Dublin

I haven't posted in awhile, but don't worry.  This one is gonna be a doozy.

I barely slept Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, because of paper-writing, and election-watching.  On Wednesday, I departed for Dublin.  Brilliant chaos ensued.

Wednesday evening:

I witnessed the brilliant spectacle that is the Celtics fans of Dublin watching their team get barely defeated by Manchester United.  The anger surging through the room is indescribable.

Thursday Morning:

I got out of bed, and walked around what can only be described as most of Dublin.  Among other things, I visited the Jameson Distillery and the Guinness Storehouse.  Jameson was quick, quaint, and relatively museum-ish.  That is, unlike the Bushmills Distillery, it was merely a reproduction, without an operating distillery.  I did get to participate in the whiskey tasting, though.  Guinness, on the other hand, was a veritable complex.  It took up a square city block, and the part that I toured had seven stories: one for paying admission, one for shopping, one for the ingredients, one for the brewer, one for drinking responsibly (we've gotta be PC, folks), one for drinking, and one for drinking more.

Thursday Night:

Hung around the main bar district (called Temple Bar).  The first pub I went to had a balding, mustached Irish man playing 60's classic rock songs, such as "Barbara Ann," "American Pie," and "Hotel California."  Brilliant.  Next, I baby-sat a plastic bag full of booze owned by a barely understandable homeless guy, who went to buy rolling papers.  When he got back, he tried to give me some hash, and asked me to roll us a joint.  I politely declined.  Then I wandered into an art gallery opening, which happened to be an Oxfam benefit with free wine.  AWESOME.  Then, Jen Beck (a friend from high school, coincidentally in Dublin, on vacation from studying in England) called to invite me down to another pub.  I obliged, as it is always fantastic to see a little hint of Kansas.

Friday:

Walked around Dublin some more, this time, with Jen and her friend Sara.  We went to the James Joyce Centre (lovely), St. Stephens Green (fucking beautiful), a bookstore, and every other damn street in Dublin that I had missed the previous day.  That night I went to see Okkervil River in a little venue on Abbey St.

Saturday:

My study-abroad advisor set up a meeting for me with a novelist who lives and works in Dublin.  We talked for a couple of hours about books and Dublin a little, but mostly just female singer/songwriters that we both have crushes on, i.e. Gillian Welch.  It was great.  After that, I walked around Dublin until it started raining like hell on me.  I ducked into a lovely little pub called Queen Maebh's.  They ironically had "November Rain" by Guns'n'Roses playing.  In November, while it was raining.  I nearly burst into tears because of the absurdity of it.

That night, I wandered around a few pubs with Sara and a some other folks.  The last pub was essentially an old apartment, which gave the whole thing the feeling of a house party.  It was brilliant.

A hung-over Bradley McKellip was last seen stumbling to the Dublin bus station on Sunday, undeniably in a daze.

Songs:

"From the Levee's Peak" by Mr. David Viner

"Shiver Me Timbers" by Tom Waits

"The Trapeze Swinger" by Iron and Wine

"Whiskey in the Jar" a traditional

"So Come Back, I Am Waiting" by Okkervil River

Books:

On the Road by Jack Kerouac

Crow by Ted Hughes

The Love Letters of Dylan Thomas by Dylan Thomas

The Draughtsman and the Unicorn by Tony Glavin

Monday

It's been a hazelnut day.

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...