Your Patience earns Copy

Thank you for following me. Now here's a secret:

There's more to the story, and I'll have it completed by July 31st. It'll be pdf, and you'll get a copy, before I submit it to a publisher.

Then, when published, a book to you as well.

All I ask is this:

Who are you?

Me, QC, LOUDNESS, and PD narrating in Gogarty's Pub, Temple Bar, Dublin

Beware of the One Armed Man...

After dinner with Uncle Ray, I decided to play golf the next day.

Yes, I play golf. I love it. I can learn more about a person on a course than I can over a pint. Golf is all about recovery. The past shot doesn't fucking matter. Play, with only what you have.

The club pro asked me to pair up, so I waited for another single. I met Mac O'Grady.

Mac lost his right arm just below the elbow when he was 14. He plays one-handed, left backhand. He used golf to rehabilitate after the accident.

Mac's a professional. His handicap is a 6. I bogey a hole, and I'm ecstatic. His patience with my constant search for the last ball I played was saintly.

Mac told me that under all the Major tournament's, there's a one-armed version. Originally, this was promoted by a Mr. Fightmaster. Got to love that name, considering it's a one-armed duffer. Mac has participated in the US Open, and represents Europe in the Ryder Cup. He helped me with my swing, and taught me that life is all about recovery.

Thanks, Mac.

A last Galway Gala

Did a pub crawl last night with English Tom, and Kiwi Amanda. Met a slew of silly characters.

I must go a bit underground and deal with some family, but I'll update this post, and add pics and links to old posts, and create new prose over the next four days.

Thanks for reading. Maybe next Summer you'll have the Stones to come with me.


Go Rhaib Maith Agat Agus Slainte'

You can't do what?

Ever know someone who constantly bitches that they can't do something?

"I can't go on vacation."
"I can't get that new _______."
"I can't get someone to date me."

Poppycock, you stupid bastard. Upon leaving Dun Aonghasa, three men were carrying a fourth wheelchaired man. Brought him to the edge of the cliff, and even into the Stone fort.

So next time you say you can't do something, look at the picture above, and ask yourself if your friends would do that for you?

A Warrior, says the Wind...

60 minutes of bus ride, and 60 minutes of choppy boat ride, and I decided to take my fate into my own feet. I rented a bike to tour the Aran island Inis Mor.

Less than 800 people live on the Aran's. At one time, it was home to thousands. They built massive circular stone fortresses called Duns, pronounced "Dune." (Fav book) To grow crops, they combined seaweed with sand to create a fertile bedding. The stitches used for wool had special purposes: rain, cold, heat, boatwork, fieldwork.

Stopped at the old Lighthouse, highest point on the island, just up a 200m hill from the only road. I jumped the iron gate only to find a wall breech on the far side of the enclosure. In the older stone building, all the lintel stone were taken?

Facing the sea, a Double Dun. A singular stone wall, 1.2m high, and a 20m expanse to a 8m wall. It had a Roman Gate, and two levels of ramparts. I felt like a little kid, wanting a sword and a bad guy to swat.

Could you imagine living in such a place? 2om at most across, no fresh water source, but all living function, and everyone you know, right there.

Of course, I imagined directing arrow fire from the rampart down to our approaching enemies. I've seen The 13th Warrior way too many times.

Instead of the only road, I follow a series of stone enclosed paths to Gort. The birthplace of Liam O'Flaherty. A shrine in his honor was desk to my thoughts. I'm sure the author didn't mind me jotting in the journal. A local and I got to chatting. The typical bitch about times changing, the young leaving. But then he reflected, "If the young respected the old, nothing would change."

Over the hill, I saw Dun Aonghasa (Dune Angus). Impressive from a distance, and definitely no fun to siege, I don't think life there was very good. The winds kept you 2-3m from the 100m drop off. And the fort required buttresses to hold up the walls. Meaning, somebody fucked up the building of the walls. An interesting solid stone platform in center suggested a Throne area. Not a bad gig, being king.

I fought the seawind back to Ti' Joe Mac, for some Irish coffee, and Gaelacht conversation. I'm terrible, but the locals were patient. We talked of sport, no politics. I don't think politics even exists here.

The Best Conversation on Paper

I asked him to move a bit, so I could plug in my computer. A few minutes later, he got up, and looked at the photo of Connor I use as my background image.

"How many?"

"He's 16 months?"

"You have 16? Young, you?"

"No, no, Connor," pointing at the pic, "is only 16 months,"gesturing with hands stupidly.

"You too young for 16 children."

I went to the notepad. I happen to have a bottle of Museum Crianza 2003. Spanish wine. An hour, and the bottle, evaporated. He said it was good. Even without Spanish, I knew he was being polite.

Alberto is from San Sebastian, the northern part of Spain where it rains a lot. Cold too. His 12 yr. old boy likes to surf, and his 5 yr. old girl is bored. He thought the Cliffs of Moher were too short, and that Killarney was the prettiest city so far. Alberto likes stone towers more than castles.

God Bless Alberto. He's dragged his family 1100km through Ireland over the last 5 days. That's just silly.

"I like drive. My wife, no. Kids, no. But my photo..." And like that silly uncle that keeps showing you the one trip he took to Egypt, Alberto showed me every photo in his camera, over and over, until the battery crashed. We played a game, show a pic, find it on the map.

I showed him Connemarra, and gave him my map of Kylemore Abbey. He liked the wine more as the bottle waned, and wanted to see Kansas. (Yes, Jen, I swear he said Kansas. And, no, I didn't mention you.) This is Alberto's second family trip. He dragged the clan through England last year.

"Does the language barrier bother you?"

"No language. I no speak English."

Fair enough brother. We used up 3 sheets of notebook paper to converse. Maps, drawings, sketches, broken sentences, and calendars.

I drew a man in a wetsuit. I'm not good at charades, so don't pick me. Alberto explained that he wasn't a tailor, but he knows one in Barcelona. Alberto was excited about Spain beating Italy. Took 10 minutes to learn that Spain hadn't beaten Italy in 88 years.

We're meeting tomorrow to exchange pics again. I'm off to the Aran Islands, he to Connemarra.

Best conversation I've had in Ireland.

Listen with the ear of your heart...

Connemarra pics

Working with what they had...

[Connemarra produced 9 pages of notes in 8 hours, not including sketches. I hope you've nothing going for a bit.]

Who knew that a bus ride with an HR lady from Idaho, and a retired teacher from Germany would begin a sight-seeing paradise.

Connemarra is wet. Wet with water. Wet with stone. Wet with history. The name means "son of the sea." His Mother taught him well.

This driver gave a bit of Galweighan history before the road winded. Galway is a college town, hoursing 20,000 students in the school year, plus another set of medical students and residents at the teaching hospital. This explains the Ausssies from the other night at O'Connell's.

Maam Cross holds two movie icons: The Quiet Man bridge and cottage. Good flick, and my best friend's fav.

We drove into the Maam Turk mountains, and spacetime altered. The white dots on the mountain moved. A red sheep, girl; blue, boy. I preferred the black ones. Each photo stop yielded greens and grays. The smell of water, the smell of life soaked into my clothes.

In Leenane, we stopped at Gaynor's for some Irish coffee. This is the town altered to file "The Field." I've already bought the dvd, and it'll beat me home. Sitting by the fire, discussing the 15 yr old bartender's 3 yr career playing Rugby, I decided to rent a house here next summer for 6 to 8 weeks. Who's coming with?

The Killary,the only Fjord in Ireland, wound into the island here. Prince Charles likes to paint in a nearby valley.

Then came Kylemore Abbey. The story is simple. Rich guys takes new bride to Connemarra, likes the place, builds a castle. They kick. Two Benedictine nuns kicked out Ypres by the fucking krauts like the place, borrow 45,000 pounds sterling from the Catholic church, and renovate the place, even adding a boarding school for girls. Madonna is sending her clone here.

But all that is meaningless compared to the impossible bucolic beauty of the place. I've included one pic above. (By the by, I'll throw all my pics up to picasa upon return.)

Silver limestone, wet with rain, reflected a cloudy sun. Patches of green with dots of white flitting about. Water reflecting up all that went down on it. And Stone. Hard granite, soft Limestone, mean red brick, and warm gray clay.

In the Bothy, I found a latin prayer book, a discussion in French of God and Love, and Byron's Poetical works. The stove had a simple lever system to bring a stewpot in and out. I do love the Irish stew.

The furrows of the garden patterned after Celtic knotwork. A City Gardener from Dublin explained the difference in the red and gray brick. Red brick doesn't hold hear, but the gray has more clay and the walls are built with hollow passages. The metal greenhouses butt up against the gray brick. In the winter, a fire was lit in a small chamber at the base of the wall, and the heat went up the walls, keeping the greenhouses warm in the long and dark Irish winters. The builders were "working with what they had," he taught. He later explained the use of Dalkey granite in the building of the castle. How lintel stone was different than wall stone was another mystery the Teacher, er, Gardener taught me.

The final site was the contained Gothic church and cemetery for the dedicated nuns. The stained glass in the main alcove gave silloeutte to Christ on the Cross. Even a pagan like me was moved, took a knee, and remembered what the nun's at St. Joseph's taught me.

The wireless here is acting up...I'll add more later...just working with what I have.

Follow the free beer...

So the hostel I'm staying offers a free pint when you eat dinner at Busker Brown's.

Very posh, clean whites and browns in a opening space. The bar remains above as you move to the back and lower into a pit of tables a big screen TV. Spain and Italy tonight. Lots of couples, and well dressed, business and church types.

Since I dress like a lesbian, I was the lone chocolate chip in a cookie. No matter, the bartender greeted me well. He and I, along with my bench mate, discussed Rugby.

The Bartender, Barry, played his Rugby locally and was recruited by Eastern Suburbs in Sydney at an early age. Tall boy, and I saw the talent. He happily admitted to drinking his career away. Then, on a series of bar naps, he built my Connemarra tour route for tomorrow. (I've "hired" a car. Rent, that is, and I hope to only kill a few people driving on the wrong side of the road.) His browned teeth didn't dull his smile, and he spoke of Irish Rugby. "We're so close to taking all those bastards!" "O'Gara's the business!!!" He was proud of the West's emergence into Rugby. Typically dominated by Leinster(Dublin area), and Munster(Southwest/Limerick), both Connacht(Galway) and Ulster(Blefast) have begun to show signs of rucking. Good on 'em. Connor will need an academy to attend.

Barry hates England more than I do. Didn't think that possible.

To my left was Chauncey, or Charlie, or some "Ch" sounding name, with various syllables slurred behind. No matter. A fantastic conversationalist, especially when no one is listening. He too loved the game played in Heaven. Said he played until Senior grade, and stopped due to injury. An hour later, I found him "resting" at the Kebab shop. This country doesn't have Gatorade, so I don't know what they use for hangovers.

Neither man still played, though both 10 years my junior. I asked why? "Don't have time, plus I've got this bar to run," bellowed Barry. Chuckster drooled and squinted, "Fuck's sake. (insert drivel here)"

This is something to be investigated.

And now something completely different...

Paradigms

The most common question I get once identified American:

"Who are you going to vote for?"

I'm apolitical. (Actually, I'm politically incorrect.) 3 Australians and a New Zealander, by way of London, knew completely the issues in the upcoming election for US president. Healthcare, the War, Gas Prices, and the inevitable racism question. Fascinating. Don't they have anything cool to talk about with their politicians? My apathy was a surprise, but respected.

A prime minister of Australia was caught in a strip club. (Cultural Dance Center, in Rugby parlance). His popularity soared. This rare moment of press exposure actually helped the man.
2 of the Aussies were doctors, residents specifically. Why Ireland? Less competition, and easier boards. James wanted to be a cardiologist. Both he and Phil were recruited by the NHS to come to Ireland. The Irish don't want to become doctors. So these kids get to work only 40 hours a week, get paid well, and live in Galway. Actually, they live in O'Connell's pub.

American Residents get worked over like a guy caught cheating in a casino. 40 hours over 3 days, not 7, is common. Wages are subhuman when calculated per hour. Our Australian Doctors want nothing to do with America. Even though they'd make more money, the price for the prize is too high for them.

Our TV dramas are all about Doctors and Lawyers. Theirs tell stories of regular 9 to 5ers. Fascinating, the small cultural differences.

Like tipping. You don't tip here. It's fucking freakish, especially for a drunk like myself who's usually tipping high because he sang some obnoxious song; or was louder than a Daisy Cutter, scaring the pretty ones out of the bar. In Galway, they sing back, and don't expect a gratuity.

I'm learning about the difference in Ambition. The Irish Dream, while changing due to the Celtic Tiger Economy, is still not the American Dream. Our politics concern them from a global perspective, not dramatic. Despite the massive changes, they remain Irish.

I've only seen this in Galway. Dublin had only brief moments of charm.

Visit here soon.

1m from Infinity, or 235m from a shallow sea

The Cliffs of Moher are home to over 200 species of birds. Sheer faces of rock, the highest cliff is 235m. (To the North in Donegal, a cliff face into the sea is 600m high)

At the base of the second highest cliff, there's a rock church. A platform juts out at the sea base of the cliff. At the back is a block of stone that starts square but rises to a spire. The spire stone has 2/3 of it's base cut away by the waves, creating an overhang. At this time, the tide was only licking the floor of my church.

Finally, a place I could see myself worship.

Soda Bread

Fitzpatrick's in Doolin had the best beef stew, sided with Soda bread.

I'm renaming my kitchen, The Carvery. The first Sunday night I'm back, dinner is served.

All the rivers are underground

In the Burren, county Clare, all the rivers are underground. This is due to the porous nature of the Limestone.

340 Million years ago, Ireland was at the equator beneath a tropic sea. As sea life died, the remains settled to the bottom, and pressure and time made the limestone. Glaciers scrapped off the top layers of sediment and shale. The result: A grey moonscape with patches of green. Ironically, the only place in the world where livestock are brought UP the mountain to winter.

Any time an underground river surfaces, an abbey or church is built. Then come the village huts. Then the pub, or anti-church.

Quentin, an 18 yr old from Brittany on his first solo holiday, and I stole a rock from the Burrren. We giggled like Rugby players who just sold a dummy.

Random Galweighan Observations

Lugh(Apollo) does not sleep long here. He retires at about half eleven and is up again before six. He fathered a great warrior, Setanta, who later became the Hound of Cooley. One must pick his watchdog wisely.

Buy Ear plugs.

Radio is dominated by bad covers of bad top 40 hits.

Ireland is now 10% imigrant, mostly eastern europeans. They do the all jobs the Irish won't do. Sound familiar?

They bitch about invasion. Island nations have two choices: Invade, or be invaded.

I was here for a summer at age 15. I spent about $100 US, for the 8 weeks. It's now a day rate.

Castles should be pink, if they had the original plaster on them.

The Full Irish Breakfast

Fried Eggs
Sausages
Hashers (Bacon)
Hash Browns
White Pudding
Black Pudding
Beans
Mushrooms
Tomato half
Toast
Coffee

All for 9-10 Euro.

Who's coming over for breakfast?

The Poem on the Wall

Ring the Bells that still can ring.
Forget your Perfect Offering.
There is a crack in Everything.
That's how the light gets in.

Galway, the Base of Operations

Galway has opened herself to me, and I am grateful.

About 20% cheaper than Dublin, plus the inhabitants are more Irish, less foreign. Dublin had the feel of any international city. Chocolate brownie, topped with caramel and walnuts.

The Spanish Arch is not worth a pic.

Heraldry blankets this place. The Ievers Tribe's Crest has a Talbot Passant with the motto, Semper Fidelis.

The Corrib River Locks: Terraced waters with fishermen. Rolling greens separated by sluices. I give you three wise men and a poem on wood.

A Train to Galway

Random notes from my 3.5 hour jaunt.

An American, from San Jose, lives in China and sells construction materials and plywood to the Irish. Ireland has the highest GDP in the world currently.

Eggs, Bacon, and Mayo on wheat.

Hedgegroves. I see why they gave the Army fits in France. The Row houses look like any suburb.

Tullamore, conversations on the train are whispered, but phone calls screamed. Teenage girls text loudest of all.

Athlone. I see a church tower and a Sheraton. They have TV antennas here? Gorgeous Copper dome over-looking the Corrib river. A stone water tower guards an Opel dealership, O'Meara's. (Mom took me the doctor once in an Opel, I had a bad reaction to an insect sting.)

Ballinasloe. "Beal Atha na Sluaighe" Pine tree farms, rooves shone silver at high sun, and legions of honeysuckle bushes. The train station platform was ringed with flower pots, and hanging red carnations.

I notice stone. Stone houses, stone fences, stone quarrys. Reminds me of growing up in North Jersey, random stone fences made to mark estates.

Athenry "Baile A'tha na Ri'" The Rugby Pitch was unlined, the Georgian homes reminded me that only Angels and Elves can die, and fields of grass lined by dark granite, each rock placed by hand.

An Ivied tower sits alone and empty, the Green and Grey competing for the sun.

The Beach is empty. The Breaks were low, shite surf.

Ceannt Station. Armed Guards with Bull-pups line the streets. (Not Dogs, deep-barrel automatic weapons, very like the MP-5)

"Why the armed guards?"

"The Bank Run."

I will find this bank, better be impressive.

A Walk in the Rain

I walked in the rain. In the Irish National Library, I met WB Yeats. Yeats had a promoter, Sylvia Beach. She gathered the greatest literary minds of her age under the name of the Bard. Sinead O'Connor read "No Second Troy" to me. Sailing to Byzantium, I found the title of this year's Oscar winner.

This tall, unpopular man invited me to join the Hermetic Society of the Golden Dawn. We had to find the Lake Isle of Innisfree, using interactive touch screens, and audio clues in Gaelacht.

Across a courtyard, sat the Archaelogy Museum. Cameras verboten, the sketchbook collected an evangelical symbol from the 10th century, a railing mermaid, a Viking's head, and a Dragon's cane.

Dead Bog men, twisted and contorted, told me how they died. Violence. Axes to head and chests, nipples removed, and torsoes staked to the bottom of a bog. That way, we could find them, and hear their stories.

The Epicurean Foodhall fed me an All Day Cure, complete with tomato relish. I walked home.

The rain came down, harder.

Finding Ireland

The remaining Fog stragglers wanted one more chance at the club scene. Kevin doesn't enjoy crowds.

I went looking for Ireland, and found it at the hotel bar. (Always stay at hotel with a bar, always.)

At half twelve, the tourists and out-of-towners were shown the door. The locals, and the hotel guests remained. Songs, stories, people and pints waltzed about the room.

Seamus poured, and sang an Irish lay about a man coming back from war. I belted out a song of the sea. I met the 6'5" 300+ bouncer, who wanted to play American football. John, 66 years old, was a champion wrestler. Sev, the deskman, carried his thick Russian accent in a bucket, scoffing at ales as he inhaled vodka.

We spoke of Irish history. 1916. 1922. 1947. We sang the praises of Michael Collins, whispered politicians names, and I failed to understand the Lisbon treaty. Healthcare is grand, as long as you don't need a dentist, or major surgery.

And smoking is allowed. Hell, you could walk to Belfast and back on cigarette butts. Nasty fookin' habit, according to Seamus. He chained the moment the bar lights came on.

Rugby talk was thick. Peter Stringer? Bollix. BOD? Great runner, couldn't tackle homework. Hurley found a stick, but getting hit across the shins with ashwood is less than fun. And the Dubs are in the All Ireland Football final this Sunday at Croke Park. Do you know the history of Croke park?

The Rugby is done. I'm in Ireland now.

Guinness is Endless

I have been trying to drink all the Guinness. I have failed.

The tourney did not end well for the Fog. I'll see the bastards again in two years.

The celebrations did end well for the Fog. I'll see the team again in two weeks.

Videos and game results can be found at: binghamcup.com A big thank you to the Emerald Warriors for the weekend. Well Done.

The Drunk Post

The Rugby did not go well.

So, we got hammered.

Sadly, I'm building a pb n j and slamming water, after an attempt to consume all the Guinness in the Emerald Isle. Fuck sake, I'm spinning.

How was your Sunday? Church, I suppose.

Love and Family

Have you told anyone that you loved them today?

Black Mike's partner died yesterday from an AIDS related stroke.

Mikey played the best Rugby of his life that day. When he got the news later that evening, 1/2 the team stayed up all night with him. Behind the scenes, the team booked his flight and transportation from the airport home, and then drove him to the Dublin airport.

In today's rugby, matches were won, but that doesn't matter. We lost a member of our family.

Do me a favor. Tell someone you love them. Now. Right fucking now.

Fleas in a Jar

We had an easy one against the Philadelphia Gryphons. I respect the proper spelling.

We had a fist fight with Manchester. North England boys play hard, nasty by some standards, but that's just English Rugby. Getting punched in the face <> losing. I didn't punch anyone...I swear.

Two observations:

The Stateside teams typically don't get a full 100m x 70m pitch. They looked like trained fleas. (Put fleas in a jar, seal with lid. Over a day or so, you can take the lid off, because the fleas have been trained to jump only lid high, thus never leaving the jar.) Huge swaths of green grass unused, some matches looked like little kids playing soccer.

The Referees were invisible, as they should be. Yes, penalties and scrums were awarded. I may have created a penalty myself. However, the referees never became a factor. "Oh we lost because of the ref," just doesn't exist in Ireland. You may not know this, but NO ONE speaks to the referee outside the Captain. No one. Fascinating to watch Americans who've been cussing zebras since HS clamping down on mouthpieces.

I was going write some philo-psycho-bullshit about people living their lives in a flea jar, blaming others for their losses...

...but, instead here's a set of pics from Big Dave.

Friday's Match Results

Check out my club website or the tourney site for fixture results.

The Tournament

I'm here to play Rugby.

What's that? Chess, with bruises.

We've arrived at DCU, and have suffered two pre-tournament parties. This pic is from the Dragon, off George St. To your left, Pain, to your right, Tiny Dancer and Commander Angry. We had free Guinness, and when we went to the Foggy Dew, post an Italian restaurant, we drank more Guinness. (A theme?) The Lasagna del Torro danced on the tongue. Dublin shakes with pasta and pad thai, but I've yet to see a Chinese Buffet or German food. You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a restaurant in San Francisco. Dublin is mostly pub food. Heavy, meaty, and served with a pint. (Oh, Christ, I'm an Irish Pub)

The DCU welcome party forced me to find a take-away shop. (It's not food "to go" but to "take away") Next door was a supermarket, where I asked the counter girl where I could find PB and J. "Are they your friends?" Fascinating.

Full Match Reports tomorrow.

Smokers, Shoppers, Texters, and Drinkers

I have the discovered the four main personalities in Dublin.

Myers Briggs may have their ideas, but here's the observation:

Smokers: I can walk from the Spire to the Brazen Head entirely on cigarette butts.

Shoppers: Sloths sprint in comparison.

Texters: Head down, fingers ablaze, fun to bump into.

Drinkers: The Temple Bar area is known as Temple Barf. Rivers of Guinness scented vomit, and classy girls peeing in doorways. It was Wednesday.

The Garden of Remberance

IN THE DARKNESS OF DESPAIR WE SAW A VISION
WE LIT THE LIGHT OF HOPE
AND IT WAS NOT EXTINGUISHED
IN THE DESERT OF DISCOURAGEMENT WE SAW A VISION
WE PLANTED THE TREE OF VALOUR
AND IT BLOSSOMED

IN THE WINTER OF BONDAGE WE SAW A VISION
WE MELTED THE SNOW OF LETHARGY
AND THE RIVER OF RESURRECTION FLOWED FROM IT

WE SENT OUR VISION ASWIM LIKE A SWAN ON THE RIVER
THE VISION BECAME A REALITY
WINTER BECAME SUMMER
BONDAGE BECAME FREEDOM
AND THIS WE LEFT TO YOU AS YOUR INHERITANCE

O GENERATIONS OF FREEDOM REMEMBER US, THE GENERATIONS OF THE VISION

Liam MacUistin

Imagery

Clear evidence. Me at the Spire, a pointless piece of phallic architecture. Bluey, Ranger (aka the World's Fastest Fire Hydrant), and Denny. A poem from Joseph O'Connor, reminds me of San Francisco.

Pics challenge

My laptop won't be online 'til Thursday. I'll post pics then.

Dalkey: The Goat Castle and the Syrian Cross

Before the Liffey was dredged and walled, goods came into Dalkey. Protected within 7 Castles, imports muled up to Dublin. This hilly town with two harbors sleeps gently just south of Dun Laoghrie. 500 years earlier when awake, she breathed with money and strangers. Ergo, Dalkey attracted a who's who list of authors and poets:

[JM Synge, Brian O'Nolan, LAG Strong, Denis Johnston, Frank McGuinness, Gordon Snell, Lennox Robinson, Joseph O'Connor, Bernard Farrell, Maeve Binchy, Hugh Leonard, Samuel Beckett, and James Joyce]

At the Goat Castle, a local theater company treated us to life in medieval times during the tour. The English bowman and gate keeper asked for a song of my country. I sang "One skin, two skin." They had no retort.

Outside the castle rested a 10th Century church with 3 curiosities. One, the ground had swelled a good 2 meters above the street, from the repeated burials. Ew. Two, a tau cross made of petrified Cedar from the Middle East marks a grave. Above it, carved in the Stone Wall, is a Syrian Cross. Considering the Catholic, Anglican, and Church of Ireland history of the Church of St. Begnet, no one knows the origins of the marker or cross. Could it be that someone from the East was given a traditional burial from their home country?

Literary Inspiration, coupled with an openness for strangers, is the definition of Irish Hospitality.

Slainte'.

Chocolate Brownies

Heat up your standard chip-laden 1.5" thick chocolate brownie. Add vanilla ice cream.

Then, place a small bowl in the center of the plate, filled with whole milk.

A bit of brownie, a scoop of ice cream, then fill the remaining space on the Atlantic-sized spoon with the milk.

Any Questions?

The Crossing

Remember internet cafes? Machine upon machine, sleepers and gamers, and that guy with the lung-tossing cough?

They still exist, do not fear.

I began The Crossing 9am PST, and this post is half eight local, 0030h in SF. I've slept approximately 5 hours.

Ranger and I flew to Altanta first. Ranger, was 3rd Bat, Bravo 375th. Artillery spotter, he and I have chewed similiar dirt, though 15 years apart. Ever been to Fallujah? Ranger, aka The Firehydrant, and I are workout partners in crossfit.

Flying to Atlanta never felt like travelling. Only on the plane to Dublin, did the tide change. I attempted television, only to have my earlier conclusion reinforced. (Yes, it's true, Kevin doesn't have a TV in his house.) So I talked with Sue.

Sue and her husband were embarking on a 6 week tour of Europe. They had promised this to themselves after a short stint in London together. That was 35 years ago. Between, Sue raised two boys in Idaho, ran the school library, and when the Special Education teacher bailed, took on the toughest job in Education. Sue helped me run the table on the Plane's trivia competition. Her boys grew up to be engineeers, computer science and structural. We both agreed that my friend Liz looks like Julia Roberts in "Charlie Wilson's War."

And the synchronic wisdom she gave me: "After the kids were gone, we had to talk to each other. "

In Dublin, the Fog found each other, and moved directly to the Jameson's distillery. Since Father Steve doesn't drink whiskey, and Jaime's wife is preggers, the Black Mountain and I got a double share. Include the tasting competition to which I humbly volunteered, and I was singingly drunk. Sine Metu.

We discussed the EU and Irish voting, and people's desire for cures, not processes. Over dinner at Gruel (Voted Best Diner in Dublin by people who vote in such things) we marveled, reveled, and scared the shit out of the natives.

A final pint of Guinness, and abed. I wonder what today will bring?

Rugby Love Found in Rugby Rucks

A soulmate of mine, Jacob, moved to London to be with his Lover, G. G is not out. Jacob is out enough for the both of them. Both grew up in strict, conservative, religious households. Then again, God loves a sinner.

What possessed Jacob to uproot over 5,000 miles? Would you do that?

G ferociously plays the game, Jacob scouts the cute boys. G tackles, Jacob couldn't tackle homework. G will play for his hometown club, while Jacob straps it on for our B side.

We discovered their itemness at an after-match social, when they arrived in matching ties and sweater vests. It was SO gay. Perfect way to announce to the world, "Hey, we're in love, in coordinated ascots." When G moved back overseas, Jacob danced through the fire and hell of bureaucracy to get to him. They now live in the village that gave us P.B. Shelley.

Jacob and G get married on June 20th. What a way to come out...

Mark Bingham, The Why?

Google Mark Bingham. You'll find a Man.

Mark played for the San Francisco Fog Rugby Club until he lost his life on Flight 93 over the fields of Pennsylvania, September 11, 2001.

I never met Mark. I have heard 100s of stories about him. I could live a 1000 years and never meet his kind.

Mark is King Leonidas. Though 300 is considered gay porn by most of my teammates, I liken that story to his. He went into battle knowing the outcome, his doom.

What does one do when faced with mortality? Technically, nobody lives forever. But when does that thought take hold? Some say it's when your parents pass. Some, the birth of your first child. Is it when a doctor tells you have cancer?

Or, you're in a metal tube with 50 strangers and 4 psychopaths, hurling at 500 miles per hour at 30,000 feet, and you just learned that the friends of the 4 dickheads up front have crashed planes into buildings.

The Bingham Cup is Rugby tournament, celebrating the life of a Man.

Google Mark Bingham. You'll find that Man.

Tune Up Matches for the Bingham Cup show two Strong Sides

We played Berkeley and Stanislaus on Saturday in 4 40 minute matches, to simulate conditions during the Bingham Cup in Dublin. We ate the fruits of our focus.

Oregon Mike led our trusty tight five up the pitch, and the return of rice queen Stewie brought needed stability back to the scrum.

Stewie is dating Vince. Vince is maybe 130 lbs, with a 400 lbs heart. Watching this skinny twink throw his body around is inspiring. Right next to him is 52 year old Duke. He started playing Rugby last year. Do the math.

Travis shattered his leg four months ago. T was hitting people as if he was swinging his set of crutches instead of his shoulders. Travis looks forward to the plague that ends Mankind. Well, he's looking for 50-60% loss. Very good of him.

But the player of the day was Big Chris. 40 plus, he just came out, in both senses of the word. He broke his nose in about 30 seconds, got patched up, built the bbq and keg stand for the after party, cooked and served the remainder of the afternoon. The man is selfless.

The time. The effort. The focus. In ten days time, 75 members of the SF Fog invade Dublin. Each has a story on how they got there. You'll read about them here.

The Backpack...The Story of Black Mike

This is my backpack. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

My teammate, Black Mike, gave it to me for my Ireland walkabout. No reason, just gave it to me. It speaks to his soul, and his story.

Black Mike busts his ass in corporate America, in the hospitality industry. He does this to keep his partner in health insurance, provided by the hotel owners. Black Mike's partner is HIV positive, and they've been together for years. One look at their eyes when they look at each other, and you see a level of intimacy...no...connection, oneness, satiation, consciousness.

Mike just started playing Rugby last year. Big and strong, the poor unfit bugger couldn't go longer than a few scrums and rucks on the pitch. He's had a few nagging injuries, mostly joint problems. For those playing the game they play in heaven, you know what it's like.

He's become a student of the game while sidelined. He's throwing dummies, trucking bitches, and you can feel his power in the rucks.

He wears really tight shorts. And on a 230 lbs, 5' 8" fire-hydrant frame, moving at ludicrous speed, the shorts become the least of your problems. Mike is no fun to tackle.

Thanks for the backpack, Mike.

The First Post

After Bingham Cup, I'm walking around Ireland for 2 weeks.

Literally. No agenda. No reservations. Just letting the muse take me.

I invite you join me.