Thursday

Last night I had a dream that myself, Christine Crouse-Dick, Chris Dick, Jimmy Page (the guitarist from Led Zeppelin), and José Cuervo (literally, a fat Hispanic man that my subconscious made up) met up in what appeared to be the swanky lounge of some pirate ship to chill out and drink margaritas.

WHAT THE FUCK DOES THIS MEAN?

Monday

Tonight was the best open-mic night EVER.  Ever.  Really.

Ryan and Tina started the night out, as usual.  She kicked things up a notch from the get-go with a rousing cover of that Dolly Parton gem, "Jolene."  Ryan did his thing, playing the shit out of "Love Minus Zero/No Limit," and a very good original of his, the name of which I do not know.  Then, a fantastic middle-aged man got up and did some very primal spoken-word poetry stuff.  I've seen him do it before, and it always leaves me in a shambles.  I got to get up and do my thing, which was nice.  It was nothing spectacular, except someone actually told me that I made them like Rihanna's "Umbrella."  And if that's all I can pull off, I'm happy.  Later, my buddy Rebecca got up and knocked the ball out of the park.  She sounds a little like Cat Power, leaning a little more towards Billie Holiday.  Exactly the direction Cat Power oughta lean, right?  To close the night, some German guy got up and played the cello and sang some minor swing tune.  Totally unique, and badass.

Definitely a lovely open-mic night.  Probably not going to be topped while I'm here.

Wednesday

Had class for several hours today.  It was academic.  To elaborate would be boring.

After class, I had a couple of hours until I had to be somewhere, so I went to a pub to write some letters.  I was very happy with the letter I wrote.  As I sat sipping my Guinness and basking in the glory of my letter, a middle-aged gentleman sitting near me unexpectedly asked what I thought of the art show opening I mentioned in the last post.  It caught me a little off guard; I've considered myself to be pretty anonymous when I go out on my own.  Frankly, it was a little flattering that he recognized me.  We talked about the cool idea of the show, but general failures in the execution; we talked about my studies at the college here; he mentioned being involved in the Derry Anti-War Coalition, and was thrilled to here about my involvement with a Mennonite college; he finally asked if I was attending the performance of Beckett's Waiting for Godot this evening.  I was happy to answer in the affirmative.  Hopefully, this fella will turn up again in my letter-writing pub excursions.

In short, the performance kicked ass.  It's a brilliant play, that seems to become only more relevant as time goes on.  It was performed by the Gate Theatre Company, who are considered to be the premier interpreters of Beckett's work.  Anyone who's familiar with Beckett will tell you that this is no small achievement.  It's difficult to explain the "plot," but suffice to say that it's got one painful foot firmly planted in the real world, and one foot sinking quickly into absurdity.

Very depressing and very funny.

Sunday

It's been a relatively uneventful week, but I think I'll make note here of a few relatively un-noteworthy things.

-I've been given the nickname "Grandpa Brad," from my affinity for sweater vests and whiskey.

-I'm developing a little crush on Ted Hughes.  His poetry never really jumped at me before, but I found some while wandering through the library here, and it's amazing.  They're just these immense, sensual, formally exquisite, ominous, mucky poems that kick my ass.

-I went to an art show opening last night, for a piece called the17.  Here's a quick breakdown of the events.  Me and 30ish other people were herded into a room with all of the lights off, and the "artist" would say something like, "You're all 70 years old, and I want you to sing this note," he hits a note on the piano, "trying to sing it with the wisdom of your years."  Everybody then sang that note for four minutes straight.  This was recorded.  We repeated this process with different motivations and notes about four more times.  He then played all 5 takes back to us simultaneously at a very loud volume.

There was free beer.

-Going to see Beckett's Waiting for Godot on Wednesday night.  That should kick ass.

-I've been feeling pretty melancholy lately, for a variety of reasons.  Homesick, I guess.  Oh well.

-Decided to do the vegetarian thing again.  That is, be one.  Not date one.

Cheers, folks.

Tuesday

I made some bitchin' Indian food for myself tonight, while listening to Regina Spektor.  Sounds pretty awesome, huh?

Until you take into consideration that there isn't a human being alive who could take red wine, cutting onions, and "Samson," ALL AT ONCE, and not cry.

Oh, Regina...

Saturday

Hot whiskey and Bonnie "Prince" Billy.

Friday Night

"Manic Pixie Dream Girl."

Friday

This was not my goal for the day, but it basically turned out to be a pretty big embrace of the cliches I loved about Irish culture before I came over.  And it was fantastic.

I got up at 7am (which sucked, but I now know that the sun doesn't come up here until 8ish), to get ready to get on a bus to Coleraine.  As I was dressing after a shower, I listened to the traditional tune "I Wonder What's Keeping My True Love Tonight?" as performed by Irish band Solas.  While it's fairly clear in their rendition that it's Irish, there's a dialogue going on that reminded me of Dylan's "Boots of Spanish Leather," and a use of nature to reflect an overwhelming heartache that, to me, conjured up images of Hank Williams Sr. and Matt Stucky.  Gorgeous.

I got on a different bus in Coleraine to get to Bushmills.  For the geographically and alcoholically uneducated, Bushmills is a cute little town that is really only worth noting for a) a close proximity to Giant's Causeway, and b) the location of the Old Bushmills Distillery.  I went for (surprise!) the distillery.  Basically, it was a relatively uneventful tour, with a glass of Bushmills 10 Year Single Malt waiting for me at the end.  But anybody that enjoys whiskey can't really complain about spending half a day touring a distillery, concluded by a good glass of the booze you just watched being made.

Afterwards, I had some downtime until the return bus showed up.  So, I walked streets straight out of "P.S. I Love You," had me some down-home fish & chips, and a pint of Guinness in a local pub, with three of the most vulgar old men I could find.

And here I am back in Derry.  It was a good day.

Monday

For dinner, I cooked a ridiculous stir-fry amalgam of vegetables and seasonings, slapped it on some bread, and had me a sandwich.  It was swell.

Later, went to open-mic night at Mason's.  It went really well, like the previous week, only this time I did a couple of originals, and was awarded an additional tune.  I feel like I'm starting to work my way into a scene; the other folks that play and run the open-mic are overwhelmingly supportive and receptive and talented themselves, and I hope to play with them more, and learn a little.

After the pub started to close, me and a couple of other guitar players went outside in an archway under the wall with about 30 other people, and had an out of control sing-along 'til 2 am-ish.  Not unlike a creeker, only instead of being surrounded by trees and dirt and fire, the backdrop was a 400-year-old wall.  AWESOME.

Wednesday

Went to a pub last night, because I've seen "Wednesday - Traditional Music" advertised for a few days.  I was the only one there that gave a shit, but I talked to the guitar player for a little while, who, it turns out, also plays in a hot shit Scottish band (The Battlefield Band).  Afterwards, without any prompting from me, they did a uniquely Irish version of "Wagon Wheel."  I was a little verklempt, to say the least.  They were just as surprised as I was that anyone around here has ever heard of it.

Ireland's great, but I miss Kansas, folks.  So let's all have a drink to Joe Biden, Sarah Palin, and Fall Fest.

Monday/Tuesday

For the most party, Monday was a bus trip home from Ballyvaughan to Derry.  Monday night, though, I went with a few other BCA kids to this pub downtown where they have an open mic night every week.  I kind of expected there to be about 4 people there, and I get to play one song, and no one would give a shit.  In reality, the place was packed, I was allowed to play three songs, all three went well (Wagon Wheel is now an international hit, folks), and I got a free pint.  I now know where I'll be spending my Monday nights.

Tuesday, I spent the day giving some BCA students from Brussels a tour of the city.  They seemed legitimately interested, so maybe I have a career in being a tour guide.  I also found out that one of my classes actually doesn't exist, so now I'm signed up for, "Self, Identity, and Conflict" instead.  What a good Bethel English major class.

Weekend

Friday, I took a bus from Derry to Galway, and then from Galway to this little village on Galway Bay called Ballyvaughan.  A long bus ride with a guitar between your legs and a backpack on your lap.  I listened to William Elliot Whitmore for the majority of it.  "You're a rainstorm, a fire and a train wreck, all wrapped up in ribbons and lace..."

A little about Ballyvaughan:

It sits on the Atlantic Ocean.  I literally had a cup of tea every morning watching little Atlantic waves roll in.  You can't beat that.  We stayed in rustic little thatched roof cottages, where we kept ourselves warm by burning sod bricks, singing songs, and drinking wine.

I hiked a big hill.  We checked out an old cave.  Saw the Cliffs of Moher.  They were big and pretty and rocky and there was some ocean.  We saw a "Birds of Prey" show.  I had a hawk land on my arm, which was pretty cool.

We walked a lot of backroads.  This was, by far, the most surreal experience of the trip.  We were surrounded by rolling green hills, and old abandoned stone homes from the famine, and we walked by one currently inhabited home that had the smell of cinnamon and apples wafting out of the driveway.  It was like I was living in a goddamn Yankee Candle Company candle called, "Pie on the Windowsill of a Secluded Irish Cottage."  Seriously.  Ask anyone on the trip.  I was losing my shit.

On Sunday night, we saw a French band called Txutxukan.  They were like some crazy gypsies rocking the hell out of some random Irish village.  Check them out.  Fantastic, booty-shakin' gypsy party tunes.

Good times.