I fucking hope not.

“So it’s a journal?” “I fucking hope not. I view it more as a guide to a minimalist way of living.” The three of us had been discussing what we do; he'd just finished his studies in Germany, she works as a language teacher. How do I express the desire to write down the debauchery that my life has succumbed to? I tell them of forestry, of making over 50 dollars an hour, of walking around with my dogs and being paid. Then I tell them of reading literature and the desiring to read, drink, and occasionally write. The subject tending to be myself and fucked encounters. I have a good living as a forester; I have no intention of being a writer – I will fail – you will fail – everyone will fail. Never attempt to succeed, only try to survive. I bought a bottle of wine, remembered my lack of a corkscrew, and pushed the cork in with my toothbrush. I opened it in a dead-end ally in Dublin on my last night in town. The ally was littered with needles and clothes were strewn about. I picked up a hoodie and used it to obscure the bottle as I walked down the road. When I reached the park and took a pull off the wine, I smelled the sweater was coated in piss.


There is nothing wrong with sobriety in moderation.
John Ciardi


Drinking through a hangover I find myself with a pint of porter in the men's room stall taking a worthy beer shit (attempting to write about the event between squeezes). The hardest part of traveling in cities is finding quality dive bars. If I hear California Gurls or Everyday I'm Hustling one more time, I’ll puke on the dance floor. I stand after my shit, turn to shake the dribble off my dick, and watch a drop land in my pint on the floor. I laugh.

Bowie to Bowie

A man gets thrown against a wall and onto the sidewalk by two unarmed policemen.  Police in much of Europe do not carry guns or Tasers, they just knock the shit out of you old school.  I cross the street and snap a photo while moving down to the next bar with some college students that just finished their exams.  It’s an unfortunately slow night throughout Dublin.  The bar we go to is named Coppers, and most of the patrons are either nurses or cops.  The cops are all working overtime for the Queen’s visit.  I leave the fellas at the next bar and try to find my way back to the Pub where I left my hoodie; I'm not quite resigned to giving it up yet.  I find a wool blanket on the street and pick it up; fate.  Why not just sleep in the street?  The city is on lockdown anyway and most Hostels are filled-up.  I find my hoodie then stop for a beer on the sidewalk with a group of homeless men.  We discuss homelessness, sleeping outside and fear of the police.  One gets a phone call.  There's a huge protest across town where the Queen had laid a wreath earlier.  I hoof-it at lightning speed; the thrill of a righteous protest is exhilarating.  I approach the park.  Distant sirens are heard.  I see a few uniformed officers, but my search for youth on the streets is in vain.  The phone call is likely a prank, or misinformed, no one is there.  The days of protests occurred before I reached Dublin by train.  Others are likely to occur, but no one can ever get within a mile of the Queen.  I take my blanket and find a bush; my luck is good, it doesn't rain.

They're spending millions on the cost of the Queen’s visit.  Bombs have been found on busses.  There are constantly helicopters hovering over the city.  It’s all a show of intimidation.  The police are everywhere, blocking alleyways and standing on street corners.  I've seen female officers in pants 4-sizes too large.  Perhaps they're cadets!  Every manhole cover and utility hatch in the sidewalk has been welded shut to prevent the placement of bombs.  At least the cost of the Queens visit is less than the royal wedding.

I've found a few very Portlandia bars in Dublin.  They serve their own house lager and have an extensive organic menu during the day, with many vegetarian options.  At night they have live music on three floors.  One of the bands is a two piece group, one on guitar, the other on drums.  The drummer has braces.  They play all original songs in a Bowie fashion.  Their music is loud.  Actually, many of their songs are about David Bowie.  They dress like the clash and together can't weigh more than 220 lbs.  At the end of their set, the singer strikes the symbols with his guitar, distorts his amplifier, and drops his instrument onto the stage floor.

Walking the Streets of Dublin on the Nakba (The Catastrophe)

Leaving my Hostel this morning it is important to note that not all Hostels are created equal.  I was rather impressed by this Hostel, as any Fanny Trekker should be.  It had rooms that fit up to 16 people and was cheap as could be expected.  Plus the Internet and coffee were free.  Although, you have to wake up in time for the free breakfast to get some and I didn't make it back until nearly 4:00 AM.  I slept until a nice woman awoke me to ask if I was staying on.  I said no, and she said; “Then get out.”  The Hostel was connected to a coffee shop called The Bald Batista.  I ordered an Americano was asked; “Large or Bigger.” I responded; “Small.”  With a smile he explained that on Sundays everyone is generally nursing a hangover and wants a large coffee.  I told him that when I'm nursing a hangover, all I want is more beer.  We then discussed trains and the countryside of Ireland and he gave me some advice.  It wasn't until leaving that I realized the name of the Cafe and saw the sign for The Bald Batista with a drawing of his bald head and a cup of steaming Joe.  Although I doubt anyone in Europe calls it Joe. 

The Queen will be in Dublin on Wednesday, but I wanted to spend the week in the countryside before returning to see the havoc that her presence will cause.  No Monarch has visited Ireland since the 1916 revolution.  She's coming to make amends for some massacre that happened at a football stadium in 1911.  A bunch of Black and Tan English Mercenaries opened fire on a football practice at the biggest stadium in Dublin.  Everyone here is really pissed that she's coming, and I've actually been told with a wink and a nod to avoid Dublin on Wednesday because of possible bombs.  All the more reason to be there I say.

I was walking away from the cafe looking for a train station to head out of town when I came across a lovely park.  Trees and ponds, birds and statues, the park was alive with families on a Sunday stroll.  At the entrance to the park was a huge archway.  I generally read arches and statues of any kind.  This one was distracting though because of the Palestinian protest for the anniversary of the Nakba.  The day Israel attacked the Palestinian's people and drove them from their land.  I stood with them, a group of 30 men, women, and children.  Mostly Irish, they had a scattering of people from Arab and Palestinian descent.  Soon after I arrived and began standing in solidarity, we began to march.  While marching I met a Palestinian man in his late 20's.  He had immigrated to Dublin from Gaza a year before.  He told me of living in Gaza and of living through Operation Cast Led on New Year's Eve in 2008/2009.  We talked about world impressions, and those of Americans regarding the Middle East, of drugs and opiates that keep people from caring or learning more of atrocities, and the media that provides ready distractions, of AIPAC, and other corruption in political systems.  Suddenly the crowd started chanting.  FREE, FREE PALESTINE, FREE, FREE PALESTINE... FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE... Then head scarves were being placed over faces by many of the Palestinian men and women, and I realized we had been marching to the Israeli embassy in Dublin.  I had been handed a flag, and started taking photos (I'll share later).  When we reached the embassy there were another 20 people already standing there, mostly Palestinian, and they held a large 20 foot Palestinian flag.  The chanting continued and increased in volume.  We were well supervised at this point by around 20 officers circling us on the street.  Horns of passing cars were honking constantly, and many stopped to join us.  The protest was allowed to make its statement on this anniversary of The Catastrophe.  I stayed with them in solidarity for some-time before continuing on to find my train.  I also had to piss and refill myself with more Guinness. 

I prefer countryside towns to cities generally.  I enjoy being greeted openly and feeling comfortable asking about people’s lives.  But when in a capital like Dublin, the chance of finding these amazingly powerful events randomly is awe inspiring, to be able to join a group in a walk through town for a just cause, and to thank them afterward for their promotion of awareness.  I drink to them today, and all the people of Palestine, on the day of the Nakba.