything about their work. It all seemed like calling The Metamorphosis Kafka-esque, no real value to the examples. After this I went to a Gaelic Football and Hurling match. Gaelic Football is what soccer would be like if you could use your hands and get fractions of a point just for getting the ball over the net instead of in it. Now if you want to know what hurling is, think of the same game, take out the soccer ball, and substitute a baseball and field hockey sticks. It makes for a very dangerous sport.

Monday was the Dublin Marathon and Bank Holiday. It seems that the Irish feel they're overworked, so they invent holidays for themselves. I'm not complaining. Americans do it too (Hello, Columbus Day). During the Marathon, I sat at the 21 mile marker and shouted "Only 22 miles to go!" Very interesting costumes too. Some of the best included fugitives from a chain gang, a minotaur, and a blind guy. Oh, wait . . .

Last night I saw Uncle Vanya with the Dowlings. Although it was about a dysfunctional family, it was far more normal than the last play they took me to. The one downside to it was that it was too effective. When something about ennui makes you bored, even though it's trying to have you feel the boredom of the characters, can you call it a success? Hmm . . . Perhaps.

Tonight was the long awaited Halloween party and Table quiz at O'Connell House. First prize in the trivia contest was dinner for four. Second prize: money on your cell phone. Although my team came in second place, I think it's safe to say we were screwed. A few points:

1.) One question was this:"What is the only country to have three consecutive letters of the alphabet in its name?" I go through the alphabet and stop when I say TUV, and immediately I think Survivor: Tuvalu. So we write it down. When they announce the answer Afghanistan, I ask about Tuvalu and am told it's only an island and not a country. My argument of "Survivor=sovereignty" was not persuasive enough. So I go home tonight, look up tuvalu on wikipedia and I find that it has = been independent since 1978.

2.) "In what year was Notre Dame's last Bowl victory?" Easy. January 1, 1994 against Texas A&M in the Cotton Bowl. Not according to our judges though, 1993? What? True, same opponent, bowl, and result, but it was the 1993-1994 season.

3.) They also asked an insane amount of personal questions about OUR (Happy?) program coordinator, the recent graduate of ND I talked about earlier, and other staff members. Like, "What are his children's names?" "In which Boston suburb did she grow up?" "In what country was my mother born?" And the inevitable, "Identify the staff member by their baby picture." Of course, we tanked on these.

In the end we lost by 3 questions- 2 of which we were screwed on validly- and the rest had nothing to do with trivia knowledge. If I ever get to write a trivia contest that involves these people, I think I'll include the name of my subdivision, my proctologist, and what is my dad's brand of shaving cream? So I won 10 euro's worth of phone credit. Whoo. Now I can't use my cheapness as a reason for not responding to others text messages.

Now I'll turn a little political. I've had some time off recently and I've been thinking more and more about the Presidential Race and how I more and more support Ron Paul. He opposes the war in Iraq and other state building liberal crusades. He pledges to preserve civil liberties more than any other candidate. He has never voted to raise taxes, while at the same time no one in Congress has done more to curtail spending and the national debt (no matter how unsuccessful his efforts have proven). He also is willing to take a critical look at American policy history, not just that of George Bush, and other Mideast lobbying forces in Washington. Most importantly, he's the only candidate willing to stand up to fat people:

Go to youtube and enter "ron paul morton downey." Perhaps the least professional talk show I've ever seen. This makes Maury Povich look like Charlie Rose. But it is funny. I especially like when the host starts dancing, insinuating that Ron Paul will be tripping out while serving as president. Oh, that and the woman, who's dressed as a militant?, saying she sick and tired of people standing behind the Constitution. I think she would have seen eye to eye with a certain Attorney General.

Guys and Dails

A very long, eventful, painful week. Well, it did have its moments. Tuesday, a few people went on a tour of the Irish Parliament, the Dail, guided by a newly elected Senator. I suppose by politician stanards, this guy was young. If I had to guess, I would say he was forty, 37 at the youngest. Now the members of the fairer sex thought of him as the Irish version of Fabio. I, on the otherhand, was not as impressed with his charm or good looks. To me, he was an unfunny version of Robbie Coltrane, minus 150 pounds (not including the beard he grew for the Harry Potter movies).Now are program coordinator, a recent graduate of ND, thought of this 40-something Irishmen to be something of a catch, and hinted at a not-so-latent desire to "date" him. I guess I just don't understand how the social world works. The two are a generous 15 years apart in age, he's a high profile politician, she's a student adviser for a bunch of American brats. I don't see it working. Ever. And yet, everyone seems to think that the two will immediately hit it off as soon as they meet and live happily ever after. When I questioned the validity of these perceived daydreams, I'm met with disdain for negativity. But seriously. What if we were transported to the set of the movie Houseboat and Sophia Loren gave us a tour? Sure, she's an attractive woman and we'll meet each other, but does that mean I have the oppurtunity to marry her? Now if it were Elizabeth Taylor, that's a different story . . . (I bet you had no idea I could be this edgy or culturally relevant).

Apparently the match was not made to be. The esteemed Senator from Kenmare brought along a date, whom are coordinator labeled a "paid escort" simply because she was wearing pearls? or something like that. The tenuos relationship was exacerbated further when the two potential love birds passed a picture of Bill Clinton addressing the Dail and our American coordinator gave a thumbs down, stuck out her tongue, and gave him a raspberry. Now aside from not being the highest form of political discourse, the Senator, and most Irish people for that matter, would be offended because of the high regard in which they hold Slick Willy. The dialogue devolved even further when she objected that there was no chance Hillary would be the Democratic nominee for president. I guess those polls that show she's leading by double digits in every state besides Illinois ARE a bit too spurious. When pressed about who she thought would win the nomination, she said she didn't know. Hmm. Seems to me this is a common thought in the ND group, that Hillary will not win the nomination. Last time I checked, denial ain't just a river in Egypt.

Anyway, the tour was kind of a let down, especially considering he gave us a homework assignment at the end of it. We had to find quotes about the famine so that he could use them in a presentation commemorating the event to his constituency. I got up, in a similar fashion to the undercover CIA agent in Goldfinger before the nerve gas scene, and demanded to leave before he could liquor us up into promising our help. I asked to be shown the door. Fortunately, a stout Korean did not drive me home. During the tour, I also thought it was strange how many people brought friends from back home. I guess these people are so popular that they have friends who are willing to fly half way around the world and send a week with them in Dublin. Sure, that's great to see friends, in a completely new setting! I bet they've changed a lot! But still, if I could fly anywhere in the world, I think my friend studying abroad would appreciate me more if I didn't visit him in a semi-interesting place, and instead visited a very interesting place, like Istanbul, or Sri Lanka. You could then share stories of travel, instead of going over the same old story like this: "Remember that one time I visited you in Dublin?" "Yeah, it was really great." "OMG!!! I was just thinking that too." "How 'bout those 8 dollar big macs?" And so it goes. . .

So i had my first test yesterday. It's safe to say that it was the academic equivalent to a colonoscopy. Long, tedious, and requiring many sedatives afterwards. Jurgen Habermas is tough to comment on. Well, at least its over. Afterwards I saw a play with the Dowlings called The Woman and Scarecrow . When told the title, I thought, "Great, I always wondered what happened to the characters in the Wizard of Oz after Dorothy went home." Not quite like that. "Oh, so it's like that cop show, The Scarecrow and Mrs. King?" Wrong again. If I had one word to describe this play it would be disturbing. Think Samuel Beckett on Acid, with a touch of Gloria Steinem feminism, on a set brought to you by the makers of Bauhaus, who just happened to add snow for no particular reason. The play dealt with a woman in her deathbed talking to her subconscious. She was supposed to be in her bedroom, but for some reason the set was covered in snow and her closet served as the gates of hell where a huge crow-like creature was waiting to peck out her eyes. Somewhere along the way of her self-pitying and death, her unfaithful husband returns and the two become, shall we say, "intimate" on stage and she spends the majority of the second act naked. She finally dies, and as soon as she reaches the nether-regions, her other self, the scarecrow, bleeds her dry by using her wrists and necks as an inkwell to write out her sins. Finally, she lies on her scarecrow's lap, much like Christ in the arms of the Virgin, in Michaelangelo's Pieta. After the play, I wanted to shout out, "Where the Hell were the singing midgets?" but I don't think the crowd would have appreciated it. But what the play really reminded me of was when Priory went to see Mr. Roberts at the Rep in my junior year. The third or fourth line of the play deals with a sailor looking into a nurse's hospital window and yelling, "She's bareassed!" Although this is the only thing in the play that resembles profanity, a group from what I can only assume was a middle school got up and left the theater en masse, making for a sparse crowd for the rest of the performance. Mind you, this was the third line of the play. Well, if those people saw this play, I think we could have anticipated a riot.

I'm trying to think of costume ideas for the Halloween party on Wednesday. Any suggestions are more than welcome. So far my ideas are limited to So Taguchi, a paper bag (I'm going to use my old idea from eighth grade by buying a lawn bag, cutting out holes for arms and eyes), and a super hero during the day time (but not anyone in particular because I haven't got the glasses for Clark Kent). I think one of the reasons I've taken a shine to So over the years is that he has proven that 98-pound weakilings like myself can make it in this world. We both share the pain of how a large t-shirt dwarfs are embarrassing torsos, and when we wear them we look like Japanese Shoguns in traditional dress (Note: while looking for a So Taguchi picture, I found they made a specially licensed bobblehead of him in Japan. Christmas is coming . . .) I've also thought about not showing up to the party, paying a bum 20 bucks to go and just say he's me, then show up the next day and say, "Great costume, huh?" For my final costume idea, I'm thinking about wearing something distinct, like a sport coat over a hooded sweatshirt while wearing sunglasses and shorts, and when people ask me what I'm supposed to be, I'll just say "this is not a costume." Rene Magritte would be proud.

Glen or Glendalough?

What exactly does a spiritual retreat entail? I wasn't quite sure before I signed up for one and after experiencing it this weekend, I still don't think I really know what it is. Through Notre Dame, I traveled to Glendalough (or is it Glendaloch?) in the Wicklow mountains Friday and Saturday. I don't know if they were mountains or hills, but for the sake of Irish pride, I won't be technical about it. After a quick bus ride, we arrived at our hostel. This was closer to my original vision of a hostel than my previous experience in Portrush, but on the whole it reminded me of a summer camp. Maybe it had something to do with the impromptu basket weaving class they offered. I'm only guessing. Without any rigid, structured itinerary, which is rare for the usually regimented stiffs at ND., we were free to explore the area. The town reminded me of a small West Virginia mining town, minus the abandoned trailers and fireworks stands, but full of rolling hills and cemetaries. Originally, the town was founded around a 6th century monastery. I add this piece of information to make it seem like I'm not just some meathead jerk whose prosaic talents consist of obscure television references and offensive remarks about foreign cultures, but we all know the real truth about me. Unfortunately, I was unable to get many good shots Friday because dark was quickly approaching . . . and I had to avoid the vampires that wreak havoc on the town at night.

After a dinner provided by the hostel, the group split up into smaller groups to talk about our time in Ireland and what had surprised/disappointed us so far. I said I was disappointed that there wasn't any really good gossip so far and not enough people were fighting to make the trip exciting. I hope they knew I wasn't serious, but I was kind of upset they didn't have any new gossip for me. Next up was the game mafia, followed by a game called celebrity. Celebrity involved everyone writing down a list of celebrities and putting them in a hat and having someone else describe the celebrity to another person, kind of like $100,000 Pyramid. It might have been more fun to play with people who watched more TV like me. Here's a sample of names I used that no one had ever heard of: Ted Danson, Larry David, George Harrison, and Dana Carvey. I guess everyone else was born in 1995.

The retreat was led by a priest on Saturday. This guy was an interesting bird. Instead of ripping him to shreds about how odd he was, I'll just say he was eccentric. While telling us stories of St. Kevin, the founder of the monastery, he used one that I'll try to retell here so you get an idea of his character: (While standing in front of a lake) "This lake is where people say St. Kevin met a monster. It wasn't a monster, but in fact it was a worm. But the story has grown and grown into a monster. The good news is, there is no monster in the lake. The bad news is, there's a monster in all of you. You know what I mean. How many of you see psychiatrists?" Later he told us about how in 20 years we'd be going on holidays to the moon and he kept reminding us about how the United States was the greatest country in the world. I wanted to ask him who he thought would perform better in the upcoming Eisenhower-Stevenson debate.

Following his inspirational words, we were given three hours of free time. Most people stopped to eat, but I felt like I should take some of our priest friend's word to heart and "become one with my brother and sisters, the trees around us." So I decided to try to climb a mountain/hill. The mountain was at the far end of that lake on the right. To get there, I had to go through the valley, which appeared to be some sort of abandoned granite mine, full or boulders. There was a reassurance in my feeling of insignificance in nature. The solitude was a welcome change from the crowded room I had slept in the night before and the group of forty that trudged through the woods on the nature hike in the morning. I had nowhere to be, could take pictures whenever I wanted and didn't have to stop when others needed to. As I reached the base of the mountain, I quickly realized that I would not be able to make a roundtrip in less than the 2.5 hours I was allotted, but I proceeded to ascend anyway. walking along a stream for most of the way, I was privy to some select shots of the lake below as I neared the top.


I guess you could say I made it to the top of at least one hill, but i really wanted to reach the highest apex in the area. I kept going, holding onto the hope that I might have a chance to make it, but unfortunately I had to return as time caught up with me. On the way back the sun finally poked out, about the time I would have been at the best spot had I "forgotten" about meeting up with the Notre Dame group. What are you gonna do? I reminded of Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," except that it wasn't snowing, and it was the middle of the day. So I had to rush back to the group, but not before snapping some more fotos.




When I got back, I kind of wished I had taken my time in getting back, especially considering the mass the priest said had about six homilies. After each reading, he would give a sermon and we'd have to walk to another part of the cemetary. Quite the character. We then packed up, left Glendalough for good and returned to Dublin to watch Note Dame get schlacked by USC. At least there was pizza. And plenty to make fun of on the Irish side of the ball. I hadn't seen uniforms that ugly since the Fish that Saved Pittsburgh. So I guess it was a good weekend overall, I just wish I had been able to keep going up that hill/mountain. In conclusion, I'd like to see if anyone has any idea what this sign is supposed to mean. The best I can come up with is "Don't imitate Jesus?"

Au revoir, les enfants . . .

It's a day of goodbyes in the world. First to go: Joey Bishop. The last surviving and least famous member of the Rat Pack is no longer with us today. Anyone born before 1950 will remember him for his various jokes, which invariabley ended up with his Judaism being the punchline. I, for one, will remember him for his groundbreaking work as Harry Goldman, the elderly wise cracking Jewish man, in the cinematic classic The Delta Force, starring Chuck Norris, Lee Marvin (in his last film), and an oddly cast Robert Forster as an Arab terrorist. Now the very mention of Chuck Norris makes you immediately think that movie is a bomb, and you'd be right, but what's really funny about the movie is that some scenes look like they're straight out of a David Zucker film. Not only had he already directed Airplane!, but this movie gave him more material for the Naked Gun. Pretty sure the first scene of the Naked Gun comes right from this movie. It even has George Kennedy who plays Lt. Ed Hocken in the latter. The movie might be a little too touchy to make fun of in the current geo-political climate, but c'mon, it's a near dead Lee Marvin fighting men half his age on an airplane with wise cracks. One of the first things I want to do over Christmas break is to netflix this and give it a good riff.

Also leaving us today is the Sam Brownback presidential campaign. Apparently the American public didn't find a campaign centered solely around whether or not to teach creationism in public schools compelling as the senator perceived. Well, as he leaves the national scene for now, perhaps he could do worse than to get a lesson in evolution from Mark Mothersbraugh and his nerd rock band DEVO:

Joe Torre also said goodbye to the Yankees today. Apparently he's the greatest manager ever, because it takes a genius to write 9 billionaires down on a lineup card. Will LaGenius finally leave St. Louis for the prospects of greener pastures and a rotation that doesn't include 3 journeymen? Most likely he won't get the job. Don Mattingly looks to be the favorite, unless of course he refuses to cut his sideburns.

Following my last entry about my physical similarities to Rod Beck, I decided it was time to shave. So I did that today, and taking a look at myself in the mirror, I've realized that in ten years time I will be resembling another obscure celebrity: Spalding Gray It's approrpiate, I guess. By revolutionizing the monologue with his travellogue, one might say Spalding Gray was a forerunner to my blog. You sit down to read/listen to it and expect to hear about my experiences in a foreign country, but instead you find stories about fighting with neighbors or women in the supermarket checkout line.

I love these lazy tuesdays, not like that fake tuesday that almost got me fired

My life once again paralleled that of Larry David's yesterday. When I was on my way to the bathroom in O'Connell House, I had to walk through the kitchen where people were setting up for the tea hour held every Monday evening. Now, I only had to urinate, but since there's only one man who woks continuously in the building and he uses an upstairs lavatory, there is never any soap in the men's first floor restroom (not to mention that the lock doesn't work. Let's just say if I ever had to go number 2 I would either use the handicap or run the risk of the women's toilet). Since I would never walk out of a bathroom without washing my hands, I stealthily snuck into the women's to steal some soap. I guess this extra trip made it seem like I must have been reading the newspaper in there, but when I went back through the kitchen, someone said, "That was long." While I tried to explain that there was no soap in the men's room, I was drowned out by everyone having a good laugh at my expense. Well, now I can never use that bathroom ever again. This story is probably totally inappropriate, but I thought it epitomized my time here.

By the way, what are the rules on waiting for people to walk? If you're walking to the same place, leaving the same place, do you have to wait for that other person? IT's not like they don't know the way. It's not like I'm Sacajawea and we're going through uncharted waters. Why do I have to wait for people if we're walking to the train station. In the past week, I've been criticized for not waiting to walk with other people to the train station. Each time the arguing has made me miss the earlier train.

So I was wasting time today and I remembered how my dad ruined the filming of a Jessica Biel-Aaron Eckhart movie last summer. I wondered, whatever happened to that movie? Apparently Bill is coming out this fall, and when I was looking at stills, one is taken from right across the street of our house. If you were to remove Aaron Eckhart from the picture and look up by about ten feet, you'd be staring into my old room. I think I might have a case to receive royalties from this movie. They never received any permission to use our house. In fact, my dad was so adamant that they not film there, that he refused to let them park in front of our house. When they did so anyway, he drove through the cones they used to block off the street while filming. We're hoping to make the DVD commentary.

Since I've been here, I find myself eating a lot of fruit. It's cheap and you don't have to cook it. I never ate fruit that often back home (I remember one person in particular accusing me of extending subconscious homophobic attitudes to my diet as the reason behind this aversion). Well, now that I'm eating more of it I now remember why I hate eating it. It's too messy. Even if I were a brain surgeon, I don't think I could peel an orange without getting my pants soaked in juice and pulp. Apples are a bit of a different story; I never feel satisfied after eating one. I see apple on the core, but I know I can't eat it. I'm still hungry because I know there's more to the apple that I haven't eaten. Can you tell that I'm putting off work yet?

I should probably shave. Or get a haricut. I'm beginning to look pretty haggard. In a couple of days I wouldn't be surprised if I were mistaken for the late, great Rod Beck. Rod Beck represents an era of baseball that is long gone: looks over talent. He didn't really have dominating stuff, besides a fu manchu and mullet, but it was enough to make him an all-star. It was an era that saw a relatively talentless Philadelphia Phillies team make it to the world series on the grease in their hair. The 1993 Phillies. Perhaps baseball's ugliest team ever? Nay, the ugliest grouping of people ever, outside of that time Golda Meir met with Richard Nixon. (Note: even I was surprised to find that photo). But seriously, look at the list of greaseballs on this team: Darren Daulton, Mickey Morandini, Mitch Williams, John Kruk, Dave Hollins, pre-John Birch Society Curt Schilling, Tommy Greene, Lenny Dykstra,Mark Davis, Terry Mulholland, Danny Jackson, Pete Incaviglia, and Larry Anderson. Through a very cursory research method, I've determined that all these guys had mullets at one point or another during their professional career. That's more than half the roster and 4/5 of the starting rotation. The players on this team liked the astro-turf at Veterans so much, they used it for carpet in their double wides. They also had Jim Eisenreich. He didn't have a mullet, but was still pretty darn ugly, even though he suffered from Tourette's syndrome. Although this team looked more fit to operate a Tilt-a-Whirl than a baseball team, they still managed to win the NL. The 1993 Phillies were a truly groundbreaking team: they proved that all ugly looking people could succeed, unless of course you groove a fastball to Joe Carter. Then you're just another ugly looking guy who turns into a headcase.

Francis Fukuyama and the forward pass

Last night I was lucky enough to watch the ND-BC game. Not only was I reminded of how much I miss watching football, but I realized how I had forgotten that I prefer to watch any type of football that does not involve Notre Dame. Whenever I watch An offense run by Charlie Weis, I find myself getting bored faster than someone watching a David Cronenberg film. In fact, the two are pretty similar. Cronenberg makes movies about deviants, drug addicts, and extremely violent people. You get really excited that you're going to be stunned, but then when it comes time to watch the movie, you're ultimately disappointed because Cronenberg thinks he's so smart that he overwhelms the audience with tedious technique and overt symbolism that creates one long, boring, contrived work (see History of Violence). The same can be said of Charlie Weis' coaching. He has four super bowl rings and gets the credit for Tom Brady. Everyone calls him (or used to call him) an offensive genius. From such a genius, you expect big points, aggressive playcalling and high quality talent on the field. Instead you get the same damn play called over and over again (screen pass) with the occasion 2 yard off-tackle. There is no risk whatsoever in a Charlie Weis offense. The supposedly high profile recruiting classes he brought in clearly have no idea how to block. Either they are poorly coached or he can't recruit. And just like a Cronenberg movie, by the end you're saying to yourself (To paraphrase Fukuyama), "Sure, I see there are a lot of fancy bells and whistles to it, but on the whole it's rather boring." Maybe sports and movies, like history, are coming to an end. But then again, Fukuyama was wrong about history.

But to tell you the truth, I miss watching American sports. Rugby, hurling, and Irish football don't do it for me. Maybe for me to get excited about a sport I need to know that men on the field are making more money than the gross national product of Moldova. True, college football is more exciting than the pros, but if I know anything about the dirty world of the subdivison formerly known as division I, even Florida Intrernational's longsnapper is making more than the average Eastern European.

By the way, I don't know if I've mentioned this, but if there is one person who I can't stand more than Bernie Miklasz, it might be Peter King. Whether it's standing on his moral high ground, pontificating about what is decent and indecent, or salivating over Tom Brady, Peter King always manages to irritate me. That's why I read his column. He's not that smart or funny; I just really enjoy how he thinks whatever pops into his head is relevant to the mostly monotonous work of a pro football writer. During his weekly pick 'em column Peter demonstrated once again why I don't like him. Here's what he wrote about the Jaguars-Texans game:

"We're getting ready to face an extremely physical team," Houston coach Gary Kubiak revealed to me exclusively this week. In other news, I ate breakfast this week.

There are three ways to interpret King's remarks here: (1) He is making a sly commentary on sports journalism by pointing out that people like himself report on football so much that they overload coaches with questions, they inevitably receive non-answers to question like this one. (2) Peter King is once again delving into his irrelevant comments that he's known for. Much like his propensity to tell the world how much he loves coffee, or about that one time he met a guy going to Iraq. (3) Peter King is an asshole. He asked Gary Kubiak a stupid question, to which Kubiak gave a stupid response and thus forced Peter to come up with his own analysis of the game, which in fact is his job. In order to get revenge on Kubiak, King chose a forum in which the coach could not defend himself and make fun of him. My guess is number 3 is closest to the real story.

My Goodness, My Guinness

I went to the Guinness Brewery yesterday and in the words of the illustrious Peter King, upon 'discovering' St. Patrick's Day at the ripe age of 52, "Wow. Probably the world's most perfect beer. You're gonna love it, Cleveland." Aside from the fact that the tour was the most expensive thing i have done to date, it was well worth the rate of student admission. The tour was self-guided, unlike Bushmills. So I didn't have the privilige to see a 'thrilling' video on the history of Guinness. I forgot to mention that about the distillery: they showed this video that had re-enactments of the history of Bushmills, including Prohibition, which just so you didn't confuse it with a present day documentary, they made it so that there was jazz music playing in the background and the footage looked like an old newsreel. It paled in comparison to the History of Field Day. At the end of the tour was the complimentary bar and viewing deck. The whole place reminded me of a revolving restaurant, minus the restaurant and revolving part. So, I guess that's a bad analogy, but it seemed like a place trendy people would go, if trendy is code word for staking out the most popular tourist attractions. Sorry, another bad analogy. Me don't express meself good in words. I prefer a method of pointing and grunting. Since those don't come across as well on the intranet, I'll just let the pictures do the work:
Can you see the design?





Post this, my parents and I walked back, making a quick stop in Merrion Square. After a stop for food/bathroom break, I now have a new rule for my life: Never buy candy from a machine that also dispenses condoms. I think it's safe to say I won't be struggling to follow that one. I'd like to meet the type that goes into a public restroom intent on buying condoms, but when he gets to the machine is tempted with purchasing chicklets instead. Who knows, maybe I'm onto one of the greatest marketing schemes in history.

After dinner, the rents left. It was good to see them. Ten weeks till I can speak candidly to someone about anything, but who's counting?

Soup's Too Distracting

So I was sitting in my Politcs of Nationalism lecture yesterday when the professor mentioned something about the American South being a nation unto itself. Ok, I guess he's right, but the guy in front of me starts nodding. No big deal, but with the next anecdote doled out by the professor, he starts nodding again . . . after the next one he does it again. Either he was doing his best James Lipton impersonation or he thinks he's some political science wiz that is so smart, he has to validate everything said in the lecture. With all due respect to the lecture, it's not like this was earth-shattering stuff that made you say "wow" or even, "now i get it." I guess the whole episode goes to show that I'm probably the most easily irritated person in the world.

Continuing with that thought, I've found that I'm most likely the most unpopular person in the group. The thing is, you'd think this would trouble me, but if you thought that, you clearly have never met me. To be honest, it's not the type of unpopularity that I would most crave, that being one where people talk about me when I leave a room, or whenever I'm not around they say how much they hate me. No, this is more of a don't really know what my name is/ignore me when I'm in the room type of unpopularity. Let's just say if this trip were an independent movie about the banality of high school, I'd be the guy who ends up with the girl in the end because I'm that much different and unnoticed by everyone else.

Let's just go over the scenario of last night to prove my point. At tea, I was one of the first people to arrive. As I usually do, when I get there I stand by the carrots, discretely eating them while managing not to touch any of the other carrots out of courtesy to others. As Don Rickles would say, "I'm a nice guy!" (I'll probably make a lot more references to that in future posts) While I'm standing there, the same thing that happens every Monday evening happened again. As more and more people enter the room, I'm progressively pushed to the corner that's farthest away from my original position. I understand that everyone is on a tight budget and they can't pass up free food, but these people are vulture-esque sample abusers. They're the type that, if they had children, they would go to Sam's pushily do a round of free samples, then let their children out of the car, and make them retrieve another round of samples, furtively returning the complimentary portions of breakfast burrito to their loving parents, hiding in the section of halloween decorations.

Well, no one noticed as I was pushed to the extremities of the room, but as fate would have it, I was in for more vexation. I forget what the exact details were, but two people standing next to me were having a conversation about how the one was going on a trip this weekend. He said he was going with Patrick. The other asked if it was "that Patrick" as in not me. I know she didn't mean me because she quickly said his last name to clarify that she was talking about him. She then said, "or the other Patrick. There are too many Patricks." Remember I was standing right next to them. Now, there are two, count them two, people named Patrick in the group of 40+. That's one per 20 for those of you keeping score at home. Last time I checked, it's not difficult to keep track of two people with the same name in a group that large. I'm thinking about refering to myself as the other Patrick from now on.

Not only did I learn that I'm unknown on this trip, but I'm also the meanest person too. Before class started, the "Director of Campus Ministry" asked if we would sign a thank you note to his boss for coming on the trip with us over the weekend. I immediately asked "why does he need to be thanked? he didn't do anything for us and he got a free trip in the process." Everyone looked at me in disbelief. But, I'm sorry. Speaking as someone who has never received the obligatory mass thank you note with a group of signatures after performing minimal service, I guess I just don't understand how the world works. He seemed like a nice guy, but shouldn't he be the one thanking us for giving him a spot on the bus and a bed to sleep in. I mean, he did sleep in his own bed while other people were forced to share or sleep on couches. If he had, say, bought everyone ice cream after dinner, or made breakfast, then yes I would be thanking him, but I am very discriminating in whom I thank. What kind of world do we live in where people go out of their way to thank others for mooching? Has the mentality of this group's mooching, such as that at tea, so infiltrated other areas of social decorum that they're now rewarding other mooching with thank you notes? I signed the card, but I don't think I've ever made a more insincere thank you. And no, I did not write a superficial note, like "thanks, it was great to meet you!" We, as a scoiety, should probably create a set of unwritten rules for the thank you note. Rule number one: Something of monetary value must change hands. i.e. gifts, cash, etc. Rule number two: The mass thank you note is never accepted. Either you get one signed by a person in authority, individual thank you notes from everyone in the group so you eliminate the insincere signature such as the one I gave, or no thank you note at all.

It was about the time I was stewing over the thank you note incident that I realized I was probably the "meanest" person in the room. Once again, just like coming to the realization of being the least popular, I didn't know whether to embrace it or change it.

Anarchy in the NIA

After briefly seeing my parents and reaping the benefits of someone else paying for your dinner, I was on the move again: this time to Belfast. My second trip to the UK was neither as long nor stocked with excellent travel companions as my first, but on the whole it did not disappoint. The first stop on the tour of Ulster was Stormont, the Northern Ireland legislation building. Since our fearless leader, Kevin Whelan, is well connected, we were able to hold court of a sorts with a Sinn Fein member, and former political prisoner/terrorist (depending on your religious/political bias), of the NIA. When she started talking about their goal of a united Ireland, it got me thinking two things: (1) why would the Republic want to include an economically receding, highly unemployed region, such as Ulster. Besides sentimental reasons, I doubt the south would look to the north instead of depending upon cheap Eastern European labor. Added to that is the probability of a resurgance in conflict that the poorly equipped Irish army couldn't manage if they annexed the area. The British have had trouble enough fighting in the area. It's not as if the people living there who are proud of their British heritage are going to acquiesce to be re-appropriated (see Kosovo). (2) Most of the Notre Dame students were in favor of the republican movement, or at least one person I talked to did. Why? "Because the Queen has no business telling Irish people what to do." The main argument used by this person was that if a majority of the people of Northern Ireland want to join the Republic, they should be able to, no questions asked. Well, then I guess you could say a Northern aggressing Lincoln didn't have the right to tell the majority of white Southern land owners what to do either.

That night I stayed in my first hostel. It was nothing like Eli Roth's series of slasher porn films, but instead like a summer camp/episode of full house. The place turned out to be a house situated in what looked like an urban renewal project (every building on the street looked excatly the same) and nearly our entire group of forty slept under one roof. Unfortunately, my dad's semi-mentally handicapped college roommate did not entertain us in the basement with Donald Duck impersonations. I would have toured the surrounding area that night, but when I came out of the bathroom, the entire house was deserted. So instead I finished reading No Country for Old Men. Too much of my life is dictated by my bathroom schedule.

The next day began with a quick stop at Dunluce Castle, which sits on the North Sea Next up was a tour of the Bushmill's distillery. I would have pictures of it, but they didn't allow photography. I guess they don't want to give away their secret ingredient. Here's a hint: it has nothing to do with cough syrup. We spent too much time here, and I found it to be on the whole unfulfilling. No one thought it was funny when we were in the barrel room and when the guide asked if there were any questions, I said, "What can you put in a barrel that makes it lighter?" Pssh. Maybe I should have used that one after the tasting session. Speaking of which, where were the pretzels? From what I remember, AB gave their own specialized snack food at the end of the tour.

Our penultimate stop was the Giant's Causeway, incorrectly named by our group leader to be one of the seven natrual wonders of the world. I don't really understand why it looks the way it does, but here are some pictures:



Not one of the top seven, but definitely the highlight of the weekend. Scratch off another UNESCO world heritage site. I think that makes it only 822 left to see before I die. We quickly hurried back on the bus and headed to Belfast. I'll post more about this soon, but now I've gotta run. . . .

sorry 'bout that. I went to dinner this evening at the Dowlings. If you ever travel outside the country and are strapped for cash, make sure to be adopted by a generous elderly couple. These people are incredible. Not only do they invite me over for dinner once a week, but they give me food to hold me over until the next Sunday. On top of that, I really enjoy their company. From discussions about the Gaelic League to Fr. Ralph, there's never a dull moment.

Back to the weekend. I'm tired, so I'll let pictures do the talking. The murals were from the houses of Belfast neighborhoods as testaments to the IRA/Sinn Fein. We couldn't walk around the Unionist neighborhoods because "they were too dangerous." Maybe I should inform people that I grew up on the mean streets of America's most dangerous city. To be perfectly honest, the crime that goes on here is closer to the Dead End Kids from Angels with Dirty Faces than the Cripps and Bloods, but I suppose things have changed since 1994. It would also be fair to say that the Dead End kids never had rocket propelled grenades. If they did, I doubt the stern consolation of the local pastor would have been enough to turn them around. So this is Belfast: (Note: I had no idea John Belushi and Jeff Foxworthy were part of the IRA)

Thurber would be proud.

I'm sick and bored. Time to think of of places I could possibly visit the weekend of the 26-28:

Paris: I've never been, there's a lot to see. It seems like people should go once.

Riga: Flights are frequent and cheap from Dublin. How many people do you know who've gone to Latvia:

Marrakech: Ever since I was thirteen and had to do a report on Morocco for Mr. Mulligan's geography class, I've always wanted to go here. Downside: I'd have to stay about a week or pay 700 euro for a weekend flight back.

Prague: The land of Kundera and Havel

Who am I kidding? I'll probably take the train to Howth.