Let’s settle the Irish/Guinness thing once and for all.  It doesn’t taste all that different. It’s still Guinness.  But the texture is different, because no Irish pub will take less than five minutes to pour it. 

That’s a huge difference from American bars, which treat beer like fast food: slop it out fast and sling it down the bar.  There’s places that respect the power of the slow pour, but too many of them are just trying to turn tables and scarf up tips.  In Ireland, you can be assured of a very slow, rich pour.

Basically, the difference is the same as between regular TV and HD-TV:

It’s still a frog.  You can tell it’s a frog.  There’s nothing wrong with the frog. But all things being equal, you’d rather see the HD frog.

Trip pictures, such as they are, reside here.

I’ve always wondered about all those those Halloween Superstores that spring up every year about this time.  Where do they find the space?  Unfortunately, I found out when I came back from my trip. Exhausted from jet lag, I stumbled through the door and found that my condo was full of people rifling through costumes, accessories, and masks--none of which had been there when I left.

It sounds ridiculous, but my home had been turned into a Halloween Superstore.  People were rummaging through my drawers, throwing away socks and boxers while grabbing fistfuls of fake blood tubes and plastic fangs.  It was complete chaos.

I screamed, “What the hell are you people doing?  Get the hell out of here!”

A man turned to me and asked, “Where do you keep the slutty nurse outfits?  I need one for my girlfriend, and all I can find are corn flakes.” He held up a half-empty box.

”Those are my corn flakes.  Put those down!”

He looked at me, offended.  “What do you mean they’re your cornflakes?  Do you have a receipt?  I might want to buy this box, cut some leg holes, and use it for my cat’s costume.”

I was about to punch the guy out when a woman tapped me on the shoulder.  “Excuse me, I’m the manager of this store and we have every right to be here.”

“You have every right to set up a Halloween superstore in my apartment when I’m on vacation?”

“Yes, we have to find some place to breeze in, set up shop, and then quickly leave after the holiday’s over.  It’s become increasingly difficult to find commercial space, so we’ve started taking over private homes.”

“Don’t you think you need my permission?”

“Not really.” She waved some papers in my face.  “Ever since the Supreme Court heard Kelo v. City of New London, it’s been a lot easier.  That case involved the use of eminent domain to transfer land from one private owner to another to further economic development. The Court held in a 5-4 decision that the general benefits a community enjoyed from economic growth qualified such redevelopment plans as a permissible ‘public use’ under the Takings Clause of the Fifth Amendment.”

“And what exactly does that have to do with me--?”

“Halloween is a growth industry.  So we’re redeveloping your living room.  And bedroom.  And kitchen.  For the benefit of the community.”

“THIS IS INSANE--”

“Take it up with Antonin Scalia.  In the meantime, do you mind if we knock one of your walls out?  We need more space for all of our Captain Jack Sparrow inventory.”

Overcome with fatigue and despair, I slumped against the wall.  A little girl came up to me.

“I know how you feel,” she said.

“You do?”

“Yes, I was really hoping they hadn’t sold out of Hermione too.”

I love picking through old ruins.  Back home in Oakland, California, I find no more pleasant way to pass an afternoon than sift through boarded up houses and search for old hypodermic needles.  What history they impart to us!  How it fires the imagination to think of the people who used them, and what their lives were like!

So it shouldn’t come as any surprise that I went to Adare in County Limerick in order to see several old medieval ruins, including a well known Franciscan friary, founded by the Earl of Kildare in 1464.  The old woman behind the counter said “You need to get there by car.  There’s no foothpath, and it’s too narrow over the bridge to walk, especially in this kind of heavy traffic we’re having today.”

My guidebook said nothing about needing a car. I looked at her suspiciously.  Unlike Dublin’s Temple Bar and Galway, where I was somewhat long in the tooth compared to the throngs of tanned people on the hunt for beer and saliva, I was distinctively young for Adare.  This was a place for old retired people to stop and browse for floral prints in tourist shops.  Their danger was my opportunity.  I’m sorry, Mom and Dad, but I didn’t want to lie on my deathbed and wish that I had braved the bridge to see the ruins.  It was time to step out of the frying pan and into the friar.

As I suspected, the walk wasn’t really all that bad.  Yes, the traffic was a little nervewracking.  Irish eyes are smiling?  No, Irish eyes are red-rimmed with road rage.  And although I had been blessed with clear weather the entire week, today the clouds split open and rain hammered the road.  I moved slowly and kept close to the bridge rail.  The peril wasn’t all that perilous, and I got to my destination soon enough.

It was great.  I am not superstitious, but I like to visit places that make it obvious why other people are superstitious.  In the cloudy, rainy weather, the ruins of the friary were ethereal, spectral.  The word that came to mind, although it was early afternoon, was “gloaming.”

Of course, all of this was only true as long as you kept your head inside the ruins.  Because I neglected to mention that the friary is smack in the middle of a golf course.  Forgotten golf balls were mixed inbetween the stones, and when you stepped outside the crumbling altar area, machines that rattled and belched smoke were busy tending the grass.  So on top of everything else, maybe the friary is a metaphor for the way E.U. money is changing the face of Ireland and slowly engulfing its historical heritage?  Nah.  I think it’s a metaphor for the fact that ruins are totally cool.

I’m off to Ireland for a bit. Send me a postcard!  Oh wait, maybe I got that backwards.

Over the weekend I went to the 6th Annual Oakland Art and Soul Festival.  It’s always nice to go to an event in my town where I don’t have to wear kevlar.  Calexico was one of the many bands that played:

They weren’t a revelation, but listening to their music made me think of cacti, desert sand, and tequila. Which is a compliment in my book.

Have you ever noticed that when you go to these things, they have run-down booths with all kinds of hideously expensive food?

It’s like, half the booths were claiming to make money to fight some socio-political injustice, which apparently gives them the right to charge $10.00 for free range tofu or whatever. I don’t think so.  Seven bucks for strawberry shortcake? That had better be tall cake for that much money.

Here’s one incense booth with the most useful sign at the festival: “YES, We Have OXYGEN & EGYPTIAN MUSK.”

Wow, I’m really glad they told me, because I was just about to ask!  Yes, excuse me sir, do you have egyptian musk and, y’know, air?

Rickie Lee Jones was the festival headliner.  The place was packed, so this is the only picture I got of her:

We left pretty quickly anyway because the show was tedious.  Rickie Lee Jones has sung protest songs before.  You know what protest song I’d like to hear?  One that protests boring folk singers.  “Stop Putting My Ears to Sleep” would be a big chartburner if I ruled the world.

On the way out we saw Klymaxx, who hit the charts several decades ago with songs such as “I Miss You” and “Meeting in the Ladies Room.” Well, actually, those were the only two.

At first I was amused because the band was billed as “Klymaxx, featuring original guitarist Cheryl Cooley.” Which is pretty funny, because is that even the same band if it has one original member?  But then I found out that Cooley went and trademarked the band’s name behind the backs of the original members, including founder Bernadette Cooper!  And then she went out and gathered her own musicians and is now touring behind the name.  I’ll bet there’s a meeting in the ladies room, and they’re all deciding to kick Cheryl’s ass.  Seriously, if these guys come to your area, boycott them.  Just walk away from whatever third-tier stage they’re playing at the State Fair, and go see someone with quality and integrity.  Like...like Ted Nugent.

By the way, just to anticipate the usual questions I get whenever I post pictures: No, I don’t know how I became such a natural with the camera, and no, I haven’t considered becoming a professional photographer, and no, I don’t have any advice for aspiring photogs.  Except maybe to say that you can’t find the moment; you have to let the moment find you.  I am considering teaching some college extension courses on the subject, though.  Everyone is welcome to sign up except Cheryl Cooley.