spelling bee

i had the biggest headache yesterday. it was one that lasted the entire day. what a heck of a way to spend my last day off of work.

no, not that i'll never have another day off work - it's that today, rather tonight, is my "last" shirt at the shel. my "last" because i quit on the 14th, but i was kept on because i am just so darn good.

also, there was no one else.

but what the heck, right? what's another few hours, few friends, few euro's gonna hurt? i even have a few more happy customer stories except by happy i mean cutting off and by stories i mean encounters because what happened wasn't a story because stuff just ... well, happened with no outcome that means anything in any context.

first, two american girls sat, drank and wrote on their arms. i think they were twenty-one but i didn't check so who knows. turns out the one was keeping track of how much she had drank with ticks on her arm. that way when i wake up in the morning i'll know exactly the why of how i feel.

you have a serious problem that i can't even begin to discuss with you because we haven't the time nor do i have the interest i said to myself because i had had enough of speaking with her.

second, some langer went up to two women seated near the door which was handy for him becuase had they not been there he would have walked up to no on because there wasn't a hope in hell of him making it any further. i wouldn't have stopped him, his centre of balance would have. he then came up to me and had the adasity audacity to ask for a drink and the gull to have a confused look on his face when i told him the answer. he got over the rejection rather quickly and returned to the women at the table. i joined them quickly for a short while because that was all it took to convince him that following me and my beconing beckoning index finger out the door was a better idea than ... doing whatever it was he didn't know he was doing.

come here.
confused look.
no, no. come here.
confused follow
[outside the pub]
you should head home
confused look back into pub and one confident step towards the door again
no, no. don't go back in there.
look of understanding and step in the right direction

third, there is no third. i wish there was, but there isn't. perhaps next time i'll have a third and make the post complete. perhaps tonight during my 8-c i'll have a third. perhaps, for now, i've exhausted new words i can mispell.

monday morning i fly out to venice, italy. i'll be there for a week, maybe ... maybe longer, who knows. matty's not coming with me because he spent all his money on Jay-z tickets.

oh, and sorry about that last post. i had that headache i talked about and after an hour at the computer i could no longer think. i meant for it to be a series of more childhood memories, but i've now lost the direction the rest of the stories would have taken. hopefully they'll come back to me, but until then you'll just have to wait. in the future i'll try and make the posts more relevant to travelling too - unless they are making sense to people and you feel as though they are part of the greater context of the life of brad. please, let me know so i know how to write to your reading desires.

cheers,

--bbb

i am ...

i am seven and grandpa has taken me to a weekend hockey tournament. he has gone to the bathroom in the diner we are at, leaving me at the table to wait for the food.

i don't want anyone else to eat our food on us so you keep watch, he says. i
smile back.

the food arrives while he is away, but i am hungry so i eat.

growing up on the farm meant large, fast meals but fast in that we consumed all of it faster than the food could be passed around the table.

keep passing food around until everyone has some on their plate, dad would
say.

a statement which we would immediately ignore. we wouldn't ignore it on purpose, it was only because the food we were spooning onto our plate was more interesting than listening to something we'd heard everyday at every meal. we were more interested in eating, which, had it been explained to mom in that way, might have made it easier for dad to get us to pass food around first. we were really complementing mom, not ignoring dad.

grandpa returns from the bathroom and finds the table occupied by empty plates and a grandson. the server arrives at the same time with the bill. she is about twenty, brown hair in a ponytail and chews gum. the whole time i am sitting quietly watching them both.

did the food already come to the table?
yes
where's my burger then
he ate it

grandpa looks down at me. i look up at him, smiling and he starts laughing.

well, better order me another one then

I'll be at my local too

matty and the girls where out doing their thing. the girls, having skipped work, were at the brog (shoe) because it wasn't the shel because the shel was too close to work. matty was too close to work because he didn't want to miss some of his training. langer.

i had met up with brian at the shel and we left from there in a car of steven's because he was heading to a different part of town, but mostly because that's just the sort of thing you do for friends on paddy's day, which is to say everyday of the year. upon getting to the KLM we met terry and the regulars and the pool table named john. we made a point of making plans to go back to a pub near the shel because that's just the sort of thing that happens when you make plans three weeks prior; things change. this also meant that when the girls and matty took a notion to walk our way we'd likely pass them on the road.

a few phone calls, text's and several hours later we still hadn't left the KLM for the pub near the shel at which the girls and matty had been waiting for ... well, several hours. the phone call came in and i answered it and gave it to brian.
'i'm not talking to her'
'wat d'you mean?' asked a bewildered brian 'who's this?' he asked the phone. his face changed from one of a person in control and having a good time to that of a young child who had just been picked up by his father aftering pooping his pants. with eye's wider than most people would have thought possible he passed the phone to the only person who could protect him at all: his mother. who, need i remind you, has been in the pub since noon, which it is now several hours plus a few after.

mama brian delt with the situation the only way she new how which meant not dealing with the situation at all but pretending that she was speaking to a friend of hers whom she could hardly hear through the cell phone's reception which, ironically, was exactly what she thought was happening. brian turned the phone rightside up for her and moments later terry took the phone and gave directions.

the girls and matty turned up some time later and stayed for a bit, but my time has run out and i'll have to complete this again some other time.


[i hope you had a wonderful paddy's day! i posted some pictures on my flicker page, feel free to check them out.]

I'll be at my local

down to the KLM on paddy's day afternoon. it is a small pub just up the road from roy and finn's place, small and exclusive, although not because the barman says so. the regulars keep to themselves and to the people they know. they'll ask you questions if you come in, show you some kindness and perhaps even buy you a pint.

'be careful not to confuse apparent act of kindness and acceptance. there's a good chance that what you think is irish hospitality is actually them being nosey.'

this place is their's and every head will turn, and every eye stare, if no one recognizes what comes through the door.

'you'd better either know someone in there, or have some reason for going in or you'll not last long.'

we had made these plans with finn and roy nearly three weeks ago, and terry, another roommate, was to come along too. instead of coming along he was already there. finn showed up hours later when the three of us were heavy into a game of pool. it was a professional table and several thousands of euro's, or so i am told, have traded hands because of it. the bar was small and the table appeared to have been made to fit, not six feet long nor three feet wide, however, much like wonka's perception hallway the table did not look too small. it fit the room and occupied exactly as much of the area as it wanted. and as much as it fit the room, it fit the atmosphere of the crowd too: if it didn't want you to play well it wouldn't.
the barman sat on a stool, reading his paper and served drink when necessary. nothing was rushed, nothing was a bother and no one liked the temporary clover tattoo on my forehead; luckily i had brian with me, and luckily his parents were two of the four regulars there.

'wazat? u a toorist? silly yank'
'actually i'm a cana..'
'shur, shur. youwanapint?'
'ah, yeah sure. thank you'
'great then. Bill! what's in the news today? finefine, two hoinikin, when yer ready. hes payin.'
'thanks'

paddy's weekend

yes, it is upon us. the most wonderful time of the year. Ireland's national holiday, decked out in green and gold and some orange (but not much because that's the north's colours) like canadians on our national day (which i can't wait for either, but that will have to be told on a separate occation. it's be like an older brother totally taking the wind out of his younger sister's sails by coming out on a chariot, carried by four members of the rugby team, wearing a toga and olive branches only moments after she had given her speach on why she'd be a great OAC Rep. but that's only one example; i am sure you can think of others).

There's a parade on monday (wow), pubs open all over town (wow), and everyone dressed in green (wow). at home, the saying is on paddy's day, everyone's irish and here it is similar, although they add that everyone is also a tourist. shops are selling silly hats, tshirts, mugs, facepaint, flags, more hats, hairbandy thingies and pots of plastic gold.

oh, and i didn't even tell you the best part! they call it Paddy's Weekend!!!! not paddy's day... they make a whole friggen weekend out of it.

I'll take lots of pictures, and maybe even a few videos too.

all the best,

--bbb

are you kidding me?

... it's only three sleeps away?
it is. man, i can't beleive you haven't been counting.
oh, dude, i have been counting ... i just, must have lost count somewhere. what day is it, tuesday?
ha, look. Hogan Knows Best is on.
you're not even listening to me.
sure i am, i'll do them after this episode.
i already did them.
no you didn't.
but that's not my point. it's only three sleeps away and we haven't even talked about what we're going to do. it's the reason we came to here, basically, and we don't even have a plan.
how 'bout the same thing we do nearly every night?
eat, watch scrubs and fall asleep on the couch.
that's not even remotely funny. did we get this script from Mad TV?
no, but i do believe we've lost the point and, in all likelyhood, most of the audience.
right. suppose we pick this up again tomorrow?
pick what up?
i don't even know anymore.

photographed me

surfing at Foto National Park











Drinking the fresh waters of the *something* falls

tom barry's beer garden

wallflower me stood watching television, but only because i didn't know what else i was supposed to be doing. if i didn't figure out soon what what else i was supposed to be doing soon i knew i would regret it, and what's more i would be ridiculed at work; but only because i told them i was going on an adventure. what were likely the regulars kept peaking over at me wondering what it was i was supposed to be doing, while i wondered why it was they felt the need to wonder about me.

but in truth i know the why because i am a barman and barmen know these sorts of things, or so i've been told at some point or time.

the barmaids might have been wondering, although they didn't show it as they had more going on than would allow them to watch a wallflower. 'this is silly' said i, which got no response as i had learned that limiting the amount of small talk i made with myself made me look exponentially less insane.

the beer garden was full of picnic tables which were full of people who were full of conversation. none of that conversation sounded like the conversation i thought i might here. so there i was, a wallflower with an emptying pint and a regular group of wonderers noting my movements.

'this is still silly' said i again. i know, i know.

"you'll right der?" asked the barmaid as i approached the bar and she was pouring a pint.
"actually, no. is there a group meeting here tonight? couch surfers perhaps. or maybe you don't know or don't know what i am talking about" said i in a breath that had run out around tonight. 'you look silly.' i know.

liz finished the pint and answered all my questions, including the one about having heard me or not which i hadn't even asked, with a guesture to follow her out to the beer garden to all the tables full of people full of conversation that i was looking for.

"i think i'll have another one please liz"
"sure ting"

brother bear

it was a week or two ago. we were all on a patio. it was the day i reached a check point. the clay oven was burning rather quickly through the supply of wood on hand and it soon became apparent that more wood be needed if we wear to bee kept warm.

later i would have a dream about tearing down the shel, scavenging the place for bits of wood the owner, gilivan, wouldn't miss. roy was there, and a regular named a-min-d and a few of the other staff as well. soon the whole floor was ripped up the the bar was floating on the few remaining joist. with that job done i went back to the fire, which meant waking in a room full of smoky clothes.

roy's appartment is having work done, shelves removed and toilets added, and it was producing a great deal of, what turned out to be, unburnable bits of wood that, also, turned out to be too big for the clay fire. matty and i went to investigate the situtation and learned a long time after the facts described above. we had been gone a while and finn et al had some bits of stone to get rid of. they climbed on her brothers roof, just off the patio, and tossed pebbles. finn's brother had a few pebbles too, and tossed them her way. [get off d x'ng ruf] came the txt. the three of us, roy, matty and myself, returned bearing gifts of gold trim, wayne scotting and vanities, which needed to be made smaller.

luckly matty and i are ninja's.

my turn came after matt's and just before the arrival of a big angry brother ^[1]. i propped my bit of wood against the wall and would have split it in two, honest, had i not have been distracted.

before me was a bear wearing people clothes standing in the landing in front of me, guarding the only exit. it was speaking but i couldn't hear it over the sound of me pooping my pants for the second time ^[poop]. the bear, brother o'finn, inquired into the delivery of his text earlier.

Brother O'Finn told us he had to work in the morning, which was now an hour ago, and that he would appreciate if we would keep our noise to a non-existance in a tone that suggested his patience for shenanigans ^[2] had expired sometime around the mid 90's.

matty decided to leave when roy convinced himself that since Brother was up already we might as well continue on the same route to destruction we were on. i agreed because my smell was starting to discust myself.

but i don't mind because it gives me character.

salaut maman!

bonne fete!





...i hope there are no dirty words in that last one. mands, please either let me know or tell no one what it says.

my syst'r heheher

there is a girl at work. her name is Fionnula ... or something, but no one calls her that. so Finn is a girl at work who is a blast to work with, even more so after i learned that the pissed off look she wears on her face is not anger but more of a focusing on how much she doesn't want to be there. as it turns out it's not how i work while at the pub that makes her angry, but simply the fact that she has to be there at all. once we all get laughing the day goes much smoother and people frown less.

we write the orders on dockets ... paper bits that get handed to the chef so that she can make something entirely different and cause the customer to frown at me when i explain to them, to their uncaring eyes, that it wasn't my fault and i'd be happy to pee in a free cup of coffee for them. the never take it. we post these dockets above a toaster which has an interesting habit of biting our four arms when we reach over it. i did this on the first day with my first docket, cursed a little and said to myself, and to anyone listening who turned out to be more than the no one i had assumed, this must be the tattoo that everyone gets. since at the time i figured no one had heard me, i went about the rest of my shift fumbling over new menu items and general way of doing things while all the while smiling to myself at how incredibly clever i was.

two weeks later, while she was explaining to me that it wasn't me she hated at work but work itself, Finn told me that she had heard me curse and be clever but didn't have the time to respond because she was too focused on hating work and making wrong sandwiches. we laughed and laughed and reminisced about that day, today at work, nearly four months later. she showed me her scar from getting burned by the toaster. a scar, can you believe it? i hadn't burnt myself since that first day, but she had burned herself often enough for it to leave a scar.

Steven had been taking the piss* out of Finn all lunch hour because she had mispronounced pajama and was unable to pronounce it correctly again. we all laughed and laughed except Finn who just laughed. then i told a story about achee achee achee are and her summer job and her struggles with snanisnics. everyone laughed a bit and it took the pressure off Finn the same bit. what then took another moment off Finn was when, only moments after getting the laugh from H's story, i reached and posted my docket above the toaster and curse a bit and said to myself, and everyone around, that maybe i would get that scar after all.

Finn laughed the hardest.

point and check

today my sweater the sweater smells of camp fires and longs nights on porches with memebers of staff and their roommates and matty and big angry brothers of staff who are unimpressed with the levels of noises at four in the morning when they have to work at six. but i don't mind, because it and me gives it character.

wednesday i was a bit bummed and i had nothing to do other than walk to work. my walk to work is a quiet twelve and a half or thirteen minute walk, depending on lights and determination, from my house. i bob my head from side to side, counting the steps and looking at the series of clocks along the way providing check points for my journy. none of them say the correct time, nor do they keep the same time, nor am i sure that all of them are clocks; most importantly, though, is that very rarely are any of them people with which i can chat. thus, a quiet walk.

i was bummed because i was bummed and i was quiet because the clocks weren't talking. but today the ones that weren't clocks were people and they did talk. i ran into milo, whom you haven't met but may hear about him again; and i ran into my bc friend who gave me a hug and a promise of a story that gave here licence to be loud in the plaza we were standing in involving rips and embearassment and hours and halfs that elapsed before strangers told her of it;
and i ran into mitch and his partner (a girl) who were on their way back from the grocery store. i spoke at length with each of them and never once said i had to walk away and get to work, except to ang who invited me along with her roommate to salsa lessons, and to milo who was out with fifteen of his closest friends, and to mitch who had walked across the road with me but not his partner because traffic was being traffic and we were paying less attention.

my clocks that where people checked my points and adjusted my direction and while i didn't know the time i now knew where i was going. at work i was no longer bummed and felt less like a slug and more like a feather.

[you haven't met mitch either but you might hear more of him later too. he started as the new ahmed last week because the old ahmed left for dublin. mitch and his partner are kiwi's.]

interview

first night in cork

barman: you all right?
me: yeah fine. you?
??? ... what can i get you?
oh, a beamish please
where're you from?
canada. here working, traveling, and whatever. hoping to find work in a pub if i can
you've any experience?
sure, about a year's worth at home.
come see me tomorrow.
wow. sure. what's your name?
steve.

second day in cork

bargirl: youl right der?
me: sure, fine. is the manager in?
ya, ina meeting doh. come back at af'four, maybe?
sure. thanks. what's your name?
finn.
thanks. and what's his name again?
steve.
great. thanks.

16:28, second day in cork
steve is running circles

steve: you all right der?
me: fine. you.
fine. fine. you want something? a coffee? tea? coke? you're brad, right?
coffee. thanks. yes.
so you've experience at home, have you? it's different here. very different. y'no wat i mean like. think you can learn?
i'm sure i ...
good. good. c'meer, here, drink up. you'll be called a yank too, no one will know the difference and frankly no one will care. you can handle that?
yea..
good. fine. great. that's frank, he's a regular. that's john to your left, he's a regular. i might have a spot clearing up in a week or so so i'll call you then if something comes up you've a seevee?
yea..
numberonit?
yes
good. good. well, this has probably been the easiest interview you've ever had. isn't it.
yes. i think i can honestly say ..
well yank, thanks for coming in. interview's over and i'll call you in a few days. if i don't, drop in.
thanks. what do i owe for the coffee?
nothing, it's on me. besides i've already drank it on you. see you again in a few days, yank.
sure. thank you.

cove, cobh, kov

we went to cobh two days ago. we would have been matty as well, however he got caught up with an issue at the house and had to wait for the landlord to show up. i gave him a call and he said he'd be here as soon as he could. i sure hope he gets this room to stop spinning.

i had been up for a few hours already and had packed a lunch. turns out it was better for him not to come because i ate the whole thing. however, had he of found the floor he likely wouldn't have been eating all the much.

with tickets bought and seats on the train chosen we sat patiently and talked of all the wonderful things we'd see today. the titanic monument, the catherdal, the baptism (that one we hadn't planned on and obviously didn't talk about before we left) and the lusitania exhibit. perhaps a pub or two along the way as well. we small talked for a good long while, and for a good long while we didn't realize that the train hadn't gone anywhere. then people sitting farther ahead of us dismounted and went about their way back to the station which was confusing because they would have a hard time getting to cobh (cove) if they stayed at the station.

turned out that we were going to be the ones in trouble beause the train was taking the day off and giving the bus company all the buisness. instead of a nice comfy train ride the whole group, four more than bus capasity, packed together and rode the road to queenstown (cobh).

we walked to the cathedral, stayed only a moment because the next service wasn't until seven, it was noon thirty at the time, which was also the kick off time for the baptism i meantioned earlier. we went to a museum which was also taking an undefined holiday, giving all it's buisness to the cathedral which was hosting the private party. so we went to the bench park and watched the ocean for a while and ate sandwhiches and oranges and talked about grass stains.

we went to another museum and learned about the titanic, emigration, lusitanian and something else that didn't make the cut for the days memory bank. we sat in the cafe and talked about overloading information and tried to guess what time it was. sarah always won.

the bus train came back for us, which was nice because cobh was cold and done with us. we tried to go to african lion safari's little brother but the train driver was confused with the hours. we saw some trees instead. they were big and green and brown and read and asked me to climb them. i politely refused for a while, but at last succum to their hospitality. i climbed and climbed and loved it very much.

i slepted like a baby that night.

locked in

st valentines day i spent at work. which is fine because my mother/valentine is a world away. matty had a night on the town with our two new travel buddies, sarah and nolan. they went out to dinner someplace and and drinks at other places and came to visit me at the end of it all.

roy and i had an entertaining night. i wished all the regulars (men, mind you) a happy valintines day which, for the most part, they shrugged away any concern they might have had which was minimal to begin with. earlier that day at lunch i had wished the same to steve who said he'd give me a kiss later.

he didn't.

as the trio waited around for me to clean up slash decided between cards (matty has learned how to play euchre which really means he tries to play poker with every hand) and going out to a late bar. i suggested we stay at this late bar, not this in the sense that i was about to suggest a particular one but this as in immediately located under out feet. fifteen minutes later, when i had explained the concept of a lock-in* to the girls, i had finished cleaning and we sat down for a good three hours of deep conversation and eighties music. roy, myself, the trio and a new character, kevin (whom i have yet to talk about but might at some other occasion) liberated several pints from the taps and spent a wonderful valentines with the closest thing to a family i have this side of the atlantic because, as well all know, this day is all about family.

unfortunately, i had missed two calls from my valentine because the eighties were too loud and my phone was vibrating in a jacket too far away from me to be warn. she left some nice message though.

nolan spent most of the next day in a coma.

*lock-in: the bartenders kick everyone out save for their friends and the best regulars and the small party of people say "locked in" the pub until the large or at least medium sized morning hours.

happy candy day

to everyone who reads, happy valentines day.

i miss you all.

hope you like the pretty colour...

--bbb

advent

A few days ago, five really, i went to hang out with this guy. a bunch of other people came too, which was pretty cool because it'd been a while since i'd been to a spot with a mass amounts of people that i didn't have to serve drink* to. the guy talked for a while, then spent a bit of time letting other people talk, then some others sang. this all stopped to allow everyone to go for a quick jog around the building. when the got back to their seats they all had spots on their foreheads. weird, but i didn't want to be left out so i joined in.

at the end of it all i felt like i should give up chocolate or something. but since i don't eat chocolate to begin with i decided on television. i told matty about this experience and he decided to watch more television and more trashy television. also, he would try and get me to watch it too. now, when i sit in the kitchen studying french and reading my one book a week (at the end of it all i felt like i should not only give up something, but add something too) he makes enormous sounds from his spot dans la canapé that might be laughter if i didn't know he was watching simple life:interns which isn't so much funny as embarrassing to humans everywhere.

*in ireland the word drink can be both singular and plural. i suppose it is because they use the word so often that it saves a mass amount of time if they drop the last letter.

Living Profile No. 1

in loo of tommy telling me the great news that a book i just read, jPod, has been made into a television show on the CBC ... i would like to play a game with all of you.

it's from the book and i'm going to steal it. thank you douglas coupland. you can see more on the book's website. complete them in the third person, because it'll be funnier.

-----------------------------------------------
Name: Birdley Janet Joseph Morley

Name people actually use: Yank; Bird
Reason for unusual name people actually use: Being from Canada his boss thinks it's both ironic and insulting to call him an american. what steve doesn't know is that it's not that Canadians don't like americans ... but that you don't like them and that that mistaking him for someone you don't like before you've got to know him // his mom called him birdley when he was in trouble and he needed a name that wasn't associated with broken vases, pocketed cookies and pooped pants.
Smokes: No

Preferred Room Temperature: 20°c
Favourite Video Game: donkey kong country for snes
Preferred Simpsons Character: Gill
Preferred Karaoke Song: that one the whole of 141 sung at the last night out at that bar we never went to until our last year because it was a shady, scuzzy, beer fly trap before.
Most Disturbing Trait: he blogs stories about you without consulting you. you being each and every one of you.
does this make most readers frightened that they might end up in an expose on salutmaman: yes
is he aware that no one reads his blog and therefor it doesn't matter: no
-----------------------------------------------

now it's your turn. complete them in the third person because it'll be funnier.

and the world spins madly on

nolan arrived a week ago and has a job and a house and a group of pubs we can all call home. she met a friend in dublin (sarah maloney) who turned out to be a friend of a girl matty and know from school. it also turned out she was in the same residence building as mandy when she was a first year don "are-eh".

small world.

last night we had our staff christmas party and everyone took the opportunity to wish to everyone many more times than was necessary a happy christmas. we had dinner at captian america's and they all commented how "american" it was which got me thinking how flashy everyone must think america is. i also noticed how the restaurant resembled a kelsie's or boston pizza's on steriods. then i realised that it really was a kelsie's or boston pizza's except that it had captian ameria comic books on all the walls, not sports parifanalia or old wooden cart wheels.

small world.

i finished jPod the other day. i'm going to read on the road now. jPod is written by a west coast canadian and it was great to read a story that used names of cities i new of and associated with home even though i have never been to any of them. on the road is written by an american who was born in montreal and is his story of traveling across america. at least i think it is. is it ironic that i travel to another continent and read authors from home?


and the small world spins madly on.

miss you all.

--(bb)b

steven o'flynn

steve and i have a healthy relationship, at least as far as i know. he calls me a yank but i know he does it because he likes me. he says it like it's supposed to be an insult but i know it's not, he's just taking the piss out of me.

that means to make fun of a person.

if we close together he gives me a ride home which is always welcome because in ireland it rains a lot and most times you are outside it is raining. since i have to be outside to walk home i usually end up getting rained on.

one particular day he gave me a ride home it had not been raining, it had been snowing. but snow in ireland doesn't stay for long and by the time we had finished up the snow had melted and froze again and made ice on the windshield of his car which was made worse by irish weather because it had decided, again, to rain.

being a canadian i knew this was easily fixed by the ice scraper that everyone keeps in the entrance of their houses for just such occasions like this. as an irishman he knew nothing of this practice, called me a yank and asked for the bottle of water at my feet because the whipper fluid wasn't working. i thought, for a moment, but only a moment, how he knew there was a bottle at my feet only to realize that my car would likely have had a bottle on the passenger side; not because i had remember putting it there but simply because passenger sides always have water bottles on the floor (check for yourself, but i know you know it's true).

he sprayed the water on the windshield and the ice began melting and in the same moment that i was thinking "wow, this is the greatest idea ever why didn't i think of that" he hit the whippers and i realized that it was also the worst idea ever. not because he didn't have those dumb canadian tire ice-muncher things that only work because the whole commercial is shot indoors but because he was now covered in icey-shush water that was much better off safely contained in the water bottle he was still holding.

in as many movements that he takes to make a trip around the bar he frantically grabbed for the switches, stop the cold from getting to him and will the past three seconds out of existence. in the car, covering my mouth and thinking unfunny thoughts i sat trying not to get fired for laughing hysterically at my boss.

laugh it up, yank. laugh hard. this is the only time you'll ever get to do this. so laugh good and hard.

for whole trip home the incident was my fault.

steve

my manager's name is steve. you remember steve, don't you? he's the one who was in tears over my keg stacking during the jazz fest.

well, quite often he gets rammy. he'll go running around the pub, making himself more worked up than he was before feeding his ulcer with a cup of coffee every few minutes. i keep telling him he should lay off the caffeine lest it stunt his growth. he keeps telling me that at 27 five foot five is as tall as he gets. then i'll make a joke about being a leprechaun, he'll call me a yank and then run circles round the pub.

a wise man once told me that a wise man once told him that he never repeats a step he's taken. he takes his time and makes sure to bring with him the tools he needs. i don't think that was meant to be a metaphor or anything, but i still like to think about it sometimes and how it, you know, like, makes thoughts think.

while my thoughts were thinking about whether i was to share this bit of knowledge with him they all generally decided that it is better not to share advice that was not asked for. this, also, came from a wise man i know. at least, that is what they would have concluded had steve not interrupted my day dream by asking why the sink was over flowing and the pint i was pulling had filled the floor. he handed me a coffee and a bit of paper that said getyourheadinthegame. i smiled and failed. i tried again and failed again.

steve was looking at me.

i pictured steve in a green suit with a little green hat and a little bowl of lucky charms and smiled. he shook his head, took a bite of the charms and walked away.

simple and snowy

happy groundhog day!

the irish lift their heads briefly from their pints to take the piss out of the dumb yankee and his silly traditions. Ha, i say to myself ... little do they know ...

Prior to the conversion of the Irish Celts, Saint Brigit's Day was known as Imbolc, one of four seasonal junctions in the pagan calendar of Ireland. It was the start of spring, and its name refers to "ewes' milk" and to the birth of farm animals. Imbolc was dedicated to the Celtic goddess Brigit, who was associated with learning, poetry, crafts and healing. Many of her pagan characteristics were retained when she was made a saint. [source]

but try bringing that up in bar conversation without more ridicule. i guess i'll just have to just bask in my own brilliance and ability to perform simple internet searches.

it snowed here yesterday morning, in big meaty flakes. a yard in canada would have been covered in a thin fluffy sheet, ready to be tramped or shaped or folded into boulders. however, the concrete covered yard in ireland ate them, all of them. they fell to the concrete reluctantly joining the growing water slick. it was odd, disappointing almost; seeing the snow, knowing it's potential, and then ... nothing. like irish soil rejected the idea of snow. all that snow falling and nothing to show for it. waking up an hour later i wouldn't have believed it had snowed at all.

the snow fell harder. my view from the kitchen window cut out the yard floor and, unless i stepped out into the yard, it looked like the whole world was snow white. it was great, a bit of home. one of those things eh ... don't know until it's gone. i had my moment though. seeing a bit of snow recharged me more than a week of sleep.

i've given my one month's notice at which time i'll depart on my trip around europe and maybe ireland. before i left i was told i should travel without flying.

i'll let you know if it's possible since i've failed so far.

complete concern

[occasionally i cheat to make it look like i've been more diligent with posting stories than i actually have been. if you happen across a story when you're scrolling down the page that you can't believe you didn't see before because you've been checking daily and nothing slips by you ... then chances are that it wasn't there before and i've just added today.

not to worry though because i'll also likely have posted something on the 'real' day and linked back to it.]

a few days ago i went to the pharmacy next door to pick up some tools for the surgery i was about to undertake: it was time my stitches came out. a few short minutes pasted as i circled round the displays. the beautician came up to me and confirmed my suspicions that i was in the wrong section because it was very likely that i did not want coverup or ... whatever else it was i was looking at. it all looked like scissors and tweezors to me.

i explained to the pharmacist what my task was and asked what tools she felt i might need. she answered me with a look that told me she had never been more concerned before in her life and she had seen her seven children through diapers, school and their own births. my desire to remove my own stitches trumped them all.

sniff, sniff

today i woke up with a foggy head, a stuffed nose and a clock that said twenty minutes left to get to work.

whoops.

luckily i`ve learned a few things while on the road: always pile your clothes in the same spot every day, know how long it takes to get to work if i don't have to wait at cross walks and brush your teath the night before to save time in the morning.

(st)itching to tell a story

life, in general, is good. i've gone so far as to get a fiddle teachers number; all i've to do now is call it. i'm excited. there doesn't seem to be too much committement needed because she's always moving too. i'll keep you posted what comes of it.

my glasses have decided that they'd rather been a pain in my life than do anything constructive. they live the remaining days of their life either tucked away in a pocket or, in the rare occasion that i wear a touque to support the arms behind my ears, on my head. i think i'll have to break down and ses a doctor since the mailing system won't get a script to me until well after i had ground my glasses into a thick pulp and made a few new friends who would later turn out to be lamp posts.

"but they were such good listeners" i would later say
"your not talking to anyone but yourself" would come the reply from no one because matty would still be in spain.

with those glasses in my pocket i spent my post-spectacle-shopping day pulling pints, avoiding the regulars and chatting with an american couple who kept me entertained all night. susan, another of the barstaff, made fun of me last night for being "prejudice" because i only talked to the foreigners. i didn't know where to begin telling her what was wrong with what she said ... so i agreed.

the american couple said good evening at the appropriate time (something other patrons might want to learn) and we closed up shop. the final task of closing up shop involves arming the alarm and making a mad dash to the door. on the way there are lights to turn out and massive handless doors to trapease through. the act of closing the very last door usually isn't followed by a gasp from susan, nor a sudden realization that i left something behind, nor the onset of a pain that can only come from having a massive handless door close firmly on my middle and other-ring finger.

so in the end i was able to spend some nice quality time with the night watchman at the cork emergency waiting room with the doc prepped the O.R. for a silly canadian boy who had less than agile hands. two hours and three stitches later i am on my way home.

i'll have to set up a video conference with mom when it comes time to remove the stitches as it will cost me 50 quid to visit a doctor.

sacred steps

we didn't actually have tea at the Frank's house, because it is a museum and they don't serve tea at museums.

finding it was a challenge. the kiwi's, as it turned out, don't do "getting lost" as well as matty and i. none of the streets were written in english and therefore were unpronounceable, meaning nothing to the lot of us. as tourist we were forever looking for that street that has a Vij in it or started with an L ... having evolved from the realization that following our favourite street, the one that ended straat, did us as much good as following Rue Street in Montreal.

then the house found us the day started looking good.

we spent several minutes in the antiroom reading an outline of the family, familiarizing ourselves a bit with the history and waiting for the tour guide to round the group up. fifteen minutes later we realized there was no tour guide, just a group of people who can't read the sign that says: please proceed on your self-guided tour.

What i was impressed with most was how sacred the place was to everyone there. Quotes from the diary of anne frank guided me through the house. Through them she stressed the danger her family was in, how trapped she felt within the walls and how important it was for all of them to remain absolutely silent during the day; the workers in the warehouse below were not aware of the family hiding and may have given them up to the Germans. No toliets or steps, no laughing or crying, no talking or chewing moving at all.

The house had three floors to be toured, a fourth, the attic, was sealed off. Save for a few whispers between tourists, the place was silent. As groups moved about it was clear just how difficult it must have been for this family. Above me i heard the every floorboard creak under every heel that passed. Everyone moved with such care, with a common understanding that something out of our grasp had happened here. Occasionally a blasphemous flash would disrupt the out focus and furrowed brows would assault the perpetrator. Very people took more than one photo, it just didn't feel right.

It was incredible to have walked through the place that once served as a safehouse for so many people.

ol'vanny

we visited the van gough museum, but they didn't have starry night. i was all excited to see it because, really, it was the only one i knew of his without being prompted. of course once walking past a few of his others i started to remember them as well, but i was still a wee bit disappointed.

i took the audio tour which turned out to be for people who couldn't read the plaques that hung next to each painting. i suppose it was also for art fanatics who enjoyed being lead around by a breathy female. it's been a while since i've heard my celebrity narrator, yet this was a welcome change; as well, i could watch the painting reveal it's self, if you will, as my female friend described it to me.

part of the tour took us through some of van gough's doodles. it was neat to see how his works progressed; what made it, what didn't and what changed.

the girls came with us, however we learned early on that museums weren't really their thing and pretty soon they had run ahead, finished the tour and were taking elevator rides. we hadn't thought to bring any toys with us to keep them occupied while we went about our day. i suppose those are the things you learn as you travel.

we finished off the tour, as one always does, with a trip to the souvenir shop (which, as i am sure you all know, is french for cheep-trinket). i picked out three postcards of mini van gough paintings. that i am sure ol'vanny would have been very proud to see his work trivialized, but i cared only until i saw that prints of the real thing were going for thousands of euro.

the lovely young woman who worked the check out was doodling on a bit of paper. cleverly i remarked that perhaps someday they'd be hanging somewhere with people doting over them. she smiled, thanked me and checked me out.

i walked away with a big stupid grin on my face which quickly turned my face red as i caught eyes with the group of three tourists who had watched the whole thing. all matty could do to hold back his laughter was smile and stifle his chuckle through his nose. the kiwi's pointed and i turned pink.

damn this cleverness

i collected my bag at the coat check and we went on our way. we were due at anne frank's house for tea at four.

embarassed

we visited a sex museum and it was exactly what one might think it would be.

the word museum is a very stupid word to use in this sense.

i never want to go to one ever again.

bearded

i carefully planned my shaving schedule to be at the threshold of "brad you should shave soon for work" and "hey, you look like a hip backpacker who leaves his troubles and shaving equipment at home". matty has a few pictures, i hope i was successful. unfortunately i had to go back to work, despite my desperate attempts to find away to survive without actually going to work or doing any actual calculations failed and my personal hygiene was called into question.

the beard had to go.

it was just getting to the nice comfortable bushy stage where the red was peaking through and the itch hadn't settled in. my reflection and i, after a long stare off which, after several tie breakers, had to be called a draw, ceremoniously shaved our beards together.

the week played through my mind as the beard was pulled off my face. i had to return to the pub, a reality with which i am avoiding another reality. a very funny feeling it is to return to a holiday from holiday, even though that holiday has lunches and mean ladies.

i remembered the little shops that populated every street. where the people sit at foggy tables with other people they may or may not know. the people and other people do is sit, not talking staring with blank faces at the television, coffee cups or walls, which ever is closer or clearer.

i remember the security guard at the airport who called me by name. however it wasn't until i was through the magic beeping doors that i realized he hadn't called me by a name of mine at all but mr gordon downie. i turned back to shout thank you at him but he was already enveloped in being cute with the next tourist in line. i felt honoured that he thought i resembled the lead singer of my favourite band, however i suppose it helped that i was wearing my only favourite sweater.

i remember other things too, but the time has run out.

(matty left for spain just now and he'll be back on the 23rd)

hung shingle

gone to amsterdam, back in a week.

--b

fear and clothing

We sat quietly in the cab of the truck for a while.

The truck was big and red and loud. He loved take it round the house in the winter to see how much snow it would go through. I would sit high up in the seat, hands perched on the dash to get the best view. My little head moving like a child in the front row at the cinema, quickly from side to side to take everything in: the snow rushing over the hood, past the doors, swirling away behind us. We cheered as the snow drifts coward away. I was on top of the world.

Not today. Today i was small. Today i sunk deep into the seat and never wanted to be seen again. With my hands were tightly at my side stared at the cab floor because i hadn't disappointed it, at least not yet.

He had brought a change of clothes with him, but he wasn't worried about the truck. He was doing his best to help the situation. He was thirty two and his only son and oldest child had just pooped his pants.

you couldn't have gone to the bathroom, could you?

He wasn't angry, he was confused. i shrugged my shoulders but my eyes didn't leave the floor for fear it would disappear. i didn't want to explain myself, it wouldn't've made sense anyway.It was easier for me to do what i did than to have the other boys make fun of me. They were always in the bathroom laughing at the toilet if something was "left behind". So instead of subjecting myself to that humiliation I did the only thing that made sense to me and I kept it to myself.

The truck roared to life and we started for home.

Well, will we try again tomorrow? he offered as we drove down the road.
I looked up at him with raised eyebrows. I'll have to i thought i'll be behind in the field work.

I can't wait until my son poops his pants at school. I only hope I've got a big red truck so I can bring him home.

five and three quarters

[this memory came back to me after i had re-read a post i made over at "slatfatf" two and a half years ago. the post was wishing dad a happy birthday, which is ironic because i am sure dad has never read it. the post is a favourite of a close friend of mine, i hope you enjoy it too. as for this story, it is one that i think about semi-often. not to worry though, i have long gotten over the phobia. it will be told in three installments, at least i think it will ... i haven't finished it yet. please be patient.]

* * *

It was early summer. School was in and we were in the school yard playing with our tractors. There were four of us, the same four who always turned up. We were experts in school yard farming, but then so was every five and three quarter year old kid. We lived for the time in the yard where we would clear the twigs from the "fence lines" and pebbles from the fields. Plowing and planting, plowing and replanting.

However, this day was not be remembered for the tractors, nor the planting, nor stone picking. This day was to be remembered for a scrunched up face, a big truck and small boy who made a poor choice of location. I remember this day because I was five and three quarters and my dad had come to pick me up from school early. I had pooped my pants.

2 txt a :)

on thursday matty and i fly to amsterdam with the two kiwi's with whom we visited blarney castle. this trip has sort of been planned since we arrived in dublin nearly four months ago. The Kiwi's are flying out of dublin, and matty and i out of Cork and the foursome are set to meet up at some airport in amsterdam ... or so i am told because it was matty who set the whole thing up.

[the key to successful travelling, or so i've discerned thus far, is to be as prepared as possible with places to stay, transportation means arranged and packed lunches; however, if that is not something you're capable of find someone who is and stick close with them.]

matty and i exchanged several text's the day of the booking making sure of important specifics like my name on my passport, the price of the ticket and not to mention the right days i was to take off work. matty was planning unemployment so it wasn't as big a deal for him.

With all that done, the tickets booked and paid for, matty was on his way home. i got this text from him:

$20 cheaper she didnt chrg me tx feel bad tho.

i sent back:

karma police might get ya

later he sent me:

i went back she wz cute it wz worth it 2 c her smile

what a softie.

deceivingly obvious

An old man approached the bar and stood patiently. His beard had greyed years ago, his sober marooned much the same. Next to him stood a young man. The younger man looked as though he would have like to be at a different pub in a different city, instead he found himself here. The young man stood as still as possible, not making any sudden movements.

I looked at the old man and sighed. i spoke first to young and sober. The old man could wait, and what he would hear from me wasn't going to be new; he had heard it from every pub on the street tonight.

Usually situations like this, this one included, end on a good note. The soberless person will muster whatever senses are left to muster, find their feet and subsequently the door.

i think you've had enough for tonight, come back again tommorrow.

If a barman tells you it's time to go home, it is time to go home.

no if, and's or but's.
no please's, thank you's or throwing chairs.
no telling me ... "go back on the banana boat you came on",
... "you're a langer" or
... "we've never had enough" while you show me your man-u chest tatoo.

If I've told you it is time to go home you should have left for home an hour ago.

The old man returned two hours later.

"Weren't you in here before."

He swayed a bit and his eyes moved from the floor to the stool, the bartop to my tie and rested on my face trying to figure out which of them had spoke, to whom they were speaking to and what it was they had said. He began to shake his head 'no' but stopped short because he couldn't decide for sure what his answer was, or should be.

"I think you've had enough tonight"

He replied by raising his eyebrows, which appeared to be an internally misscommunicated smile.

Glassesless Brad

Quite often i'll round the bar and come face to confused face with a customer. they look as though they want to ask where their drinks are, but all they can get out is the first part of "you don't wear glasses." Then out of nowhere, rounding the other side of the bar, is an armful of drinks and a glassesless Brad named Roy.

Roy is a writer. An actual writer, not a character who plays one in my imaginary world of imaginary patrons who have imaginary, romantic professions that justify my fueling their alcoholism.

Roy is a father. At twenty five he had a wonderful woman whom with he would have a five year old daughter five years from then; at twenty five i found a wonderful red wagon with whom i've avoided life (The wonderful woman is still wonderful, however she is marrying another man in a few weeks).

Roy is the assistant manager at the Shel, five years older than i and is constantly mistaken for my brother, although no one guesses which of us is older.

[i made a resolution]

christmas memories

this story was meant to be added a week ago, but with time moving the way it does and holidays coming and going as they do i didn't get the chance. perhaps a few of you have memories of your own you'd like to share.

the kids would do a gift exchange at christmas. this would be a process of mandy bringing the topic up every week from september until the first of december, and then daily from then on until end of december when we would decide to exchange gifts at new years, or at the feast of Epiphany on January 6th (for those of you keeping track you'll know that is after new years and thus allows more time) which can be credited to mom and her way of bringing the church back into the holiday season.

epiphany celebrates the arrival of the three wise men to bethlehem and how Frank sent gold and mir.

the year of our story had the gift exchange running on time which meant that mandy had been able to organize us enough to have us pull names well before christmas day, have us get to a shopping centre as well as have it figured out in full exactly whom had who.

i would have been fifteen i think, meaning everyone else fell into the age range of either 14, 13, 9 or 7. i went shoping with one of them and there where two other groups. sometimes through the day the groups would meet up, chat, swap members too keep everyone but mandy thinking. at one point i was in the check out of a store behind heather. she got to the cashier and didn't have enough. i handed her some money but she didn't want to take it. there we were, the two of us in the check out having a quiet fight about the money i was giving her. her being nine and wanting to do things on her own, me being fifteen and the big brother wanting to make sure little sis was ok.

eventually she gave in, the family reunited in the food court, universal meeting point of all families during the holidays, and loaded up for home. a few days later the time came for the exchange and for everyone, except mandy, to reveal who they had. being the oldest, my gift came last, and being last it became very obvious who had me.

of course you, dear reader, have already figured out who had me, haven't you! dad thought it was the funniest thing that could possibly had happened. i had, without knowing it, offered money that would pay for a gift that was coming to me. and what's more, i had forced heather to take what i was offering. the poor girl had no choice but to take it from me because she couldn't reveal to me who she had.

... i thought i was being noble.

the re-solution

a funny thing, new years resolutions are. it's always the big question, too. what's yours? seldom do i have an answer for the day of, in fact most often i don't get mine, like many other things, until the feast of epiphany; but i think that just has to do with being a murray.

i wasn't going to make a resolution, i never follow through with them anyways. instead, i'll make a list of things i'd like to improve in my life. i think that'll make it easier.

this year i'll read more, watch less and make more music.

To help me in all those departments is an every expanding library, a couple of music books and ... well, the last bit will be tougher since the only living room has a tv. any suggestions?

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.