a cup of tea

i've poured myself a cup of tea, found a wonderful function on thehip.com and settled down on the table that matty and i spent yesterday creating.

hmm, that's a story worth telling.

we have a coffee table thinks it's a kitchen table. really, we have no one to blame but ourselves for this poor object and it's potentially harmful and obviously unhealthy identity crisis because that is exactly what we use it for. and, again, we have no one to blame but ourselves when 1/2 the legs found better things to do than to stay attached to the base.

needless to say dinner was an awkward acrobatic act, especially when more that no people attempted to eat around the dinner table. two months of dealing with this was all it took for matt and i to take matters into our own hands.

so we did what two ex-students can only do: made one out of what we had lying around.

our new table wasn't as welcomed as we would have liked.

"i don't think the landlord will like it" was the aussie's two cents.
"that's weird thing to think, seing as he doesn't live here and you're not him".
"are you guys going to buy a new one?"
"a new what?"
"table"
[at this point matty paused in an attempt to determine the point at which they had lost each other and why he was having as much trouble, or any trouble at all explaining this to the aussie. he was also curious why he had to explain anything at all. i mean, just look at this thing matty said to himself what isn't awesome about it. when himself and matty came to the conclusion that neither had anything short of brilliant they continued the conversation with the aussie. this process took three seconds.]
"why? we made this one."
"it's just not my cup of tea, that's all."

in the end matty and i had fun making a table that looks totally awesome. and, in the end, isn't that all that matters?

hopefully soon our three legged table will become four, but that was all we had lying around the house.

stuffed

christmas isn't christmas without ...

... stuffing. everyone needs a good serving of stuffing, sometimes people need more. occasionally people take too many and are told by their body that one serving less than eight would have been six too many. unfortunately, the body has a rather rude way of communicating this, and most often hiding little from anyone around you because, really, who can ignore food on their plate that isn't theirs and wasn't just inside them, despite resembling that which recently existed inside someone.

... watching christmas vacation. i did get to watch it here, twice for that matter, although i did not catch the first few minutes involving actually getting the tree and audrie's eye's being froze shut. classic, simply classic.

... a tree. we have one in the main area. i am taller than it, and not in the dad saying he's taller than me way but in a way that is real and exists in a logical universe. that sentence previous isn't so much a christmas story but a cheap excuse to wind dad up about being shorter than i.

... a new tooth brush. mom, thank you for the travel-sized brush, paste and floss.

happy holidays!

education

this is neat, and i feel that a few readers will find it interesting. don't worry, it doesn't change my mind because i still want to be a professor.



... merry christmas.


an added thought

i was going to tell a few stories of christmas day, the evening before and how st. steven's day (boxing) went (including midnight mass, matty and my stuffing adventure and how much conversation differs here and at home) but i've spent too much time messing with the layout, changing my picture and being a nerd in general.

my appologies. after some sleep i'll make it up to you.

two thirds

there are also two franks, and both drink budweiser which makes it rather difficult to distinguish between the two in conversation.

that's not really true. we call one big frank because he's six three two fifty and works construction; the other we call frank. i guess it's actually the clearest concept with all things considered.

big frank shares with me all the faults of the owner, who should be served next and why i am the best canadian bar man named brad he has ever had. other frank has no problem parting with his money, or so it seems with the way he plays poker.

i have more stories about big frank, but they'll have to wait until i've thought about them more experienced them. stay tuned though, cause they're going to be grrrrrrrreat.

the second two

there are two 25 year olds at the pub. i am one, and ahmed is the other. he pronounces my name as bread and, because of this, the witty scottish guy at work has taken to calling me toast.

amhed doesn't bartend, he busses (gathers glasses, wash-up, etc). since he doesn't do any serving the patrons often grow impatient and regress to their terrible two's, therefore ensuring immediate service from one of the barstaff.

one night beamish john was in with a woman; she was beamish john drunk. she got a bit confused, as most do, and told ahmed what she wanted to drink. ahmed, understanding that explaining to her what is written above would get him no where, told me the order instead, which i double checked with her.

whoops.

she told me what she had told ahmed, and was upset that she had to remember what it was she had ordered a few moments earlier and wondered why i hadn't remember it.

"i just told you" she replied, testily. apparently she hadn't noticed that i was two inches shorter than ahmed, wore glasses and was not a black guy. unsure how to clear this mess up, i decided it would be best if she simply had another drink. john sat still, looking at me with all the wonderment of a person who is curious how a pink elephant is able to put on a black dress shirt and speak his language.

i brought them their drinks.

it was clear that i had made a big mistake because she looked at me the way someone looks at a person they have never seen before offering her a drink she didn't know wasn't a squirrel.

"what are those?" as far as i could tell she was referencing the drinks i had prepared, but it could just as easily have been the reasons for my having come to work in the first place, which i was, at that moment, attempting to determine.

then, from the other end of the bar i heard "toast, get back to work." and i smiled.

the first two

there are two of some things at the pub.

there are two john's. one drinks beamish, and the other drinks guinness. john beamish is not as nice as john guinness. sometimes he goes by john kilkenny because that is where he is from.

beamish john drinks a lot, but so does everyone else at the bar ... i'll need to describe other characterists of him to set him apart. he has long hair. that is longer hair that i and i have a brush cut. he will often look a person over with a passing glazed look. this is because he is drunk. he is often short with people. this is also because he is drunk. he often comes in with a different woman. i don't think this is because he is drunk, however the fact that the same woman does not come back with him is likely because he is drunk.

kilkenny john does not have a glazed look, he is not short with people and he does not have many girlfriends. his is not drunk, however it is difficult for me to use the word drunk when describing kilkenny john because beamish john is drunk, and kilkenny john is not beamish john drunk.

have i lost you yet? i do appologize. let me make it up to you by ending this post and trying again tomorrow.

a familiar smirk

she did what? was steve's reaction. he then began his own journey through the stages of post-confrontation that i had just been through; the difference being mine would have made the script for jungle book while his would have to be cut from bad boys three.

i was sent back up the street armed with a bottle of dry gin, whiskey and a new pair of pants when lo and behold who was there at the door to usher me in ... but ruth. she tapped her cigarette, smirked at me and said my, my, my. you did get a scolding from that ol'bat, didn't cha!

she continued to tell me how it wasn't my fault and that was just the b***h person she was and she had no right blah blah blah. i smiled. i thanked ruth. i hugged ruth. i walked in to the pub.

where's the brandy? the old bat snarled. i held my bladder ground. it'll be here tomorrow i lied now give me the damn ice i thought. just a minute then.

i rested my elbow and forearm on the bar, all non shalant like, and looked off to my left at nothing in particular - the way someone who is really uncomfortable does as they try to compensate for the uncomfortableness of it all - when out of the corner of my eye a certain hat catchs my attention.

brad said charlie with a tilt, wink and a smirk. i guess you'll get your ice after all.

it was relieving to know that the two of them had been behind me, with me, the whole time. i hadn't been alone. i returned the smirk (i can't get the tilt and wink quite right).

we'll be down to see you in a few minutes, brad. then he rolled his gaze around the room as if absorbing it all in. get out of this place if you know what i mean.

sure thing charlie. sure thing.

edicate is not proper etiquette

one night we were running out of ice at the pub.

this happens on occasion. it happens more often when the ice machine is broken. for a week.

this particular night i was elected to go begging for ice from the neighbouring pubs, which isn't so much of a daunting task since it is ireland and neighbouring pubs are more numerous than numerousness itself. put more finitely: eight on mccurtian st which is about the length of two soccer football fields.

two weeks previous i was elected to go begging for brandy, gin and whiskey because we had none. a good enough reason to go looking for some. it is an even better reason to order and have it delivered, but who am i to judge the organizational skills of my employer? i'm the guy elected as the begging face of the pub, that's who. it puts me in no place to say anything.

on with the story brad
fine

on the search for liquor i ended up a Galaghers on the corner. they had one bottle of each. i returned to work victorious.

two weeks later i end up back at galaghers on the corner. knowing they helped me out before i was already planning my walk home: i would walk out the door and down the street fifty paces.

i asked her in a way one might expect a question involving the borrowing of ice from one person on behalf of another. her response resembled something one might expect of the devil him herself if Herself was pouring a pint of beer and asking where her booze was from two weeks ago.

my face went pink, my pants dampened and the entire bar turned to look at me as if i had a pink face and wet pants.

when she asked a second time i realized i hadn't answered and thought about how rude i must appear to be. after she asked the third time i replied in my best confrontation voice

i don't know.

her look told me that what i had said wasn't enough to get me the ice.

the walk was as unenjoyable as it could have been. i muttered to myself what most people mutter when they don't perform up to hollywood's standards of confrontational etiquette. if only we had one more take was i thought as i crossed the shel's threshold.

ham and cheesey humour

i've a new destraction. those who know me, and you do because you're reading this, will understand this to be a tuesday; those who don't know me won't find this funny.

and rightly so, because it isn't.

this morning i had tea while a techie from the tv company installed the cable and internet. i would have offered him a cup but i didn't think of it until now.

i have to work very hard to get away from spending all my time ... sorry, i just lost my train of thought - i got caught watching the episode of scrubs that came on after the one that pulled me away from writing this post.

in other news ... i made a ham tonight for dinner, and tried my luck again with roasting potatoes. by made i mean boiled and by tried my luck again with i mean made. i had never heard of boiling ham before, but i suppose i had never read the packaging before either.

before going to the supermarket to buy the pinapples i never put in the roasting pan i didn't use i stopped at a book store to buy the first cook book containing a ham recipe.

i couldn't find one.

and i think i'll have some of those pinapple bits now.

in a fix

not having my glasses created a some difficulties.

for people who don't wear glasses life changed very little. there's a person who works with them who has, for some unknown reason, decided to change his appearance. perhaps he got a hair cut or removed a piercing or not worn his pen to work today.

for me everyone has come to work as a darkish blurry area.

ruth told me that i should bring the spectacles into her office and have them fixed. i say to myself no they are under warranty and i will fly them back to canada. then i say to my thought that that is silly because i don't know which of the blurry areas around me is a post office and i would be better off getting a new pair getting them fixed buying some glue.

everyone around me has taken to letting me know how much better i look in contacts. i thank them politely and make a mental note to remove them from my christmas card list. i make a second mental note to write a christmas card list to later remove them from.

three days go by and more and more people are asking about my glasses. i have never spoken to most of these people before, why on earth do they feel as though they need to comment about my glasses? i have a strange feeling that once i have my glasses glued back together we will have exhausted our mutual interests and have nothing more to say to each other than thanks, yes and do you want a pint.

buying the glue was a whole other adventure. not so much getting it, that was straight forward, but i learned a lesson about storage.

glue comes from a store. it comes in a tube that needs, for some unknown reason, to be assembled. the tube is assembled, applied to the glasses and stored safely in a matter of minutes. as the glasses dry i watch a movie from the couch read a book held in my hand.

when my glasses are dry i proudly put them on, quite glad that it only took me a few euro and a matter of minutes to fix them rather than the six to eight weeks allowed for delivery.

when my glasses dry i realize that my pocket has also dried, and in it the tube of glue that was improperly disassembled and stored. i sit there wondering this wasn't a written warning until i realize it is described clearly in a series of pictures on the packaging i shredded while getting at the glue.

i suppose you have learned a lesson in storage.

making a spectacle

i recently broke my glasses.

i have had the same pair of glasses for three years now, or, more specifically appropriately, the same style. they haven't been the same glasses because the frames are total crap, made of cheep plastic and will not stand up to regular wear and tear or feet.

they are warrantied as long as they weren't run over by a car or stepped on. in the nine times they have been broken, they have never been run over by a car (or a foot, as far as the shop knows).

the ninth break somewhat agitated me, but we'll get to that in a moment.

one - i took off my sweater and they came off with it. i then stepped on the sweater.
two - i had them on the top of my head which i threw back in a fit of laughter. in that same fit of laughter i took a step back.
three - at work they fell to the ground and lost them. they found a coworkers boot.
for, fifth, 6, seaven, ate - i stepped on them.

the ninth somewhat agitated me, and we'll get to that in a .. now.

Cork, Ireland. Dec 11th, 8:00 pm.

i was at work discussing my tendency to prop my glasses on my head.
i have them up there because i am near sighted.
i have them up there because when i am close to someone/thing i can see them/it without glasses.
i have them up there because they generate conversation.

ruth works in a spectacle shop called Crowleys where they make glasses of themselves, not spectacles. she says that people my age don't do what i do until they get beyond my age. i asked if she meant abandon responsibility and she furrowed her brow in confusion. i smiled to tell her that i knew what she meant.

then the pen behind my ear fell to the ground. at least, that is what i thought until i realized a) i hadn't heard it hit the ground and b) i never had one there to begin with. at the second realization my glasses slid from my face and a third came to mind: i had recently broken my glasses.

for one more book list

the first time since my first time i have read a book in one day. mitch albom's for one more day. mom, you'll know him because dad read tuesdays with morrie; i think leanne and mandy have both read that one too.

for one more day was good. i enjoy these kind of reads because i'll find myself examining what i'm doing and if i'm happy with it, what i'd like to do differently, what i'm doing right .. and so on. it makes me feel bad about wasting time and gets me thinking about how to make the most of the time i've got.

there's a part that i like in a conversation between the ex-ball player and another character; the ballplayer has realized he might die soon.

have i much time?
i don't know
not a lot then
what' a lot?

it's all relative. makes me think. make sure not to miss a chance to blow, as a pop artist once said.

that will all seem very arbitrary to those who haven't read the book. i don't know if you'll like it, but i did; and i liked tuesdays with morrie as well. i haven't read five people you meet in heaven. the one chance i had i lost because i gave it away as a gift too quickly; should have bought it a day sooner, i would have had it for one more day.

the first book i read in one day was the old man and the sea. ironically the friend who gave me this title to read was given tuesdays with morrie to read from me ... he lost that book and, as far as i know, never read it.

i don't like lunches

i don't like the lunches. i don't talk about them when i don't have to.

i like the evenings. i talk about them when i can.

one of the reasons i like evenings, which i will now refer to as the bar because we both understand that i when i say the bar i am not talking about lunches because i don't talk about them when i don't have to, is charlie.

charlie has proud white hair with proud streaks of varying greys that he sometimes keeps under a hat with which he brings sexy back. he wears a long coat and a dark scarf. he would remind me of humphrey bogart if bogey was irish, a patron of my bar and, most importantly, alive.

a barman seldom has the opportunity to have conversations with the barpeople. that's just the nature of the job, a job of soundbites. quick, smart, snappy comments to keep them interested in me long enough to buy another round and to keep them interested in each other until i return to recharge the drinks.

not really charlie though, but about them in general. in fact, that isn't charlie at all.

charlie is the one who has the quick, smart, snappy comments that keep me going while i work the room until i return to him so he can recharge me. he loves to accent his clever remarks with a tilt of his head, a naturally rehearsed wink and a smirk that knows something more.

a woman named ruth comes in to the bar with charlie. she has a glass of wine while charlie drinks his gin and slim line tonic because it's a healthy choice. it is because he has proud white hair with some varying greys that hold my tongue and think to myself that a glass of a drink that is soft is a healthy choice.

but he drinks his drink that is not soft and entertains me while i entertain others and he gives a tilt and a wink and a knowledgeable smirk while i enjoy the evening because i enjoy being quick and smart and snappy.

adventures in corkville

i went on an adventure today and had to ask directions three times. it's something i've learned is a necessity when traveling around, because most of the time i don't have a clue where i am.

the adventure was to pick up a couple of packages that have been waiting for me at some sorting depo somewhere that i am afraid can't be walked to son. thanks man-behind-the-glass-who-thinks-he-is-my-dad.

it took me all of two hours, nearly four times longer than i had thought, and had me walking along places that were very unpedestrian. i could tell they were unpedestrian because of the increase in major highways next to me and the decrease of footpaths under me.

one man told me to walk for a bit until i saw some green trucks (irish post trucks). i thought to myself thanks, that should help.

one man came in the door after me and muttered to himself, but mostly to me, that this package had better be an important one because of all the trouble went to to get to the place.

turns out his was so important that they had kept it in the truck for the remainder of the day and wouldn't have it at this particular office until tomorrow. he'd have to wait one business day until it was ready to be picked up.

i knew this because i read the slip of paper he was holding three weeks ago when my package came in the mail.

he walked away with shaking head and rolling eyes; i walked away with a letter from home, medication and a new book which i am almost done. my package was very important and quite worth the adventure.

[i have signed up for this couch surfing site that i heard about from a friend a while back. i didn't get much of a chance to write something. hopefully i will get to a computer again soon.]

miss you all,

--b

here's to you

i was just in galway couch surfing of all things! it was another canadian i met the week before, her and her partner were in kilarney traveling. they are both from toronto. anyways, turns out this girl had a spare mattress in the living room and her roommate, three irish guys and another american girl, didn't mind that people stayed over. so i had my first couch surfing experience. it made a difference having a contact in the city i was traveling to. someone who knows the ropes and places to go and cites to see.

my first hour involved meeting a drunk in a bar. he told me that i was doing well by getting out and traveling around. at least that is what i assumed he was trying to get across to me, he was quite drunk. he invited me to another pub to by him a beer after the barlady told him he had had enough. i politely declined saying i was happy here, but that he should enjoy himself away from me. he said in restless dreams I walked alone Narrow streets of cobblestone. know who said that? simon of garfunkle.

later that day i stopped at a pub that said there was live trad music. i chatted with a man leaned 'gainst the wall. small talk about life, the universe and everything ... mostly about traveling though. the music came on shortly after he left, almost like they were waiting for him. the music played in the background as another man entered the bar and took up residence in the spot my old friend had vacated. he spent too much time talking about other people passing by behind their back in a manner that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wasn't trying to talk behind their back.

the barman brough him a sandwich and he thanked him politely. he told the next man, behind his back but not really, that he wasn't thanking him because he did nothing for him. the same goes for you he said to the man that passed by next. the sandwich came with a tea and he sipped on it quietly, but only because he mouth was otherwise occupied.

he turned to me and caught my eye. before i had turned away he snapped at me what are you looking at paul simon ? hu !

to the bar's delight he performed, as he apparently usually does, a poem he made up on the spot. it was about barmen named brian and the sandwiches he made and about christmas, fiddles and the like.

later that evening at a live performance the band closed with Mrs Robinson. i think someone was trying to tell me something. the next day i went to church and thanked God for peter and art and the wonderful music they made, and for making people see them in me.

killarney

i took a trip to killarney and toured the ring of kerry.

then i took a trip to galway and toured the cliffs of moher.

both were beautiful. both were worth seeing. both were done from a bus

both were out of focus. both were grainy. both were in low light.

both will be seen again from the seat of a car when they are in focus, well lit and summery.

sweater and shirt

packing for paris was scant i had to carry my machine*, which goes with me everywhere, which leaves little room for much else. three shirts, the pair of pants i was wearing, underwear and socks to last five days (3 of each), a book, a camera, a journal and a pocket full of dreams.

(some dude just dropped his smokes on the floor)

my sweater, the sweater, was not on the list. it was on the list until the pack was too heavy and i took the sweater off the list. i should have just lightened my load by first not writing the list on granite rock and, more importantly, subsititing the list for the sweater it's self as it wears substancially less than a list written on granite rock. i wouldn't have done it if simon birch hadn't sold me on the idea, highlighting the versatilty of the product.

(some dude won't listen to me get his attention so he can have his smokes back)

not having the sweater meant that i wore my winter coat everywhere with just a couple of t-shirts underneath, which was fine except that i was hot on the street and cold in the shops. i should have packed my sweater, the sweater.

(some dude the third notices the smokes and i throw a thumb in some dudes direction)

as i was checking out of paris i made a few last friends at the terminal while i went through the scanner system. to get through the scanner system i had to my carry-on, keys, wallet, change, belt and my coat even. i successfully set off the scanner and was then subjected to that test they do to see if you're magnetic. the wand didn't stick to me as they waved it around and i was free to go about my day. i suppose i am thankful that they do these tests because i wouldn't want magnetic people getting on the plane and messing with the controls or causing my wallet cards to demagnitise.

i hadn't thought about it that morning, mostly because i don't register thought until about the noon hour and morning had somehow found me at around the 6:30 mark, but i had really dressed to impress. i hadn't noticed until i had successfully fooled the magnet detector and moved towards my gear to reassemble myself. i felt an arm on mine and was turned around and thuroughly examined by a french (female) guard. she looked at me and smirked a bit and kind of did a little jig. i kid you not, a jig.

smirking, she called to another guard. french french french she said, to the best of my knowledge, to her. french french french came the reply. the french (female) guard did her jig again this time singing what was written on my shirt. she then asked me what it meant and carried on doing the jig. by this time i had assembled myself, with left over parts for some reason but that always happens with things you assemble yourself, and was awkwardly moving towards my nearest exit.

as i smiled to myself everybody poops, everybody poops, everybody everybody everybody poops followed me down the hall.