Well avid readers, it's come to be that time. Time for me to write the last chapter in what will most assuredly go down in history is the greatest European chronicle written to date. But fear not, I'm sure that sometime during the coming weeks and months, you'll hear from me again.
Our last day(s) in Dublin were uneventful and pretty much just focused on relaxing and enjoying our fleeting time in Ireland and together. We took in 2 movies in 2 days. I haven't done that in years. Saw Walk the Line – greatness. Not V for Vendetta great, but still good.
We did some last minute souvenir shopping and got some reading material for the trip home. There isn't a new FHM out yet unfortunately but maybe I'll get lucky tomorrow at the airport.
Matt and I saw Paul off this morning and he should be touching down in a few hours. Matt and I fly out tomorrow but took a bus to Limerick (yes, like the point smart guy) today to be closer to the Shannon airport in the morning. Nothing else really to report…sorry to end all this on such a bland tone but such is travel. Start with a bang, end with a whimper.
I'll tell you this; I'm ready to be back in the states. No slam on Ireland or travel in general. You always know you've travelled the right amount of time when you're ready to be back just before you have to be back. Good timing. I miss the 5 lane highways. I miss the catsup without the massive amount of sugar in it. I miss IPA beer. I miss a mattress that has the indention my ass has so dutifully carved out over the last year. I miss everyone knowing that I think Bush is a total fuckup and not having to explain it to everyone I meet after I tell them I'm from Texas. I miss a showerhead that could take paint off a sidewalk.
What I'll miss about Ireland….being excited to see the sun. Not worrying about whether or not it will be hot today. Not worrying about asshole drivers. Not worrying about buying the first round. Chatting up complete strangers in a bar. Winks from strange women. Women who get just as plastered as their men do. Sheppard’s Pie. Waiting 10 mins for a Guinness because that's how long it takes to pour one. The color green. Having the "tres hermanos" back for 12 full days. Fighting over who gets the single bed. Fighting over who gets the first shower.
That's it kids. I'm out.
(I just dropped the mic on the stage)
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Paty's Day part duex
Ooohhh V for Vendetta kicks ass people!!! All of you need to stop what you're doing and go see it. The Wachowski brothers totally redeemed themselves after the last Matrix fiasco on this one! Very nice indeed. Plus, Natalie Portman has this who Little Bo Peep outfit going on at one point. Totally worth the price of admission right there.
Any hoo, where were weah yes, the IRA bar on St. Paty's day. So after the war hymn we decided we've seen enough and Matt and Paul hit the john while I watch the coats (and have another pint). About this time a few people start running towards the door and I realized there's a fight outside. Sweet!!! A St. Paty's Day fight in Dublin, Ireland at an IRA bar!!! So I say screw the coats and run outside to catch some action. Turns out it's our bartender tending to some unfinished business. Some girl decides to jump in the fray and try to break it up. It was just like out of the cartoons. A big whirling dust storm and someone gets spit out. Except she got spit out right into a road sign. BONG! Ouch! She gets up, looks a little dazed and starts talking shit to everyone who's just watching it. At this point, she's just noise in the crowd and everyone's watching the fight again. The bartender is not a big guy but man, this kid could scrap. They pull him off the guy twice, each time he puts his hands in the air until the guy on the floor gets back up and comes in for more. Dumbass. Two major rules in life: never start a land war in Asia and never pick a fight with an Irish Bartender (or publican and they're called here). After the second time the guy didn't get back up so quick and the fight was over. So at that point, I went back in, told Matt and Paul about it and we headed for the door. Oh yeah, but before we can leave the chick that got tossed into the road sign totally clocks the bartender. It was a cheap shot and he just took a swig of his Guinness like it was no big deal. Greatness.
So we leave the bar and head down to Temple Bar. It's Bourbon Street without the boobs and beads so not quite as good but still fun. It was here we again witnessed the extraordinary skill and patience of the Irish police. They were everywhere, sometimes being taunted, sometimes having rules broken right in front of them. But they just calmly would tell you not to do that or to calm down. Very cool cats baby. After about an hour of wishing there were fewer Americans in Ireland we headed back to our neighborhood. Paty's day in Ireland (or any predominantly Irish American neighborhood for that matter) doesn't stay going all night. They start as soon as they wake up but then turn in it around 11 or half 11. So by the time we walk back up to our IRA bar, it's locked down and we decided we've had a good run but we're showing signs of frost bit and need to turn it in. A treat time all together.
And before I go, a big shout out to all my Fightin' Texas Aggie basketball players out there! t.u. can suck it. So can all you other east coast pretty boy colleges that got knocked out in the first round. We're getting everybody back next year and we're gonna make all you over hyped jackasses pay! And then, we're gonna move Gillespie over to start coaching football. Gig 'Em Aggies, Aaayy Whooop!
Mark "red/green-ass" Mitchell
Any hoo, where were weah yes, the IRA bar on St. Paty's day. So after the war hymn we decided we've seen enough and Matt and Paul hit the john while I watch the coats (and have another pint). About this time a few people start running towards the door and I realized there's a fight outside. Sweet!!! A St. Paty's Day fight in Dublin, Ireland at an IRA bar!!! So I say screw the coats and run outside to catch some action. Turns out it's our bartender tending to some unfinished business. Some girl decides to jump in the fray and try to break it up. It was just like out of the cartoons. A big whirling dust storm and someone gets spit out. Except she got spit out right into a road sign. BONG! Ouch! She gets up, looks a little dazed and starts talking shit to everyone who's just watching it. At this point, she's just noise in the crowd and everyone's watching the fight again. The bartender is not a big guy but man, this kid could scrap. They pull him off the guy twice, each time he puts his hands in the air until the guy on the floor gets back up and comes in for more. Dumbass. Two major rules in life: never start a land war in Asia and never pick a fight with an Irish Bartender (or publican and they're called here). After the second time the guy didn't get back up so quick and the fight was over. So at that point, I went back in, told Matt and Paul about it and we headed for the door. Oh yeah, but before we can leave the chick that got tossed into the road sign totally clocks the bartender. It was a cheap shot and he just took a swig of his Guinness like it was no big deal. Greatness.
So we leave the bar and head down to Temple Bar. It's Bourbon Street without the boobs and beads so not quite as good but still fun. It was here we again witnessed the extraordinary skill and patience of the Irish police. They were everywhere, sometimes being taunted, sometimes having rules broken right in front of them. But they just calmly would tell you not to do that or to calm down. Very cool cats baby. After about an hour of wishing there were fewer Americans in Ireland we headed back to our neighborhood. Paty's day in Ireland (or any predominantly Irish American neighborhood for that matter) doesn't stay going all night. They start as soon as they wake up but then turn in it around 11 or half 11. So by the time we walk back up to our IRA bar, it's locked down and we decided we've had a good run but we're showing signs of frost bit and need to turn it in. A treat time all together.
And before I go, a big shout out to all my Fightin' Texas Aggie basketball players out there! t.u. can suck it. So can all you other east coast pretty boy colleges that got knocked out in the first round. We're getting everybody back next year and we're gonna make all you over hyped jackasses pay! And then, we're gonna move Gillespie over to start coaching football. Gig 'Em Aggies, Aaayy Whooop!
Mark "red/green-ass" Mitchell
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Patty's Day Baby!!!
And we're baaaaaack! Warning, more gratuitous cussing...
So Matt and Paul and I head over to the parade grounds at noon to see the revelry before we had to be back at the stadium at 3. We got good seats and saw a decent parade. No Shriners damnit! Oh yeah, we were rained on, hailed on, snowed on, sleeted on, blown around and frozen all day. The temp hung right around 34 all day with 15-20 mile and hour wind. Big suck! Oh yeah, and you thought we were cold, the Brazilian delegation in the parade and about 5 women in g-strings and bikini tops. Gota respect the drive of those Brazilians. Cute little Irish kids running around like Christmas morning and everyone watching out for them and for their parents who were trying desperately to keep up.
So by the time the parade finished, we're popsicles, or as they say over here "ice-lollies". We headed over to a Chinese place for a quick bite, I DID NOT get the duck and we're off again in no time. We make it to the stadium a little late but get our seats and immediately see some guy get his head damn near taken clean off by a hurling stick. Oh yeah, I almost forgot, Hurling sticks. They're great. Imagine how you'd make a hockey stick into a weapon. First you'd shorten it. Then you'd make it heavier and easier to wield and gain speed in the air. Yeah, then you'd sharpen an edge. Yep, that's about it. You got yourself a Hurling stick! Congrats, now go show a cop!
People, I have no idea how we didn't see people get carted off the field or "pitch" every 2 minutes with concussions, missing fingers and broken shins and arms except that the Irish are, in general, a far superior race immune to pain or affliction. The team in the yellow ended up winning and it turns out the Irish don't really care who you route for, as long as you enjoy the game, slap a lot of people on the back and make grimacing faces when someone gets laid out. Oh yeah, and you've got to talk mad shit to the ref when he's made a bad call (or at least when you guess that he's made a bad call because you have no idea as to the rules of the game). After 40 minutes, the game was over (we only caught the 2ndhalf) and the fans rushed the pitch and the other team lied down, defeated in battle. The Gaelic Football was pretty much the same thing, massive hits, lots of backslapping and lots of grins to and from people we didn't know. Oh yeah, Matt found an unopened coke and we all shared. It was great.
At this point we're all boarding on hypothermia (it was an open field) so we got the hell out of dodge and headed straight back for our neighbourhood bar. We walk in the door and the bar was considerably more crowed that the last time. None the less, we found 3 seats at the bar next to the door. Matt ordered a Smithwicks, Paul a Guinness and me a Whiskey. We kept drinking (I switched back to Guinness after I had warmed up) until the band struck up and said a hearty "fuck you" to the crowds and tourists fighting for a pint down on Trinity Bar. Then the greatest and best moment of my young life occurred. There are few things that occur in life that you can actually plan for. All you can do is set the pieces in motion and see if fate let's you roll again. This day my friends, fate her big Irish, freckled face down on her favourite son. No, Kira Knightling didn't walk through the door and offer shag (although, that would have been AWESOME!), no this was something equally as kick ass. The band, which turns out to be lead by the salty lookin' mofo who was sitting beside us the entire time opens with a song that has to be titled "English Go Home" because that was the song. I shit you not, that was it. "English go home. English go home. English go home. Etc." for like 5 mins. The bar went ape shit. It was like gas on a fire. Everyone was dancing, buying pints, it was lunacy. We figured that was just a warm up until they played the next song – "We'll fight you for 800 more".
Here's a history lesson kids. The Irish have been revolting against English rule for 800 years in some form or fashion. This reached its peek in 1916 when the Irish wrote their version of the declaration of independence. Boy that really pissed off the red coats. They marched their limy asses into Dublin, arrested the signers and shot executed them all in about 72 hrs. Not good. That's like pushing Mickey down the stairs right before you have to fight Rocky. So the Irish go on this nasty guerrilla war for 3 years until the English are like "fuck this, we're out". So the treaty was struck where the UK was retaining the 6 counties in the north that were still predominantly protestant and the rest would be under Irish rule. That turned out to be unacceptable for the Irish (everybody saw Michael Collins right, well he brokered the deal for the Irish and was later shot in Ireland for it) and they entered into a bloody civil war that technically hasn't ended (see: IRA, EVA, Republicans, Unionists, Nationalists, etc). Now the people who want to stay with England (god help them) are called Republicans and those who don't are called Republicans or Unionists. Most of the current fighting only happens in Belfast (and even that's rare) or in Derry. We're in Dublin so everyone can breathe easy. Aaaanyway…
So this guy keeps singing anti British songs and pro IRA songs until he finally strums up his last song. Matt and Paul and I are just humming along and don't really notice anything out of the ordinary until we look around and see that EVERYBODY in the bar is lock up and at attention looking straightforward. THEY WERE PLAYING THE IRA WAR HYMN!!!!! HOLY SHIT!!!! Turns out we were in the middle of a heavily republican/IRA bar and basically witnessed how they piss all over the English and get shit face. Fucking awesome!!!!!
Oh, I've got to go now and see V for Vendetta! Natelie Portman….soooo fine….want to touch the hieny….
Mark "lovely tanks" Mitchell
So Matt and Paul and I head over to the parade grounds at noon to see the revelry before we had to be back at the stadium at 3. We got good seats and saw a decent parade. No Shriners damnit! Oh yeah, we were rained on, hailed on, snowed on, sleeted on, blown around and frozen all day. The temp hung right around 34 all day with 15-20 mile and hour wind. Big suck! Oh yeah, and you thought we were cold, the Brazilian delegation in the parade and about 5 women in g-strings and bikini tops. Gota respect the drive of those Brazilians. Cute little Irish kids running around like Christmas morning and everyone watching out for them and for their parents who were trying desperately to keep up.
So by the time the parade finished, we're popsicles, or as they say over here "ice-lollies". We headed over to a Chinese place for a quick bite, I DID NOT get the duck and we're off again in no time. We make it to the stadium a little late but get our seats and immediately see some guy get his head damn near taken clean off by a hurling stick. Oh yeah, I almost forgot, Hurling sticks. They're great. Imagine how you'd make a hockey stick into a weapon. First you'd shorten it. Then you'd make it heavier and easier to wield and gain speed in the air. Yeah, then you'd sharpen an edge. Yep, that's about it. You got yourself a Hurling stick! Congrats, now go show a cop!
People, I have no idea how we didn't see people get carted off the field or "pitch" every 2 minutes with concussions, missing fingers and broken shins and arms except that the Irish are, in general, a far superior race immune to pain or affliction. The team in the yellow ended up winning and it turns out the Irish don't really care who you route for, as long as you enjoy the game, slap a lot of people on the back and make grimacing faces when someone gets laid out. Oh yeah, and you've got to talk mad shit to the ref when he's made a bad call (or at least when you guess that he's made a bad call because you have no idea as to the rules of the game). After 40 minutes, the game was over (we only caught the 2ndhalf) and the fans rushed the pitch and the other team lied down, defeated in battle. The Gaelic Football was pretty much the same thing, massive hits, lots of backslapping and lots of grins to and from people we didn't know. Oh yeah, Matt found an unopened coke and we all shared. It was great.
At this point we're all boarding on hypothermia (it was an open field) so we got the hell out of dodge and headed straight back for our neighbourhood bar. We walk in the door and the bar was considerably more crowed that the last time. None the less, we found 3 seats at the bar next to the door. Matt ordered a Smithwicks, Paul a Guinness and me a Whiskey. We kept drinking (I switched back to Guinness after I had warmed up) until the band struck up and said a hearty "fuck you" to the crowds and tourists fighting for a pint down on Trinity Bar. Then the greatest and best moment of my young life occurred. There are few things that occur in life that you can actually plan for. All you can do is set the pieces in motion and see if fate let's you roll again. This day my friends, fate her big Irish, freckled face down on her favourite son. No, Kira Knightling didn't walk through the door and offer shag (although, that would have been AWESOME!), no this was something equally as kick ass. The band, which turns out to be lead by the salty lookin' mofo who was sitting beside us the entire time opens with a song that has to be titled "English Go Home" because that was the song. I shit you not, that was it. "English go home. English go home. English go home. Etc." for like 5 mins. The bar went ape shit. It was like gas on a fire. Everyone was dancing, buying pints, it was lunacy. We figured that was just a warm up until they played the next song – "We'll fight you for 800 more".
Here's a history lesson kids. The Irish have been revolting against English rule for 800 years in some form or fashion. This reached its peek in 1916 when the Irish wrote their version of the declaration of independence. Boy that really pissed off the red coats. They marched their limy asses into Dublin, arrested the signers and shot executed them all in about 72 hrs. Not good. That's like pushing Mickey down the stairs right before you have to fight Rocky. So the Irish go on this nasty guerrilla war for 3 years until the English are like "fuck this, we're out". So the treaty was struck where the UK was retaining the 6 counties in the north that were still predominantly protestant and the rest would be under Irish rule. That turned out to be unacceptable for the Irish (everybody saw Michael Collins right, well he brokered the deal for the Irish and was later shot in Ireland for it) and they entered into a bloody civil war that technically hasn't ended (see: IRA, EVA, Republicans, Unionists, Nationalists, etc). Now the people who want to stay with England (god help them) are called Republicans and those who don't are called Republicans or Unionists. Most of the current fighting only happens in Belfast (and even that's rare) or in Derry. We're in Dublin so everyone can breathe easy. Aaaanyway…
So this guy keeps singing anti British songs and pro IRA songs until he finally strums up his last song. Matt and Paul and I are just humming along and don't really notice anything out of the ordinary until we look around and see that EVERYBODY in the bar is lock up and at attention looking straightforward. THEY WERE PLAYING THE IRA WAR HYMN!!!!! HOLY SHIT!!!! Turns out we were in the middle of a heavily republican/IRA bar and basically witnessed how they piss all over the English and get shit face. Fucking awesome!!!!!
Oh, I've got to go now and see V for Vendetta! Natelie Portman….soooo fine….want to touch the hieny….
Mark "lovely tanks" Mitchell
Rants!!!!
So I reviewed the last entry and realized it might have been a little long. Being guilty of "skimming" anything more than 2 paragraphs myself, I can almost understand. The difference being, what you're reading now is far more interesting that most anything else you'll do today. Don't sulk; just accept it. Also, there will be more than the usual amount of swearing in this post. This is official warning. I'm in a peavey mood and I'm gonna go off on some general stereotypes and groups. Be forewarned.
Before I launch into the last 48 hrs, a few updates I forgot to include in my last post. After leaving the big girls apartments Matt and Paul and I decided it was time to officially christen the Northern Atlantic. If anyone wants to know where Portrush is, look on a map of Ireland. See that Northern most point? Yeah, that's it, in winter. So we run our bare asses down the beach at 3am and give that big drink of water the full Monty. Hell yeah! Now, I haven't seen the little general in a few days but I'm sure that's normal.
After I posted before we ducked into this bar right down the road from our place. We aren't exactly on Madison Ave if you get my drift but we were interested in being away from the tourist. Which brings me to my first "on-and-on". Americans suck, female Americans suck more, and East Coast pain in the ass, daddy's girls, manicured, Ugg boots wearing, knock off Dior sunglass sporting, girls are the instrument of the devil and have done nearly as much and our noble leader "W" to ruin international relations. American's hear me now, NO MORE TRAVELLING UNTIL YOU'RE 25! You can't be trusted. You wine about finding a McDonalds and ask if you can have ice in your coke like it's an infraction of the Geneva Convention. Fucking suck it up you wining bitches. Frat guys, you're all idiots – no exceptions. You're all fucking morons. Part of me was happy to see you broadening your horizons and discovering new cultures. Then I realized you're all much too stupid to let any of those experiences have any impact on your worldview at all. Please get vasectomies ASAP. I'll spring for it. Just send me the bill. Whew, ok.
So we ducked in and had a pint. The locals didn't seem too happy to have their haven descended upon by what I'm sure they saw as seasonal locusts. As we headed out the door, the bartender who was pretty cool and got us our pints sharpish, told us to have a good time at the Gaelic Football and Hurling matches the next day. I tell you what, that got 'em started. Pretty soon we were mates with everyone in the bar and had the skinny on the matches the next day. They told us to come in the next day for Patty’s day and we felt like we'd been invited over for Thanksgiving dinner.
Gaelic football is like Rugby with a soccer ball and Hurling is like lacrosse if it was played in west Texas, preferably Odessa and Midland. Every county (11), they're like states, compete all year to go to the finals. This was like the supper bowl. There are no professional teams in Ireland. They all play for the county, the jersey and the glory/love of the sport. These lads are out for blood and stop at NOTHING to win. So we wake up, have breakfast and hit the road to go get tickets for the culmination of a full year of playoffs. We head down to their stadium (85,000 capacity) and ask a cop who was blocking off the street for the parade route if we're on the right track to get tickets.
Now pause for my next "on-and-on". Cops suck, period. Everywhere in the world I've been to, cops suck. England (especially), France, Spain, The States, you name it. Everywhere except Ireland apparently. This cop, who happens to be a woman (and women, as we all know, are the WORST cops because they have some tough-shit axe to grind on women who cry to get out of tickets and all men in general) says "You're going to the match? Here have 2 of my tickets." I shit you not, the cop hands over 2, 50 yard line front row tickets to 3, out of country Yanks and says to route for Galway! So after this I started thinking. If all the cops in the world are jackass, power hungry wankers with napoleon complexes, why is Ireland immune from this affliction? Then I started connecting the dots, what work force in America was predominantly Irish from the early 1800s for the late 1900s? Easy, Cops. It took people like Taminy and the Pinkertons (both English by the way) to corrupt entire forces. Ergo, Irish posses the skill to no only kick ass when ever they need to, but also the confidence and intelligence to know it's rarely necessary. They're like really smart bears. That is unless the British want a taste, in which case they'll get a dose that'll make 'em wish they were born else where. Think on it, you'll get there too.
Ok, that's all for now. I'll post again in just a sec. Thanks to all for the encouraging comments and replies. It's been a blast!
Mark "madman" Mitchell
Before I launch into the last 48 hrs, a few updates I forgot to include in my last post. After leaving the big girls apartments Matt and Paul and I decided it was time to officially christen the Northern Atlantic. If anyone wants to know where Portrush is, look on a map of Ireland. See that Northern most point? Yeah, that's it, in winter. So we run our bare asses down the beach at 3am and give that big drink of water the full Monty. Hell yeah! Now, I haven't seen the little general in a few days but I'm sure that's normal.
After I posted before we ducked into this bar right down the road from our place. We aren't exactly on Madison Ave if you get my drift but we were interested in being away from the tourist. Which brings me to my first "on-and-on". Americans suck, female Americans suck more, and East Coast pain in the ass, daddy's girls, manicured, Ugg boots wearing, knock off Dior sunglass sporting, girls are the instrument of the devil and have done nearly as much and our noble leader "W" to ruin international relations. American's hear me now, NO MORE TRAVELLING UNTIL YOU'RE 25! You can't be trusted. You wine about finding a McDonalds and ask if you can have ice in your coke like it's an infraction of the Geneva Convention. Fucking suck it up you wining bitches. Frat guys, you're all idiots – no exceptions. You're all fucking morons. Part of me was happy to see you broadening your horizons and discovering new cultures. Then I realized you're all much too stupid to let any of those experiences have any impact on your worldview at all. Please get vasectomies ASAP. I'll spring for it. Just send me the bill. Whew, ok.
So we ducked in and had a pint. The locals didn't seem too happy to have their haven descended upon by what I'm sure they saw as seasonal locusts. As we headed out the door, the bartender who was pretty cool and got us our pints sharpish, told us to have a good time at the Gaelic Football and Hurling matches the next day. I tell you what, that got 'em started. Pretty soon we were mates with everyone in the bar and had the skinny on the matches the next day. They told us to come in the next day for Patty’s day and we felt like we'd been invited over for Thanksgiving dinner.
Gaelic football is like Rugby with a soccer ball and Hurling is like lacrosse if it was played in west Texas, preferably Odessa and Midland. Every county (11), they're like states, compete all year to go to the finals. This was like the supper bowl. There are no professional teams in Ireland. They all play for the county, the jersey and the glory/love of the sport. These lads are out for blood and stop at NOTHING to win. So we wake up, have breakfast and hit the road to go get tickets for the culmination of a full year of playoffs. We head down to their stadium (85,000 capacity) and ask a cop who was blocking off the street for the parade route if we're on the right track to get tickets.
Now pause for my next "on-and-on". Cops suck, period. Everywhere in the world I've been to, cops suck. England (especially), France, Spain, The States, you name it. Everywhere except Ireland apparently. This cop, who happens to be a woman (and women, as we all know, are the WORST cops because they have some tough-shit axe to grind on women who cry to get out of tickets and all men in general) says "You're going to the match? Here have 2 of my tickets." I shit you not, the cop hands over 2, 50 yard line front row tickets to 3, out of country Yanks and says to route for Galway! So after this I started thinking. If all the cops in the world are jackass, power hungry wankers with napoleon complexes, why is Ireland immune from this affliction? Then I started connecting the dots, what work force in America was predominantly Irish from the early 1800s for the late 1900s? Easy, Cops. It took people like Taminy and the Pinkertons (both English by the way) to corrupt entire forces. Ergo, Irish posses the skill to no only kick ass when ever they need to, but also the confidence and intelligence to know it's rarely necessary. They're like really smart bears. That is unless the British want a taste, in which case they'll get a dose that'll make 'em wish they were born else where. Think on it, you'll get there too.
Ok, that's all for now. I'll post again in just a sec. Thanks to all for the encouraging comments and replies. It's been a blast!
Mark "madman" Mitchell
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Patty Day's Eve
Sorry about that kids, didn't mean to go dark on yea. I was off the grid in Portrush for the last 2 days so and the only connection they had was at the town library that’s only true function turned out to be screwing non-residents. Plus, I'm pretty sure the head librarian was French. Damn French…
OK, where did we leave off…oh yeah, me getting my face carved on. I still don't have any whiskers and am thinking that might be a permanent thing. Worse thing could have happened I guess. I just wish I had know so I could have made some cool face beard design before it all went away forever. Oh well, such is life.
Our last night in Galway was spent listening to some Irish music. We settled early in one bar not too far from the bar we spent the last night at. The music wasn't nearly as good but we laughed our asses off the whole time. 2 of the strangest people I have ever seen in my life. Let me set the scene: line bar that opens up in a square stage area, 90% at capacity, music loud but not deafening. There was a group of about 5 American girls sitting across the room from us but we just noticed them because they were so obviously American – wearing flip-flops in 38c weather and very green. So at some point this guy comes up and just plops down in the middle of them. Now I'd say these girls were between 19 and 20 and this guy was probably in his early 30s so the chicks are immediately uncomfortable. So Matt and Paul and I start watching this all unfold. It really was like watching a car wreck. You couldn't take your eyes off it and quite frankly didn't want to do anything to prevent it because you knew you weren't going to see something like it again. So as the night wears on this guy starts exhibiting an alarming array of psychotic disorders, so much so that he was quickly nicknamed "scratch and sniff". Let me elaborate. He had a habit of scratching parts of his body and then sniffing whatever hand did the scratching in between doing circles, smiling and talking to the ceiling. It started with his balding, dandruff head. That was pretty disturbing in itself, but he quickly moved to the bottom of his foot and back. The coup de gras was when he pulled a Mary Catherine Gallagher and stuck is hand in his armpit and gave it a nice whiff. None of us, least of all those girls, slept well that night. Truly disturbing.
The other great guy was a big ass rugby player, complete with shaved head, who took turns doing violent jigs in the middle of the dance floor (actually it wasn't a dance floor, it was a hallway but quickly became a dance floor after he made it one). After a while he'd tire and go pick up, literally, one of the other people, girls or guys, and dance with them. He was so taught, they finally gave him the boot but he must have snuck in through the Johnny Cash cause he was back in no time. They gave him the final curtain after he picked up one of the bartenders and dragged him over the bar to dance. Awesome.
So we drove to Portrush the next day. A 6hr drive that your boy made in 4.5. Had to teach the Irish people a thing or 2. Actually, we would have taken much longer but none of us were doing the km->ml/hr conversions correctly so when we thought we were doing 60 miles an hour, we were doing 90. My bad. Either way, aside from the wide-eyed looks we got from the people we were quickly passing, a pretty easy drive. Ireland's not that big, smaller than Texas. It's just that they have not highways. They have roads, but not highways so it takes a while to get anywhere.
So we roll into Portrush, hungry as all hell and go to this restaurant Rick Steve's recommended. Honestly people, one of the top 5 meals I've ever had. It wasn't in the least bit Irish. It was this really eclectic dive with £2 wine and weird ass food. Paul got this salmon Thai dish, I got this Thai, chicken dish and Matt got, what turned out to be, Sattai (sp?). Fucking amazing. We all swore, and then promised we'd come back for dinner to the same place. We bummed around the town for a bit, when to see a local castle that was perched on the edge of the sea (seriously, the Irish had this thing about putting everything right on the balls edge of the ocean. This one actually had the kitchen collapse into the sea with the kitchen staff with it in the 1700's) and drove back looking for some more kick ass cuisine. So this time around, I get duck (I love duck), Paul gets salmon again, Matt got some salmon soup thing. Again, it was like a party in my mouth. They we went at the desserts - ginger lime cheesecake, tiramisu and banana toffee (banoffee). Now, everyone should know that I hold a burning hatred for bananas and all things banana flavored. However, Matt insisted that I give it a shot so I did. I didn't hate it.
Then we went to the bar across the way to have a few pints with the lads. Turns out it was quiz night (a very popular bar game in the UK – it trivial pursuit without the board and a prize, usually a pint, at the end) so after naming our team "Yanks" we paid our 5 quid and set off. We soon realized that half of the questions were UK and Ireland based – like "who is the biggest footballer to play for both Limerick county and County Clare?” A group of 3 girls realized just how stupid we were going to look and told us to slide over and they'd help us with the UK questions. They were very nice and invited us over to their place afterwards. Now I know what you're all thinking and it's not like that, these were big girls, full of life. But mostly big girls. On top of that, we'd run out of Pounds (Portrush is in Northern Ireland which is part of the UK, the UK doesn't use the Euro yet) so we couldn't buy any more beer which theses girls had plenty of. So we head over to their house and only have 1 or 2 beers before they break out, I shit you not, Dance, Dance Revolution. Now, if you are not familiar with this game, congratulations. You either don't have an annoying 12 year old in your life or you've never seen any early Lindsay Lohan movies. It's basically a matt with squares that you must dance on as the direction appears on the screen. My only regret is that we didn't have a camera to get Matt and Paul on tap dancing to the techno stylings of Moby McFly. Of course, Matt got way too competitive and we had to leave. On the way home I got a memo from my stomach (usually a staunch supporter of mine, along with the liver) that all was no right. I fought the feeling and slept through breakfast. As we were about to leave I quickly came to the realization I was going to toss my cookies at some point that morning and it might as well be at the B&B.
So after yelling at the seagulls for a few minutes, we headed out to this rope bridge about 15 miles away. It was cold as a witches' tit and the wind was a good 30 ml/hr clip so crossing the rope bride 300ft over the churning Atlantic. Luckily, I made it across the bridge again before talking to Ralf. We went back to the gift shop, had some tea, threw up again and headed to the Giant's Crossing.
Now, the Giant's crossing is one of the coolest things I've seen. It's all these basalt hexagon pillars as far as you can see. It's like of like the earth offering God his choice out of a pack of 37,000 cigarettes. Very cool. Now, just to let you know how shitty I was feeling and how much I wasn't pussing out, I actually made Matt and Paul drop me off at the B&B INSTEAD of going to the Bushmills tour. Yeah, that bad. I slept for the next 20 hours.
I woke up this morning dehydrated but much better. We went straight to the Bushmills distillery. They gave us a taste of the good stuff (lost of fun at 9am) and we were driving again soon. Don't worry, if you put all of us together, you had 1 mostly sober person.
We drove on to a Dublin via a few burial mounds (again, makes our Native American sites look like a putt-putt golf range), turned the car in and are now doing laundry before Patty's day tomorrow. Even the Irish are scared of Patty's day. If you ask them what it will be like, they just look at you wide eyed and shake their heads. I'm soooo psyched. We're going to try and catch a Gaelic football game (like rugby with a soccer ball – we have no idea how the game is played but it's supposed to be like Pulp Fiction on a field) and Hurling (field Hockey on serious) both of which these people are mad for.
Alright, that's certainly enough for now. Light a candle for me. I'll need it tomorrow.
Mark "McCool" Mitchell
OK, where did we leave off…oh yeah, me getting my face carved on. I still don't have any whiskers and am thinking that might be a permanent thing. Worse thing could have happened I guess. I just wish I had know so I could have made some cool face beard design before it all went away forever. Oh well, such is life.
Our last night in Galway was spent listening to some Irish music. We settled early in one bar not too far from the bar we spent the last night at. The music wasn't nearly as good but we laughed our asses off the whole time. 2 of the strangest people I have ever seen in my life. Let me set the scene: line bar that opens up in a square stage area, 90% at capacity, music loud but not deafening. There was a group of about 5 American girls sitting across the room from us but we just noticed them because they were so obviously American – wearing flip-flops in 38c weather and very green. So at some point this guy comes up and just plops down in the middle of them. Now I'd say these girls were between 19 and 20 and this guy was probably in his early 30s so the chicks are immediately uncomfortable. So Matt and Paul and I start watching this all unfold. It really was like watching a car wreck. You couldn't take your eyes off it and quite frankly didn't want to do anything to prevent it because you knew you weren't going to see something like it again. So as the night wears on this guy starts exhibiting an alarming array of psychotic disorders, so much so that he was quickly nicknamed "scratch and sniff". Let me elaborate. He had a habit of scratching parts of his body and then sniffing whatever hand did the scratching in between doing circles, smiling and talking to the ceiling. It started with his balding, dandruff head. That was pretty disturbing in itself, but he quickly moved to the bottom of his foot and back. The coup de gras was when he pulled a Mary Catherine Gallagher and stuck is hand in his armpit and gave it a nice whiff. None of us, least of all those girls, slept well that night. Truly disturbing.
The other great guy was a big ass rugby player, complete with shaved head, who took turns doing violent jigs in the middle of the dance floor (actually it wasn't a dance floor, it was a hallway but quickly became a dance floor after he made it one). After a while he'd tire and go pick up, literally, one of the other people, girls or guys, and dance with them. He was so taught, they finally gave him the boot but he must have snuck in through the Johnny Cash cause he was back in no time. They gave him the final curtain after he picked up one of the bartenders and dragged him over the bar to dance. Awesome.
So we drove to Portrush the next day. A 6hr drive that your boy made in 4.5. Had to teach the Irish people a thing or 2. Actually, we would have taken much longer but none of us were doing the km->ml/hr conversions correctly so when we thought we were doing 60 miles an hour, we were doing 90. My bad. Either way, aside from the wide-eyed looks we got from the people we were quickly passing, a pretty easy drive. Ireland's not that big, smaller than Texas. It's just that they have not highways. They have roads, but not highways so it takes a while to get anywhere.
So we roll into Portrush, hungry as all hell and go to this restaurant Rick Steve's recommended. Honestly people, one of the top 5 meals I've ever had. It wasn't in the least bit Irish. It was this really eclectic dive with £2 wine and weird ass food. Paul got this salmon Thai dish, I got this Thai, chicken dish and Matt got, what turned out to be, Sattai (sp?). Fucking amazing. We all swore, and then promised we'd come back for dinner to the same place. We bummed around the town for a bit, when to see a local castle that was perched on the edge of the sea (seriously, the Irish had this thing about putting everything right on the balls edge of the ocean. This one actually had the kitchen collapse into the sea with the kitchen staff with it in the 1700's) and drove back looking for some more kick ass cuisine. So this time around, I get duck (I love duck), Paul gets salmon again, Matt got some salmon soup thing. Again, it was like a party in my mouth. They we went at the desserts - ginger lime cheesecake, tiramisu and banana toffee (banoffee). Now, everyone should know that I hold a burning hatred for bananas and all things banana flavored. However, Matt insisted that I give it a shot so I did. I didn't hate it.
Then we went to the bar across the way to have a few pints with the lads. Turns out it was quiz night (a very popular bar game in the UK – it trivial pursuit without the board and a prize, usually a pint, at the end) so after naming our team "Yanks" we paid our 5 quid and set off. We soon realized that half of the questions were UK and Ireland based – like "who is the biggest footballer to play for both Limerick county and County Clare?” A group of 3 girls realized just how stupid we were going to look and told us to slide over and they'd help us with the UK questions. They were very nice and invited us over to their place afterwards. Now I know what you're all thinking and it's not like that, these were big girls, full of life. But mostly big girls. On top of that, we'd run out of Pounds (Portrush is in Northern Ireland which is part of the UK, the UK doesn't use the Euro yet) so we couldn't buy any more beer which theses girls had plenty of. So we head over to their house and only have 1 or 2 beers before they break out, I shit you not, Dance, Dance Revolution. Now, if you are not familiar with this game, congratulations. You either don't have an annoying 12 year old in your life or you've never seen any early Lindsay Lohan movies. It's basically a matt with squares that you must dance on as the direction appears on the screen. My only regret is that we didn't have a camera to get Matt and Paul on tap dancing to the techno stylings of Moby McFly. Of course, Matt got way too competitive and we had to leave. On the way home I got a memo from my stomach (usually a staunch supporter of mine, along with the liver) that all was no right. I fought the feeling and slept through breakfast. As we were about to leave I quickly came to the realization I was going to toss my cookies at some point that morning and it might as well be at the B&B.
So after yelling at the seagulls for a few minutes, we headed out to this rope bridge about 15 miles away. It was cold as a witches' tit and the wind was a good 30 ml/hr clip so crossing the rope bride 300ft over the churning Atlantic. Luckily, I made it across the bridge again before talking to Ralf. We went back to the gift shop, had some tea, threw up again and headed to the Giant's Crossing.
Now, the Giant's crossing is one of the coolest things I've seen. It's all these basalt hexagon pillars as far as you can see. It's like of like the earth offering God his choice out of a pack of 37,000 cigarettes. Very cool. Now, just to let you know how shitty I was feeling and how much I wasn't pussing out, I actually made Matt and Paul drop me off at the B&B INSTEAD of going to the Bushmills tour. Yeah, that bad. I slept for the next 20 hours.
I woke up this morning dehydrated but much better. We went straight to the Bushmills distillery. They gave us a taste of the good stuff (lost of fun at 9am) and we were driving again soon. Don't worry, if you put all of us together, you had 1 mostly sober person.
We drove on to a Dublin via a few burial mounds (again, makes our Native American sites look like a putt-putt golf range), turned the car in and are now doing laundry before Patty's day tomorrow. Even the Irish are scared of Patty's day. If you ask them what it will be like, they just look at you wide eyed and shake their heads. I'm soooo psyched. We're going to try and catch a Gaelic football game (like rugby with a soccer ball – we have no idea how the game is played but it's supposed to be like Pulp Fiction on a field) and Hurling (field Hockey on serious) both of which these people are mad for.
Alright, that's certainly enough for now. Light a candle for me. I'll need it tomorrow.
Mark "McCool" Mitchell
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Pappa's got a brand new bag!
Boooyaaa! Check it!
We turned in kinda early last night and slept in this morning. We knew it was going to rain today, all day, so we elected to give Conemara the middle finger and just bum around town. Good call. I had seen some stuff in the shopping area I needed to explore so after checking out 2 historical spots (both churches…I swear, if the Europeans put as much work into their social issues and political systems France wouldn't have had 7 revolution in 100 years, Spain would have done without Franco and Italy wouldn't have had to worry about Mussolini) we started shopping for people, i.e. me.
I won't spoil any of the surprises that Matt and Paul will be bringing back but let's get one thing straight. Daddy shops for himself, so don't go expecting a bunch of presents and souvenirs from this one! Just kidding, I'll bring some refrigerator magnets back or something.
Now my initial plan was to pack my electric clippers and just sport my now famous, 3-day beard. I still think that would have been a great plan but unfortunately it seems that I was rather inebriated while I was packing the night before we flew out. Not only did I arrive in Ireland sans clippers, but sans razor, sans shaving soap, and sans aftershave. So going on 4 days now, I was in need of a solution. As luck would have it, it was lamenting the lack of these necessities when we passed a "warm towel and straight razor" barber shop! Now, I've never had one of these shave jobs but I have seen The Untouchables and I know that if you cut Robert DeNiro he'll kill ya. So I walk in and sit down and the guy soaks a towel, throws it into the microwave, gives it one flip and wraps that thing like a turban around my face. I swear, I damn near came out of the chair! That shit was like McDonalds coffee hot! So then he goes to work on my face. First the lather then the blade comes out. He starts working that thing across a strip of leather and it is at that point I take a good look at his face and notice the scare running down the length of his face. Phenomenal. As I pick my head up to say something he grabs me by the forehead and just starts working me over. I'm serious; I've seen meat being tenderized that got better handling than this. When it's all over, he slaps some Dad style Aqua Velva on my face is nice enough not to make a scene while I fight back the tears. I don't think I'll have to shave for 2 weeks. I'm not sure if my skin now has the ability to produce whiskers or even tan for that matter.
So then it was time for lunch and we wanted to check out this place the guidebook recommended for fish and chips. Galway bay oysters are only in season from September to April we bellied up to the bar, Matt ordered Haddock, I ordered Whiting (the most racists of all the fishes) and Paul ordered "ray wing". Now what do you suppose ray wing would be? I like to think that most of you would say, "uummm, is it a ray?" for which you'd all be awarded 10 points. Paul on the other hand just figures it's a nice way of saying catfish. So we eat the oysters (they kick ass, much more texture than our native oysters, and a little saltier too) and finally our food gets there. And low and behold, Paul gets himself a big basket of fried (whole, mind you) stingray, minus the stinger. Matt and I laughed our arses off, but Paul scarffed down the whole thing. Kudos Paul, Kudos.
After lunch we went into this big clothing store called River Island (check them out online) and I got some jeans that make my ass look like it was something sculpted by Michelangelo. Seriously, I'm going to start referring to it as the 8th wonder of the world! Oh yeah, some Bono glasses and some Euro-trash shoes. Very nice. I want to get a rugby shirt but I'm waiting for Dublin for better selection. I also want to get a bunch of Guinness stuff but of course I'm waiting for the actual Guinness brewery for that.
Oh yeah, we're now up to like 137 view on the blog and none of you people are posting kudos or comments! WFT?!?!?! How 'bout a little something for the effort?!?!?! One-way conversations suck!
Holla at your bai (Irish for boy),
"Mental" Mark Mitchell
We turned in kinda early last night and slept in this morning. We knew it was going to rain today, all day, so we elected to give Conemara the middle finger and just bum around town. Good call. I had seen some stuff in the shopping area I needed to explore so after checking out 2 historical spots (both churches…I swear, if the Europeans put as much work into their social issues and political systems France wouldn't have had 7 revolution in 100 years, Spain would have done without Franco and Italy wouldn't have had to worry about Mussolini) we started shopping for people, i.e. me.
I won't spoil any of the surprises that Matt and Paul will be bringing back but let's get one thing straight. Daddy shops for himself, so don't go expecting a bunch of presents and souvenirs from this one! Just kidding, I'll bring some refrigerator magnets back or something.
Now my initial plan was to pack my electric clippers and just sport my now famous, 3-day beard. I still think that would have been a great plan but unfortunately it seems that I was rather inebriated while I was packing the night before we flew out. Not only did I arrive in Ireland sans clippers, but sans razor, sans shaving soap, and sans aftershave. So going on 4 days now, I was in need of a solution. As luck would have it, it was lamenting the lack of these necessities when we passed a "warm towel and straight razor" barber shop! Now, I've never had one of these shave jobs but I have seen The Untouchables and I know that if you cut Robert DeNiro he'll kill ya. So I walk in and sit down and the guy soaks a towel, throws it into the microwave, gives it one flip and wraps that thing like a turban around my face. I swear, I damn near came out of the chair! That shit was like McDonalds coffee hot! So then he goes to work on my face. First the lather then the blade comes out. He starts working that thing across a strip of leather and it is at that point I take a good look at his face and notice the scare running down the length of his face. Phenomenal. As I pick my head up to say something he grabs me by the forehead and just starts working me over. I'm serious; I've seen meat being tenderized that got better handling than this. When it's all over, he slaps some Dad style Aqua Velva on my face is nice enough not to make a scene while I fight back the tears. I don't think I'll have to shave for 2 weeks. I'm not sure if my skin now has the ability to produce whiskers or even tan for that matter.
So then it was time for lunch and we wanted to check out this place the guidebook recommended for fish and chips. Galway bay oysters are only in season from September to April we bellied up to the bar, Matt ordered Haddock, I ordered Whiting (the most racists of all the fishes) and Paul ordered "ray wing". Now what do you suppose ray wing would be? I like to think that most of you would say, "uummm, is it a ray?" for which you'd all be awarded 10 points. Paul on the other hand just figures it's a nice way of saying catfish. So we eat the oysters (they kick ass, much more texture than our native oysters, and a little saltier too) and finally our food gets there. And low and behold, Paul gets himself a big basket of fried (whole, mind you) stingray, minus the stinger. Matt and I laughed our arses off, but Paul scarffed down the whole thing. Kudos Paul, Kudos.
After lunch we went into this big clothing store called River Island (check them out online) and I got some jeans that make my ass look like it was something sculpted by Michelangelo. Seriously, I'm going to start referring to it as the 8th wonder of the world! Oh yeah, some Bono glasses and some Euro-trash shoes. Very nice. I want to get a rugby shirt but I'm waiting for Dublin for better selection. I also want to get a bunch of Guinness stuff but of course I'm waiting for the actual Guinness brewery for that.
Oh yeah, we're now up to like 137 view on the blog and none of you people are posting kudos or comments! WFT?!?!?! How 'bout a little something for the effort?!?!?! One-way conversations suck!
Holla at your bai (Irish for boy),
"Mental" Mark Mitchell
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Recruiting from the other team
Soooo, I might have been a little overzealous last time I wrote. First things first, the rumors were true, Galway does party balls. We had dinner last night, at a pretty cool pub and then walked down to the drag. It reminded me a lot of Salamanca in the sense that there's one street, all pedestrian, lined with shops, restaurants, bars and clubs. We duck into one place called The Kings Head, and go to work. Now, Paul hasn't been at 100ince he got here - some cough the rug-rat gave him so he was already trying to manage expectation in terms of his commitment that night. The place was crowded and getting more so by the minute so we Matt and Paul grabbed a table and I grabbed the beers/whisky. Scotland had just lost a big rugby match so all the Irish rugby players were wearing kilts that night. They had a great time of trying to make other people inadvertently look at their nuts. I have to admit, a pretty funny game.
After a while a group of American girls (I swear to God, they're like leaches) comes over and asks if they can share our tables. We say sure and start talking. You know what, they weren't all that interesting and subsequently this isn't a very interesting story. Laurie, if you're reading this, I'm not talking about y'all.
So by the time we left the bar I was pretty polluted. So on the way home, I'm leading (I know, should have been a good indication) and decide that 12:30 is just too early to turn it in and walk through the door of this random ass bar.
From what I remember of the place, it was weird, kinda like if a Chinese food restaurant in a strip mall doubled as a bar. Yeah, like that. Anyway, we walk in like we own the place and supposed to be there and sit towards the back. At some point, a waitress brings some food to the table next to us. They were all up dancing so we figured the food would be better placed on our tables. When they returned we just pretended we didn't speak English. Classic Titian.
Now, here's another indication that things weren't quite right. The two plates that the waitress brought over was a mix of chicken and cocktail weenies. We left one on the table and took the other. We ate both the chicken and cocktail weenies. The other table just ate the chicken.
Another tip would have been all the flannel.
Maybe the extremely good girl to guy ratio could have clued us in.
But the two women snogging in the corner should have definitely told us something.
Regardless, we didn't figure it out until halfway through a techno remix of John Denver's classic, Country Road, Take Me Home. As soon as we realized the situation we headed straight back to the table, ate the rest of the people next to us' food and got out of there right after singing Bon Jovi's Livin' on a Prayer at the top of our lungs. We finally crashed around 2am I think.
Today, we got up around 10am, had breakfast (Paul tried one of the English Bangers I'd rather lick the handrail in a subway station. He damn near lost it right there in the breakfast room) and decided to take it slow today since we were all moving a little slow as it was. We ducked into a TI (tourist information centre) and found out a bus was leaving in an hour for the Aran Islands, a tour we were planning on doing that day anyway. So we sucked it up and paid our dues hopped the bus, took the ferry, hired a tour guide and explored the Islands. These people are what you would call old school Irish. The even speak "Irish" or what everyone else calls Gaelic. In fact, unless they're talking to you, they're speaking Irish. It really is like being in a foreign country...er...you know what I mean.
They took us up to this old fort (and by old, I mean built some time circa 2000bc) built right on the edge of a 300ft cliff over the Atlantic. They walls on this fort were 13 feet thick, 10 feet tall, all stacked stone. I would have given the chief the finger if he told me to start carrying stones to make a 13ft thick wall. I mean really, we talk about "ancient" civilization in America building impressive structures. Bullshit. They're neither ancient nor impressive once you've seen what the Irish had to live with and what they accomplished. The Hopi had it easy! I mean really, we've got some cave drawings and they're all "ahh, yeah we got that.” Oh, did you see the massive stones we stood upright and in a circle and positioned so that the summer solstice sun would shine perfectly through it? No? Well you should. It's just south of the big ass stone fort we build on the edge of the world!"
We got home around six, had some great Italian food and I think we're gonna sack out pretty soon. I picked up an English FHM magazine. They're so much better than the American versions (it started in the UK and headed west after Maxim and Stuff got so big). I'll probably tear into that tonight. My Blog stats say it's been viewed 121 times! Not too shabby.
Oh yeah, that picture-sharing program I thought I'd found turns out to suck. I've already hit my limit. Here's the new link. Enjoy.
After a while a group of American girls (I swear to God, they're like leaches) comes over and asks if they can share our tables. We say sure and start talking. You know what, they weren't all that interesting and subsequently this isn't a very interesting story. Laurie, if you're reading this, I'm not talking about y'all.
So by the time we left the bar I was pretty polluted. So on the way home, I'm leading (I know, should have been a good indication) and decide that 12:30 is just too early to turn it in and walk through the door of this random ass bar.
From what I remember of the place, it was weird, kinda like if a Chinese food restaurant in a strip mall doubled as a bar. Yeah, like that. Anyway, we walk in like we own the place and supposed to be there and sit towards the back. At some point, a waitress brings some food to the table next to us. They were all up dancing so we figured the food would be better placed on our tables. When they returned we just pretended we didn't speak English. Classic Titian.
Now, here's another indication that things weren't quite right. The two plates that the waitress brought over was a mix of chicken and cocktail weenies. We left one on the table and took the other. We ate both the chicken and cocktail weenies. The other table just ate the chicken.
Another tip would have been all the flannel.
Maybe the extremely good girl to guy ratio could have clued us in.
But the two women snogging in the corner should have definitely told us something.
Regardless, we didn't figure it out until halfway through a techno remix of John Denver's classic, Country Road, Take Me Home. As soon as we realized the situation we headed straight back to the table, ate the rest of the people next to us' food and got out of there right after singing Bon Jovi's Livin' on a Prayer at the top of our lungs. We finally crashed around 2am I think.
Today, we got up around 10am, had breakfast (Paul tried one of the English Bangers I'd rather lick the handrail in a subway station. He damn near lost it right there in the breakfast room) and decided to take it slow today since we were all moving a little slow as it was. We ducked into a TI (tourist information centre) and found out a bus was leaving in an hour for the Aran Islands, a tour we were planning on doing that day anyway. So we sucked it up and paid our dues hopped the bus, took the ferry, hired a tour guide and explored the Islands. These people are what you would call old school Irish. The even speak "Irish" or what everyone else calls Gaelic. In fact, unless they're talking to you, they're speaking Irish. It really is like being in a foreign country...er...you know what I mean.
They took us up to this old fort (and by old, I mean built some time circa 2000bc) built right on the edge of a 300ft cliff over the Atlantic. They walls on this fort were 13 feet thick, 10 feet tall, all stacked stone. I would have given the chief the finger if he told me to start carrying stones to make a 13ft thick wall. I mean really, we talk about "ancient" civilization in America building impressive structures. Bullshit. They're neither ancient nor impressive once you've seen what the Irish had to live with and what they accomplished. The Hopi had it easy! I mean really, we've got some cave drawings and they're all "ahh, yeah we got that.” Oh, did you see the massive stones we stood upright and in a circle and positioned so that the summer solstice sun would shine perfectly through it? No? Well you should. It's just south of the big ass stone fort we build on the edge of the world!"
We got home around six, had some great Italian food and I think we're gonna sack out pretty soon. I picked up an English FHM magazine. They're so much better than the American versions (it started in the UK and headed west after Maxim and Stuff got so big). I'll probably tear into that tonight. My Blog stats say it's been viewed 121 times! Not too shabby.
Oh yeah, that picture-sharing program I thought I'd found turns out to suck. I've already hit my limit. Here's the new link. Enjoy.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
An Irish Lullaby
So we picked up Paul, no problem yesterday, yada, yada, yada, we finished dinner around 9:30 and headed to the same bar as last night.
They had some guys playing again so we stayed for a pint before I was ready for a new crowd. I wanted to hang out with the locals, plus the waitress from dinner was giving me the eye and said that maybe she'd see us at the Hardware store. It turns out all establishments can double as a bar at any time. It's kind of like every Israelis having military training – just in case. Anyway, we walked over to the hardware store and saw she wasn't there so we tried a place that wouldn't let us in the night before because of the late hour. Man, we begged and pleaded last night with that woman but she had no love for the Mitchell Brothers. Anyway, they let us in this time and it's this weird wine and pizza/pub/restaurant/coffee house. So we grab a couple of beers and sit down in the leather, oversized couches and this chick, a guy on an acoustic and a guy on a mandolin tunes up. Now, as a rule, I think most people over estimate their talent and generally suck. But one thing was for certain, this girl did NOT suck. She was amazing. She was maybe my age, dark brown hair and couldn't have sounded more Irish if you tired. Guys, I know what you're thinking, and it wasn't like that. Sure she was hot and of course I could have made something happen. That's not the point. She was completely captivating. The room was lit with nothing but candles, everyone was at least buzzed, it was cold outside, it was warm inside, and it was Ireland for Christ sake. It's the perfect storm. Ireland already has this weird ability to impress upon you immense tragedy and unbounded hope at the same time. Mix all this with her ability to let her voice float (I know, I'm risking having my Man Card revoked here but seriously, FLOAT) and it was nearly too much to withstand. She covered Bruce Springsteen's The River. I think even he would admit she did a better job. I'm pretty sure Matt and Paul and I said maybe 5 words to each other the entire time we were there. We finally left around 12:30, completely awestruck. Oh yeah, it turns out the people we were sharing a couch with were her parents. I think they overlooked the comments I made about her physical talents by the end of the night. Good times.
We woke up this morning, ate breakfast and headed north towards Galway. I drove and suggested Paul sit shotgun and navigate. It was sad really because Paul had the darndest time seeing over the dashboard so he and Matt had to switch before too long. We were in the car from 9:30-6 today, stopping every now and then for a tour or important sight we weren't to miss. The weather sucked - rained all day and cold as hell.
Galway is supposed to party balls, especially on Saturday night so we'll raise a little (read: a lot of) hell tonight. We've heard great things from people who've come this way. It's a college town and they say even Dubliners (people from Dublin stupid) come to Galway to tear it down. The slow town (Dingle) is behind us now. It's time to turn it up.
They had some guys playing again so we stayed for a pint before I was ready for a new crowd. I wanted to hang out with the locals, plus the waitress from dinner was giving me the eye and said that maybe she'd see us at the Hardware store. It turns out all establishments can double as a bar at any time. It's kind of like every Israelis having military training – just in case. Anyway, we walked over to the hardware store and saw she wasn't there so we tried a place that wouldn't let us in the night before because of the late hour. Man, we begged and pleaded last night with that woman but she had no love for the Mitchell Brothers. Anyway, they let us in this time and it's this weird wine and pizza/pub/restaurant/coffee house. So we grab a couple of beers and sit down in the leather, oversized couches and this chick, a guy on an acoustic and a guy on a mandolin tunes up. Now, as a rule, I think most people over estimate their talent and generally suck. But one thing was for certain, this girl did NOT suck. She was amazing. She was maybe my age, dark brown hair and couldn't have sounded more Irish if you tired. Guys, I know what you're thinking, and it wasn't like that. Sure she was hot and of course I could have made something happen. That's not the point. She was completely captivating. The room was lit with nothing but candles, everyone was at least buzzed, it was cold outside, it was warm inside, and it was Ireland for Christ sake. It's the perfect storm. Ireland already has this weird ability to impress upon you immense tragedy and unbounded hope at the same time. Mix all this with her ability to let her voice float (I know, I'm risking having my Man Card revoked here but seriously, FLOAT) and it was nearly too much to withstand. She covered Bruce Springsteen's The River. I think even he would admit she did a better job. I'm pretty sure Matt and Paul and I said maybe 5 words to each other the entire time we were there. We finally left around 12:30, completely awestruck. Oh yeah, it turns out the people we were sharing a couch with were her parents. I think they overlooked the comments I made about her physical talents by the end of the night. Good times.
We woke up this morning, ate breakfast and headed north towards Galway. I drove and suggested Paul sit shotgun and navigate. It was sad really because Paul had the darndest time seeing over the dashboard so he and Matt had to switch before too long. We were in the car from 9:30-6 today, stopping every now and then for a tour or important sight we weren't to miss. The weather sucked - rained all day and cold as hell.
Galway is supposed to party balls, especially on Saturday night so we'll raise a little (read: a lot of) hell tonight. We've heard great things from people who've come this way. It's a college town and they say even Dubliners (people from Dublin stupid) come to Galway to tear it down. The slow town (Dingle) is behind us now. It's time to turn it up.
Monday, April 10, 2006
It's all about the completion
Who ever the asshole was that told me before I left that Guinness doesn't give hangovers is a liar and should be beaten in the streets. After posting last night, Matt and I went back to the hotel, sprayed as much cologne as we could on our cloths (they're 3 days old now and are quite capable of ordering their own drinks. The locals smile and wave at them as they pass by) and headed out for dinner. We ate at a place our boy Rick Steve's suggested. I'll say this again, the Irish can cook! I had lamb shank that literally fell off the bone when I picked it up. In a word – fan-damn-tastic.
While my man, Matt settled the bill I chatted up the waitress (5'9", blonde short hair, thin but not waifish, choice) and asked her where we were going next. After she got the innuendo she laughed, I laughed and Matt laughed, though he really didn't know what he was laugh at until later. Anyway, she pointed us across the street to a pub that has nightly music that she said was "brilliant". Matt and I walked in, ordered a pint of the black stuff and started looking around. All around cool place but here's the best part. You know how bars in the states have only a select few places to see the entire crowd and still have your back to a wall? Fellas, you feel me right? It's not some Wyatt Earp cowboy shit, it's just nice to have your back to a wall. I'm sure I'm not the only one out there feeling this. Anyway, this place had little nooks cut out all over the place; hard to describe but made for a great layout with lots of place to people watch and have your back to a wall at the same time.
So I'm done with the 1st pint and thinking this is going a little slow so I decide to let the banshee out of the cage and order a whisky. Now pay attention because this is important later. Those of you that know me, again, you know what kind of party can ensue when the whisky hits the glass and tonight was no exception.
A fella at the bar turns to me and asks if we're Americans. Turns out he's on leave from Germany after a year stint in Afghanistan. Nice kid and there for the same reason Matt and I were – to chew bubble gum and kick ass. We were all out of bubble gum that night.
So the band strikes up, and puts the mood right, the kids start dancing and Matt orders his second pint. About this time a team of foxes stroll through the bar and my boy Nick (army guy) is on it quicker than I could nudge Matt in the ribs. So Nick and I go to work. Turns out the chick are all on college break and from the states. That kinda pissed me off. I mean, I didn't come all the way to Ireland to hear some pain in the ass, Yankee from Long Island. That accent is hard to handle when I'm sober much less when I feel a wee bit pissed (Irish for drunk). So I ditch and start showing Matt this great game where you try to flip the coasters on the edge of the bar up and catch them with the same hand. Turns out everybody at the bar (that was Irish) loved the game and kept coming by and telling us their high score. Good times.
It also attracted the attention of two blonds (definitely not from Long Island) sitting next to us. I give 'em the ol' "wink wink" and slide on over. Turns out they're from Holland and on holiday. Yadda, yadda, yadda, they were great girls.
So about 11:30 I holler back at Nick who's been paying his dues with the pain in the ass Long Island girls the whole night. The bar closes at midnight so we had to make our call – pain in the ass long Island girls or interesting but decidedly older Holland women. Nick and I decided, mathematically, our changes were better with the pain in the ass Long Island girls. Plus, I knew that I still had the Texas accent I could whip out at any time and save the day. So we follow these girls out the door and head back to their place to finish off some more pints when their local "boy in charge" (i.e. cock blocker) started talking about how we couldn't come after they'd just invited us. Long story short, he was a real dick and owes Matt a pint or two for the ass beating he saved him.
So we spend the next hour, looking around for a place that stays open past midnight, only to find that a place like that doesn't exist. Great….should have gone with the older Dutch chicks…
Oh yeah, almost forgot – the whisky. Matt discovered "warm whisky". They serve it in a coffee mug and put lemon and cloves in it. The ladies really like it so it was perfect for Matt. I feel confident Paul and I can do some damage with this new found chink in Matt's armor.
We have to go get Paul from the train station in about five mins. Now, with a fully operational Mitchell Brothers front, it's on. Time to do some real damage!
Mark "Whisky-tooth" Mitchell
While my man, Matt settled the bill I chatted up the waitress (5'9", blonde short hair, thin but not waifish, choice) and asked her where we were going next. After she got the innuendo she laughed, I laughed and Matt laughed, though he really didn't know what he was laugh at until later. Anyway, she pointed us across the street to a pub that has nightly music that she said was "brilliant". Matt and I walked in, ordered a pint of the black stuff and started looking around. All around cool place but here's the best part. You know how bars in the states have only a select few places to see the entire crowd and still have your back to a wall? Fellas, you feel me right? It's not some Wyatt Earp cowboy shit, it's just nice to have your back to a wall. I'm sure I'm not the only one out there feeling this. Anyway, this place had little nooks cut out all over the place; hard to describe but made for a great layout with lots of place to people watch and have your back to a wall at the same time.
So I'm done with the 1st pint and thinking this is going a little slow so I decide to let the banshee out of the cage and order a whisky. Now pay attention because this is important later. Those of you that know me, again, you know what kind of party can ensue when the whisky hits the glass and tonight was no exception.
A fella at the bar turns to me and asks if we're Americans. Turns out he's on leave from Germany after a year stint in Afghanistan. Nice kid and there for the same reason Matt and I were – to chew bubble gum and kick ass. We were all out of bubble gum that night.
So the band strikes up, and puts the mood right, the kids start dancing and Matt orders his second pint. About this time a team of foxes stroll through the bar and my boy Nick (army guy) is on it quicker than I could nudge Matt in the ribs. So Nick and I go to work. Turns out the chick are all on college break and from the states. That kinda pissed me off. I mean, I didn't come all the way to Ireland to hear some pain in the ass, Yankee from Long Island. That accent is hard to handle when I'm sober much less when I feel a wee bit pissed (Irish for drunk). So I ditch and start showing Matt this great game where you try to flip the coasters on the edge of the bar up and catch them with the same hand. Turns out everybody at the bar (that was Irish) loved the game and kept coming by and telling us their high score. Good times.
It also attracted the attention of two blonds (definitely not from Long Island) sitting next to us. I give 'em the ol' "wink wink" and slide on over. Turns out they're from Holland and on holiday. Yadda, yadda, yadda, they were great girls.
So about 11:30 I holler back at Nick who's been paying his dues with the pain in the ass Long Island girls the whole night. The bar closes at midnight so we had to make our call – pain in the ass long Island girls or interesting but decidedly older Holland women. Nick and I decided, mathematically, our changes were better with the pain in the ass Long Island girls. Plus, I knew that I still had the Texas accent I could whip out at any time and save the day. So we follow these girls out the door and head back to their place to finish off some more pints when their local "boy in charge" (i.e. cock blocker) started talking about how we couldn't come after they'd just invited us. Long story short, he was a real dick and owes Matt a pint or two for the ass beating he saved him.
So we spend the next hour, looking around for a place that stays open past midnight, only to find that a place like that doesn't exist. Great….should have gone with the older Dutch chicks…
Oh yeah, almost forgot – the whisky. Matt discovered "warm whisky". They serve it in a coffee mug and put lemon and cloves in it. The ladies really like it so it was perfect for Matt. I feel confident Paul and I can do some damage with this new found chink in Matt's armor.
We have to go get Paul from the train station in about five mins. Now, with a fully operational Mitchell Brothers front, it's on. Time to do some real damage!
Mark "Whisky-tooth" Mitchell
Sunday, April 9, 2006
Aahh, me bollocks
After 12 hrs of sleep last night, I'm back! I haven't slept that well since college and certainly not without the help of any booze.
After posting last night, Matt and I went for dinner. We were heading for a place the guidebook suggested when Matt turns to me and says, "Hey, how do you feel about Chinese?" I said, "I love Chinese!" because I really do. So we busted a u-turn on the sidewalk and headed back to this place we saw earlier. Now here's the thing, in all 15 (give or take) countries I've visited. I've found that Chinese food is, Chinese food, is Chinese food. It's like the global McDonalds, but you don't look like a jackass American going into the "Tasty Dragon" in Ireland. Feel me? Anyway, we walk in this place to find 2 tables, one already occupied by 4 nasty lookin' blokes. I mean, these guys could churn the paint of walls. Matt and I felt right at home. We walk up to the counter and ask if this place is only take-away. She says no, so we sit down. Meanwhile, her banshee bastard of a kid starts wailing in this god-awful Chinese/Irish mix at the top of his lungs. Matt and I pick up the tabloids (best thing in the U.K., truly vicious) and in about five mins our food comes out. About now, you're probably wondering (and if you're not, you lead a very boring life) "what the hell is this doing in, what started as, a very promising and interesting Blog." Hang on mum, we're getting there. So they bring this stuff out in, I shit you not, Tupperware containers. I don't mean the good stuff we always swipe from Mom's. No, I'm talking about the .99 stuff you get at the Wal-Mart. Matt and I were starving so we scarffed it down, sharpish. In the 15 mins it took us to walk back home, we were hungry. See, Chinese food really is the great equalizer.
So this morning we woke up, had breakfast (smoked salmon and scrambled eggs the English/Irish never really got the hang of breakfast if you ask me, but this kicked ass) and hit the road. It was at this point we discovered the Irish's knack of the understatement. Our host, Paul O'Shea (yeah, it turns out they really do have red hair and names like O'Connor and Flannery) says to us, "it'll be a wee bit blustery today". Now, as a resident of Fort Worth, I'm used to "blustery". What I'm not used to is, "holy shit this wind is going to blow me Batswana".
Let me preface all this by saying after yesterday's experience, Matt and I decided (read: I put a knife to his throat last night and made him swear" that we'd find a new system for driving. So I suggested (read: showed him the knife again) that I drive and he shift/navigate. We'll it turns out that was too many things for Matt. We finally settled into a nice "Mark drives, shifts and navigates while Matt point shit out we missed because he announced it about 50 meters behind us". I gota say not bad, not bad.
Anyway, we head out on this coast road that makes the Amalfi Coast road or Route 1 look like a boulevard. It's only about 30 miles round trip but it took us 4hrs counting lunch. Amazing rocky cliffs jet up 300 feet below a severely pissed off ocean. We stopped every now and then for a picture or a look. There is this set of islands just off the shore of Ireland called the Blasket Islands which were inhabited until 1958 when the crazy buggers were forced off by Irish government. Now, don't think of this as some, tragic, Indian Relocation Policy or anything. I was out there for 10 minutes and would have rather jumped off one of the cliffs than spend anther minute up there. These people were off their fucking (just for you Mom) rockers. Lunatics. You bet your bollocks to a barn dance, you'd force them off too.
An interesting side note, the wind blows in a clock-wise motion about 50 miles and hour. Matt and I learned that if you tilt your head just right, you can create a snot rocket of epic proportions. The wind actually goes up your nose and forced everything out. Awesome. Matt's was even straight for once. Conversely, you become very dizzy after pissing beside the car. Also, wash the car after pissing beside it. Your brother may need a hosing off as well.
So we came home, tried calling people (answer your cell phone Paul!) and took a nap. I love naps. I miss them so. Matt woke me up to hail, yes hail, pea size hail. Fun stuff. I'm really glad I don't have any warm cloths. It would just be too comfortable. Remind me to write United a thank you note when I get home.
Matt and I are going to hit the pubs tonight and see if I can convince them to stay open past midnight. They could learn a thing or two from the Spanish. My guess is the Irish view it as quality over quantity. More drinking is less time. I can appreciate that. I'll let you know.
Mark "Sean-Patrick" Mitchell
After posting last night, Matt and I went for dinner. We were heading for a place the guidebook suggested when Matt turns to me and says, "Hey, how do you feel about Chinese?" I said, "I love Chinese!" because I really do. So we busted a u-turn on the sidewalk and headed back to this place we saw earlier. Now here's the thing, in all 15 (give or take) countries I've visited. I've found that Chinese food is, Chinese food, is Chinese food. It's like the global McDonalds, but you don't look like a jackass American going into the "Tasty Dragon" in Ireland. Feel me? Anyway, we walk in this place to find 2 tables, one already occupied by 4 nasty lookin' blokes. I mean, these guys could churn the paint of walls. Matt and I felt right at home. We walk up to the counter and ask if this place is only take-away. She says no, so we sit down. Meanwhile, her banshee bastard of a kid starts wailing in this god-awful Chinese/Irish mix at the top of his lungs. Matt and I pick up the tabloids (best thing in the U.K., truly vicious) and in about five mins our food comes out. About now, you're probably wondering (and if you're not, you lead a very boring life) "what the hell is this doing in, what started as, a very promising and interesting Blog." Hang on mum, we're getting there. So they bring this stuff out in, I shit you not, Tupperware containers. I don't mean the good stuff we always swipe from Mom's. No, I'm talking about the .99 stuff you get at the Wal-Mart. Matt and I were starving so we scarffed it down, sharpish. In the 15 mins it took us to walk back home, we were hungry. See, Chinese food really is the great equalizer.
So this morning we woke up, had breakfast (smoked salmon and scrambled eggs the English/Irish never really got the hang of breakfast if you ask me, but this kicked ass) and hit the road. It was at this point we discovered the Irish's knack of the understatement. Our host, Paul O'Shea (yeah, it turns out they really do have red hair and names like O'Connor and Flannery) says to us, "it'll be a wee bit blustery today". Now, as a resident of Fort Worth, I'm used to "blustery". What I'm not used to is, "holy shit this wind is going to blow me Batswana".
Let me preface all this by saying after yesterday's experience, Matt and I decided (read: I put a knife to his throat last night and made him swear" that we'd find a new system for driving. So I suggested (read: showed him the knife again) that I drive and he shift/navigate. We'll it turns out that was too many things for Matt. We finally settled into a nice "Mark drives, shifts and navigates while Matt point shit out we missed because he announced it about 50 meters behind us". I gota say not bad, not bad.
Anyway, we head out on this coast road that makes the Amalfi Coast road or Route 1 look like a boulevard. It's only about 30 miles round trip but it took us 4hrs counting lunch. Amazing rocky cliffs jet up 300 feet below a severely pissed off ocean. We stopped every now and then for a picture or a look. There is this set of islands just off the shore of Ireland called the Blasket Islands which were inhabited until 1958 when the crazy buggers were forced off by Irish government. Now, don't think of this as some, tragic, Indian Relocation Policy or anything. I was out there for 10 minutes and would have rather jumped off one of the cliffs than spend anther minute up there. These people were off their fucking (just for you Mom) rockers. Lunatics. You bet your bollocks to a barn dance, you'd force them off too.
An interesting side note, the wind blows in a clock-wise motion about 50 miles and hour. Matt and I learned that if you tilt your head just right, you can create a snot rocket of epic proportions. The wind actually goes up your nose and forced everything out. Awesome. Matt's was even straight for once. Conversely, you become very dizzy after pissing beside the car. Also, wash the car after pissing beside it. Your brother may need a hosing off as well.
So we came home, tried calling people (answer your cell phone Paul!) and took a nap. I love naps. I miss them so. Matt woke me up to hail, yes hail, pea size hail. Fun stuff. I'm really glad I don't have any warm cloths. It would just be too comfortable. Remind me to write United a thank you note when I get home.
Matt and I are going to hit the pubs tonight and see if I can convince them to stay open past midnight. They could learn a thing or two from the Spanish. My guess is the Irish view it as quality over quantity. More drinking is less time. I can appreciate that. I'll let you know.
Mark "Sean-Patrick" Mitchell
Saturday, April 8, 2006
1st day in Ireland
Wow. So I've now discovered that it only takes 36 hrs sleep deprivation for me to start hallucinating...good to know, good to know. The trip over was no big deal made all our connecting flights and even got 2 rows of seats all to us from Boston to Shannon, Ireland! That's where our luck stopped.
We cleared customs, sans body cavity search (always a good thing) and went to get our luggage from the carousel. Except our luggage didn't come, and didn't come and didn't come. Finally, I went over to the help desk and said, "Alright, check it" in my best Ali G voice. They stared back blankly. Maybe he just isn't as big over here. That must be it, 'cause my impersonation is dead on! Anyway, turns out we flew United from DFW to Chicago and Chicago to Boston but flew American from Boston to Shannon. The bags never made it to Shannon. But wait, it gets better. There's only one flight a day from Boston to Shannon and the crew that delivers lost luggage takes 24 hrs to get it to you after they get it. Do the math and you're looking at Friday (best case) before Daddy gets some new drawers. Ever notice that the airlines always facing major layoffs and bankruptcy usually have shitty customer service and a healthy display of general ineptitude? I mean really, was everyone in this airline raise under power lines?!?!
The good news is, after learning that our bags were now with Peter Pan in Never-never-land, my reaction didn't cause an international incident and not a single policeman was called. Now, those of you who remember my last eruptions with incompetent airlines and resentful Bobbies should see this as progress.
This could be the result of 1-2 factors. 1 I am more mature and can step back from a situation, realize that the person I'm speaking to is not directly responsible for the mishap and work towards finding a common solution. Two, and the more likely possibility, is that I'm a flat sucker for Irish ladies. I'm telling you fellas, these aren't the shoe-faced hags you remember from England. These women take care of themselves, and more importantly, their teeth! Plus, they can cook!!!! Matt and I had some Sheppard’s Pie (that I barely choked down once in England), some mint pea soup and some ginger bread for lunch - fucking awesome. Oh, and they've got a little sass to them. Not too much (read: NYC women) but just enough to give you a wink and a smile. I'm serious, I'm gonna see if they'll let me bring one back with me. Oh, and they all have red hair, all of them.
We rented a car after we landed and Matt drove. Now, I have to say, many people could have done much worse. Those people would have to have advanced ocular degeneration and suffer regular seizures but like I said, they would have done worse. After a while, we worked out a system where I shifted, navigated and took turns throwing up out the window and passing out right before imminent impact with large trucks and Matt steered. That seemed to work pretty well.
I'm mainlining coffee and Guinness right now to stay somewhat coherent but feel my plan is starting to fail me. So before I have to go back tomorrow and delete half the things I wrote today, let me say goodbye for now.
Cheers
Mark "Mutton Chops" Mitchell
We cleared customs, sans body cavity search (always a good thing) and went to get our luggage from the carousel. Except our luggage didn't come, and didn't come and didn't come. Finally, I went over to the help desk and said, "Alright, check it" in my best Ali G voice. They stared back blankly. Maybe he just isn't as big over here. That must be it, 'cause my impersonation is dead on! Anyway, turns out we flew United from DFW to Chicago and Chicago to Boston but flew American from Boston to Shannon. The bags never made it to Shannon. But wait, it gets better. There's only one flight a day from Boston to Shannon and the crew that delivers lost luggage takes 24 hrs to get it to you after they get it. Do the math and you're looking at Friday (best case) before Daddy gets some new drawers. Ever notice that the airlines always facing major layoffs and bankruptcy usually have shitty customer service and a healthy display of general ineptitude? I mean really, was everyone in this airline raise under power lines?!?!
The good news is, after learning that our bags were now with Peter Pan in Never-never-land, my reaction didn't cause an international incident and not a single policeman was called. Now, those of you who remember my last eruptions with incompetent airlines and resentful Bobbies should see this as progress.
This could be the result of 1-2 factors. 1 I am more mature and can step back from a situation, realize that the person I'm speaking to is not directly responsible for the mishap and work towards finding a common solution. Two, and the more likely possibility, is that I'm a flat sucker for Irish ladies. I'm telling you fellas, these aren't the shoe-faced hags you remember from England. These women take care of themselves, and more importantly, their teeth! Plus, they can cook!!!! Matt and I had some Sheppard’s Pie (that I barely choked down once in England), some mint pea soup and some ginger bread for lunch - fucking awesome. Oh, and they've got a little sass to them. Not too much (read: NYC women) but just enough to give you a wink and a smile. I'm serious, I'm gonna see if they'll let me bring one back with me. Oh, and they all have red hair, all of them.
We rented a car after we landed and Matt drove. Now, I have to say, many people could have done much worse. Those people would have to have advanced ocular degeneration and suffer regular seizures but like I said, they would have done worse. After a while, we worked out a system where I shifted, navigated and took turns throwing up out the window and passing out right before imminent impact with large trucks and Matt steered. That seemed to work pretty well.
I'm mainlining coffee and Guinness right now to stay somewhat coherent but feel my plan is starting to fail me. So before I have to go back tomorrow and delete half the things I wrote today, let me say goodbye for now.
Cheers
Mark "Mutton Chops" Mitchell
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