This is my first post since I've turned 25.
I started this blog when I was 19.
I'm obviously in a very different spot in my life.
This blog was initially a way for me to get out
my opinions or to vent about frustrating situations
because I didn't know how to vocalize them.
Somehow, I've become a talkative person
(as long as I have two good friends around me).
I rarely hold back my tongue unless I need to respect someone.
It's a odd sensation that not even
a 21 year-old Charles could have seen coming.
As I became more outspoken, the less I blogged.
I joked last year on April Fool's Day
that the Wacko Monologues had reached its last chapter.
In a way it had, and all the posts that followed were just epilogues.
But, as per usual, whenever my blog is absent for too long,
friends I haven't talked to in months
- friends I didn't even know read this thing -
told me how nice it was, complimenting me on my style.
My ego is a very easy thing to stroke.
In the past year, I've watch various college colleagues
prosper online and beyond:
be it through self-starts, established blogs, or poetry readings.
While I have been working on my own secret projects,
I feel as if I've been absent for too long.
I want to throw my hat back in the ring.
I want to reestablish my brand.
I want to remain relevant.
The ego-thing comes back into play.
Consider this a reboot of the Wacko Monologues.
It may pertain less to my personal life,
but reporting on issues or hot topics
won't be without my somehow sought after insight.
While I will attempt to withhold my creative writing,
there's no doubt I'll self-publish a few scribblings.
I've never been patient enough for major publications.
And if you're wondering [you probably aren't]
what happened to my 101 Tasks in 1001 Days...
I never finished. I honestly forgot about it myself.
But if - nay, when - I complete another task,
I'll still write about it.
Who knows, maybe I can get
a book published in the next year [task 4].
So, when can you expect new posts?
Every Tuesday at 2pm on the dot.
Will I actually keep up with this schedule?
I plan on it. I work from home; I have no excuse.
Will there ever be blogs on other days?
If I feel so compelled, yes. I'm still beating myself up
for missing the majority of the Michael Brown coverage.
But tensions are still hot from the following events,
so I'll end up writing about it eventually.
Will you still sign out of each post like you used to?
I don't see why not.
Word.
August 26, 2014
May 27, 2014
The Debut of Nia Salem
It started off as a bet.
No, a dare.
A blood-oath!
Okay, it was more of a brainwashing obsession.
Years ago, before there was such a phrase as "It Get Better," a semi-popular 90s talk show host
received the opportunity to create a new reality show.
Well, not so new that it wouldn't be compared to America's Next Top Model,
but so good that it would surpass its relevancy in the queer community.
This show, of course, is RuPaul's Drag Race.
With each passing season,
the show has gained notoriety,
from gay and straight fans alike.
The transformation of a man into a woman
really seems to intrigue straight audiences,
the straights in my house being no exception.
In fact, a fantasy league was created
for the season this year.
But when that finished,
and only the finals were left for us to watch
- the Superbowl of Drag, as some have called it -
there seemed to be a new energy in the house.
Within a week we planned our own drag night.
Yes, straight men and women, gays, and lesbians
all dressing as the opposite gender.
[The term for a woman dressed as a man is drag king.]
But we couldn't just make a night of it.
Like all things in our house,
it had to become a competition.
No prize. Just honor and glory.
I couldn't have been happier about it.
For two years, I've wanted to dress in drag
for Halloween or other costume parties.
Sadly, I never struck up the gull to try.
But with a group of us all trying it for the first time,
it was easy not to back out.
I mean, we had a month to prepare.
One week before the competition,
one of my roommates and I finally
managed to drag ourselves to the mall.
Procrastination isn't just a college sport.
Allow me to thank God for Payless Shoe Source,
because a size 12 footed man could only hope
to find a size 13 heel in a hopeless place.
I consider myself lucky to have had the option
between two pairs of basic heels.
My size 10 roommate, however,
was blessed with variety.
I loathed him so as he slipped his tiny foot
into a sparkly strapped heel.
My envy only subdued as I worried
what the cashier would think when we checked out.
That's when she walked up the aisle
and handed us a coupon for 20% off.
Needless to say, check out was judgment free.
She even threw in heel guards for a dollar.
Wig shopping was also fairly easy the next day.
My size 10 roommate found a small shop that sold $20 wigs.
$20 wigs, I know. They must have been so ratty.
And most of them were.
That's because the wig shop was actually a hair boutique,
but we found nice pieces to feminize our manly faces.
The owner only paused fixing a lady's updo
to receive payment and wish us a good day.
My shopping with size 10 ended there.
It turned out he already had a team (his high school friends)
helping him with padding, dress, and makeup.
If it hadn't been clear before,
it was obvious he, nay, she - Cherry (Aki) Chopstick -
would be my greatest rival, the Gray Oak to my Ash Ketchum.
Cherry is his drag name, if you hadn't figured it out.
Drag names are occasionally puns,
because puns are a drag queen's best friend.
However, my drag name is just Nia Salem.
I actually created the name in my teens a year after my other alter egos
because I felt a need to add a female character in the bunch.
Nia came from Nia Long.
I was never really that big into her work, I just thought it was a cute name.
Salem (pronounce Sa-leem) came out of nowhere as far as I can remember.
I think I just wanted it to be a pain to pronounce so I could correct people.
Four days before the competition
and I still only had a wig and shoes.
I looked at myself in the mirror and patted my gut.
A corset was definitely in order if I was gonna pull any look off.
I took to Amazon, found one that was my waist size,
and ordered it Prime, like the boss I am.
It arrived Friday.
Two days left.
When I woke up Saturday morning,
a look came to me.
I would wear one of my white collared shirts
under my corset with my bra exposed.
All I need was a skirt. And the bra.
My best friend was nice enough
to drive me back to the mall after she got off work.
I was foolish to wait until a Saturday.
H&M was swamped with basic bitches
far as the eye could see.
I didn't know how to approach any of the female clothing
without catching a bit of side eye.
I tired not to care, but social norms are hard to shake after 24 years.
Luckily, my friend noticed me panicking
and led me to Forever 21 across the hall.
As a man, I have never stepped into Forever 21.
The amount of linen pantsuits I saw was ridiculous.
Is that the hot new trend?
If so, it's gonna be an interesting summer in Baltimore.
But among all the pantsuits,
a dress I mistook as a skirt caught my eye,
which my friend informed me I could fold it into a skirt.
After agreeing an extra large was right for me
and awkwardly trying on a large bra over my clothes,
we headed to the register.
My luck continued as we found
enough makeup to beat my face with
while waiting in line.
I never realized Forever 21 was the Walmart of women shopping.
When we reached the front of the line,
my friend pretended the items were hers
as I paid for it, posing as her boyfriend or sugar daddy.
I prefer sugar daddy.
She's a good friend.
While a good friend, she did not want to compete as a man.
She preferred to be a drag queen because it was "more fun."
I couldn't dispute her.
However, by Saturday night, three competitors backed out.
Either because work was too hectic that they didn't have time to prepare
or they just wouldn't have their materials ready.
Clearly, they were disappointments,
but in the end, it just meant fewer people to take down.
Finally, Sunday arrived.
I shaved my body.
I looked like a baby without my fur,
but it was all in the name of drag.
Applying my own makeup was actually the best part of dolling up.
I felt like my face was an art project.
Did I use too much bronzer to cover up my five o'clock shadow?
Probably.
Was the white line down the bridge of my nose too noticeable?
Absolutely.
Was my eye makeup heavy?
Duh, I was becoming a drag queen.
Clown realness is the name of the game.
Did I make myself proud?
Ya damn right.
I was the last contestant to walk downstairs,
but that's how a lady makes an entrance.
I turned the corner to find my fellow drags in the "green room."
Two drag kings, three drags queens, and me.
Cherry Chopstick gagged when she saw me.
I was happy to hear her admit she liked my outfit better than her own,
but I knew she still planned to take me down.
There were three challenges that night:
1) The Runway
2) The Dating Game
3) The Lip Sync
Scoring would be left up to the audience,
a crowd of our friends and family.
Because the order was alphabetical,
I would be the last to perform in the first and last challenges.
Perfect if you ask me.
I was hoping to close the show.
I have no idea how good or bad any of the other drags' runway went,
but when I exited the "green room" to walk that catwalk,
I turned it out.
I stomped the ground with a vengeance
and dropped it low at the edge of the stage
as Yonce by Beyonce played.
I slayed.
The Dating Game was my downfall though.
Thinking on the spot to answer dating questions
with witty responses and puns can be challenging.
I held my own, and made the crowd laugh,
but Cherry clearly had the advantage.
I went backstage knowing she was likely in the lead.
With only the lip sync left,
I knew it was it time to turn it up.
Whether the performers ahead of me were good or not,
all that mattered was that I close the show out right.
So when Damaged by Danity Kane played for me,
I gave it my all.
So must sweat.
But I knew when it was all said and done,
I impressed them enough.
It took our host a while to tally up all the scores,
so all six drag kings and queens danced
to one last RuPaul song before the winner was announced.
In third place was Billie Holidaze, one of the drag kings.
The fourth through sixth placers were announced,
leaving only Cherry Chopstick and myself.
Only 3 points separated the winner from second place.
We held each others hands in true pageant style.
......
And yes, I won!
I couldn't have been happier.
Well, I would have been happier had I beat Cherry by a larger lead,
but there's always next time.
Because there will most likely be a next time.
Too many people were upset they missed their opportunity for us not to do another.
Besides, I own heels, wig, and a set up makeup now.
I can't just lay Nia Salem to rest.
Word.
No, a dare.
A blood-oath!
Okay, it was more of a brainwashing obsession.
Years ago, before there was such a phrase as "It Get Better," a semi-popular 90s talk show hostreceived the opportunity to create a new reality show.
Well, not so new that it wouldn't be compared to America's Next Top Model,
but so good that it would surpass its relevancy in the queer community.
This show, of course, is RuPaul's Drag Race.
With each passing season,
the show has gained notoriety,
from gay and straight fans alike.
The transformation of a man into a woman
really seems to intrigue straight audiences,
the straights in my house being no exception.
In fact, a fantasy league was created
for the season this year.
But when that finished,
and only the finals were left for us to watch
- the Superbowl of Drag, as some have called it -
there seemed to be a new energy in the house.
Within a week we planned our own drag night.
Yes, straight men and women, gays, and lesbians
all dressing as the opposite gender.
[The term for a woman dressed as a man is drag king.]
But we couldn't just make a night of it.
Like all things in our house,
it had to become a competition.
No prize. Just honor and glory.
I couldn't have been happier about it.
For two years, I've wanted to dress in drag
for Halloween or other costume parties.
Sadly, I never struck up the gull to try.
But with a group of us all trying it for the first time,
it was easy not to back out.
I mean, we had a month to prepare.
One week before the competition,
one of my roommates and I finally
managed to drag ourselves to the mall.
Procrastination isn't just a college sport.
Allow me to thank God for Payless Shoe Source,
because a size 12 footed man could only hope
to find a size 13 heel in a hopeless place.
I consider myself lucky to have had the option
between two pairs of basic heels.
My size 10 roommate, however,
was blessed with variety.
I loathed him so as he slipped his tiny foot
into a sparkly strapped heel.
My envy only subdued as I worried
what the cashier would think when we checked out.
That's when she walked up the aisle
and handed us a coupon for 20% off.
Needless to say, check out was judgment free.
She even threw in heel guards for a dollar.
Wig shopping was also fairly easy the next day.
My size 10 roommate found a small shop that sold $20 wigs.
$20 wigs, I know. They must have been so ratty.
And most of them were.
That's because the wig shop was actually a hair boutique,
but we found nice pieces to feminize our manly faces.
The owner only paused fixing a lady's updo
to receive payment and wish us a good day.
My shopping with size 10 ended there.
It turned out he already had a team (his high school friends)
helping him with padding, dress, and makeup.
If it hadn't been clear before,
it was obvious he, nay, she - Cherry (Aki) Chopstick -
would be my greatest rival, the Gray Oak to my Ash Ketchum.
Cherry is his drag name, if you hadn't figured it out.
Drag names are occasionally puns,
because puns are a drag queen's best friend.
However, my drag name is just Nia Salem.
I actually created the name in my teens a year after my other alter egos
because I felt a need to add a female character in the bunch.
Nia came from Nia Long.
I was never really that big into her work, I just thought it was a cute name.
Salem (pronounce Sa-leem) came out of nowhere as far as I can remember.
I think I just wanted it to be a pain to pronounce so I could correct people.
Four days before the competition
and I still only had a wig and shoes.
I looked at myself in the mirror and patted my gut.
A corset was definitely in order if I was gonna pull any look off.
I took to Amazon, found one that was my waist size,
and ordered it Prime, like the boss I am.
It arrived Friday.
Two days left.
When I woke up Saturday morning,
a look came to me.
I would wear one of my white collared shirts
under my corset with my bra exposed.
All I need was a skirt. And the bra.
My best friend was nice enough
to drive me back to the mall after she got off work.
I was foolish to wait until a Saturday.
H&M was swamped with basic bitches
far as the eye could see.
I didn't know how to approach any of the female clothing
without catching a bit of side eye.
I tired not to care, but social norms are hard to shake after 24 years.
Luckily, my friend noticed me panicking
and led me to Forever 21 across the hall.
As a man, I have never stepped into Forever 21.
The amount of linen pantsuits I saw was ridiculous.
Is that the hot new trend?
If so, it's gonna be an interesting summer in Baltimore.
But among all the pantsuits,
a dress I mistook as a skirt caught my eye,
which my friend informed me I could fold it into a skirt.
After agreeing an extra large was right for me
and awkwardly trying on a large bra over my clothes,
we headed to the register.
My luck continued as we found
enough makeup to beat my face with
while waiting in line.
I never realized Forever 21 was the Walmart of women shopping.
When we reached the front of the line,
my friend pretended the items were hers
as I paid for it, posing as her boyfriend or sugar daddy.
I prefer sugar daddy.
She's a good friend.
While a good friend, she did not want to compete as a man.
She preferred to be a drag queen because it was "more fun."
I couldn't dispute her.
However, by Saturday night, three competitors backed out.
Either because work was too hectic that they didn't have time to prepare
or they just wouldn't have their materials ready.
Clearly, they were disappointments,
but in the end, it just meant fewer people to take down.
Finally, Sunday arrived.
I looked like a baby without my fur,
but it was all in the name of drag.
Applying my own makeup was actually the best part of dolling up.
I felt like my face was an art project.
Did I use too much bronzer to cover up my five o'clock shadow?
Probably.
Was the white line down the bridge of my nose too noticeable?
Absolutely.
Was my eye makeup heavy?
Duh, I was becoming a drag queen.
Clown realness is the name of the game.
Did I make myself proud?
Ya damn right.
I was the last contestant to walk downstairs,
but that's how a lady makes an entrance.
I turned the corner to find my fellow drags in the "green room."
Two drag kings, three drags queens, and me.
Cherry Chopstick gagged when she saw me.
I was happy to hear her admit she liked my outfit better than her own,
but I knew she still planned to take me down.
There were three challenges that night:
1) The Runway
2) The Dating Game
3) The Lip Sync
Scoring would be left up to the audience,
a crowd of our friends and family.
Because the order was alphabetical,
I would be the last to perform in the first and last challenges.
Perfect if you ask me.
I was hoping to close the show.
I have no idea how good or bad any of the other drags' runway went,
but when I exited the "green room" to walk that catwalk,
I turned it out.
I stomped the ground with a vengeance
and dropped it low at the edge of the stage
as Yonce by Beyonce played.
I slayed.
The Dating Game was my downfall though.
Thinking on the spot to answer dating questions
with witty responses and puns can be challenging.
I held my own, and made the crowd laugh,
but Cherry clearly had the advantage.
I went backstage knowing she was likely in the lead.
With only the lip sync left,
I knew it was it time to turn it up.
Whether the performers ahead of me were good or not,
all that mattered was that I close the show out right.
So when Damaged by Danity Kane played for me,
I gave it my all.
So must sweat.
But I knew when it was all said and done,
I impressed them enough.
It took our host a while to tally up all the scores,
so all six drag kings and queens danced
to one last RuPaul song before the winner was announced.
In third place was Billie Holidaze, one of the drag kings.
The fourth through sixth placers were announced,
leaving only Cherry Chopstick and myself.
Only 3 points separated the winner from second place.
We held each others hands in true pageant style.
......
And yes, I won!
I couldn't have been happier.
Well, I would have been happier had I beat Cherry by a larger lead,
but there's always next time.
Because there will most likely be a next time.
Too many people were upset they missed their opportunity for us not to do another.
Besides, I own heels, wig, and a set up makeup now.
I can't just lay Nia Salem to rest.
Word.
December 31, 2013
My Totally Biased 13 Best Albums of 2013
All other blogs have it wrong.
You don't drop a best albums list mid-December.
You wait to the last possible minute so
people maybe, sorta, not really give a damn.
So, without further adieu
here's some random gay black music lover's opinion
about the best 13 albums to grace his ears this year.
[And remember, don't get your panties in a bunch.
It's only entertainment (Jay-Z voice)]
13. Arctic Monkeys - AM
As expected, the Arctic Monkeys delivered another dope album. Nothing but solid grooves and lyrics. AM poses such hard hitting questions such as Do I Wanna Know and R U Mine? When the band slows it down for a bit, Alex Turner's tenor earnestly wants to "be your vacuum cleaner breathing in your dust." Can you get any sexier than that? Yes. But these are rocking Brits here to wake up your ears, not get you laid.
Standout Tracks:
R U Mine?
Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?
12. Drake - Nothing Was The Same
His third time out, Drake does what Drake does best: be Drake. He's gonna serenade you in a monotone voice; he's gonna rap with the confidence that Lil Wayne is still the greatest rapper and will validate him; but most of all, he's gonna give you raw emotion that men will weep along to in the privacy of their bedroom. It seems nothing Drake releases will ever be as iconic as So Far Gone, but he's still one of the best in the game with albums that hold up.
Standout Tracks:
From Time (feat Jhene Aiko)
Too Much (feat Sampha)
11. Disclosure - Settle
Earlier this year, two young chaps by the names Guy and Howard Lawrence came out of England and revitalized the genre of House music. No dubstep, no crazy horns. Just a bunch of two-stepping tracks that b-boys and bros alike can vibe to. Featuring some of the best rising and aspiring R&B and Soul singers, each track is a different journey to the perfect mellow. Feel free to play this start to finish at a party that doesn't mind a few slow(er) jams.
Standout Tracks:
Latch (feat Sam Smith)
F for You
10. Daft Punk - Random Access Memories
Daft Punk has always been popular, since Discovery and the accompanying Interstella 5555 film. When Daft Punk released RAM with a slew of mid-tempo beats, they were championed - though not without a few upset fans who just wanted to dance their way through an album. Still, with the talents of Julian Casablancas, Pharrell, and Panda Bear at their disposal, it's hard to deny the playability of this album. Definitely an album for the Cadillac or Prius. You know, whatever floats your ass from place to place.
Standout Tracks:
Giorgio by Moroder
Touch (feat Paul Williams)
9. Justin Timberlake - The 20/20 Experience, 1 of 2
2013 was clearly the year of comebacks, with JT's perhaps the most anticipated. Taking his FutureSex/LoveSounds one step further, Justin channeled the 70s/80s approach: not shying away from six minutes plus song, calling for each track to be its own experience. An overplayed Suit & Tie aside, this Pop/R&B album is another great addition to JT's discography. We could have done without the B-Sides that is the 20/20 Experience, 2 of 2 though.
Standout Tracks:
Don't Hold the Wall
Strawberry Bubblegum
8. Major Lazer - Free the Universe
Hands down the best party/dance/Reggae album of the year. Spearheaded by Diplo the don, the tracks are laced with features from Santogold, Flux Pavillion, Elephant Man, Ezra Koenig, Wyclef and more. (There's a track by Shaggy, but we can all pretend that one doesn't exist.) With twerking finally taking over the nation after years of being around, each song will have you shaking your ass in a different pattern. Twerk Team assemble!
Standout Tracks:
Get Free (feat Amber of Dirty Projectors)
Sweat (feat Laidback Luke & Ms. Dynamite)
7. Vampire Weekend - Modern Vampires of the City
A favorite since I first spotted them on MTVu my freshman year, Vampire Weekend dropped their third album to much critical acclaim. Still drawing sounds African music, they leave many listeners wondering what the hell they're playing, adding to their charm. This is the album that the band really start to claim their place among our great acts, rising firmly into the mainstream while staying true to their sound and holding on to their ever-strong fan base.
Standout Tracks:
Step
Ya Hey
6. Childish Gambino - Because the Internet
Gambino's latest effort has received flack recently for not being executed to its fullest potential, called a poor MBDTF clone. Nay, I say. If anything it's closer to the Man on the Moon, Vol. II. Both albums feature a clearly depressed protagonist through a range of up-tempo to mid-tempo songs. True, it can be difficult to fully realize the album's message until you read the screenplay Gambino released as a companion piece, exploring his role as a multi-talented artist. Either way, it's still an outstanding album with replay value.
Standout Tracks:
3005
Flight of the Navigator
5. Chance the Rapper - Acid Rap
Though only a mixtape - his second at that - Acid Rap is one of the best rap records of the year the way So Far Gone was in 2009. Equipped with his own unique adlibs and offbeat rapping style, Chance hits you with some of the most relatable and honest lyrics while still managing to lighten the mood and have fun on a track. He can also carry a tune, and who doesn't love a rapper who can serenade you, too?
Standout Tracks:
Pusha Man/Paranoia
Everybody's Something (ft. Saba & BJ The Chicago Kid)
4. Janelle Monae - The Electric Lady
The Soulful Queen of Sci-Fi is back with the fourth and fifth installments to her Cindy Mayweather tale. This time with features from Prince, Solange, Miguel, and Esperanza Spalding, Ms Monae continues to hit us with the funk as Cindy hides out from the bounty hunters with the aid of her fellow cyborgs and androids while finding love and inspiring a revolution. Though the album is part of a narrative, it and its songs can be enjoyed without context. Jam on.
Standout Tracks:
Primetime (feat Miguel)
Victory
3. Kanye West - Yeezus
Despite his ego. Despite his abrasiveness. Despite Kim Kardashian and the Bound 2 video. Through it all, Kanye West is still one of the best musicians in the industry, and Yeezus proves it. Honestly, first listen, I hated it. But all great projects take time to understand. The same happened during 808 & Heartbreaks. With head beats, West Indian influences, and a few reliable samples, Kanye laid the grown work for a harsh sound we all grew to love with lyrics that make us respect him even more.
Standout Tracks:
Black Skinhead
Blood on the Leaves
2. James Blake - Overgrown
One of the most haunting voices in music today, James Blake dropped his sophomore effort that was made to entrance you. The ambient noises and voice loops will transport you to a world of James Blake's choosing, where he'll treat you to an experience like nothing else you've experienced this year. His voice is sex, his instrumentals the bed. This album is best enjoyed with mood lighting and your racing thoughts.
Standout Tracks:
Retrograde
Digital Lion
1. Beyonce - Self Titled
The fact that she dropped an album no one saw coming and sold over a million couples worldwide through iTunes alone aside, Beyonce recorded and released the greatest album of 2013. I am no obsessive fan (or stan) of Beyonce's, simply a respecter of her craft. She, too, decided to make her own rules, pairing the album with a visual experience: a video for every track. We were able to see her unadulterated vision, and everything from song to video delivered. Beyonce continues to grow as an artist, through her vocal ability and topics. She revealed personal information about her and her family while giving us the most grown and sexy Mrs Carter we had no idea was even a thing. This album has launched Beyonce into something new. She is no longer comparing with other artists "but with mothafuckas in the ground" as another fan explained. She's legendary, and she makes legendary music. That's all there is to it.
Standout Tracks:
Blow
Partition
Honorable Mentions:
M.I.A. - Matangi
Lorde - Heroine
Arcade Fire - Reflektor
Mayer Hawthrone - Where Does This Door Go
And there you have it.
Feel free to argue in the comment session.
Word.
You don't drop a best albums list mid-December.
You wait to the last possible minute so
people maybe, sorta, not really give a damn.
So, without further adieu
here's some random gay black music lover's opinion
about the best 13 albums to grace his ears this year.
[And remember, don't get your panties in a bunch.
It's only entertainment (Jay-Z voice)]
13. Arctic Monkeys - AM
As expected, the Arctic Monkeys delivered another dope album. Nothing but solid grooves and lyrics. AM poses such hard hitting questions such as Do I Wanna Know and R U Mine? When the band slows it down for a bit, Alex Turner's tenor earnestly wants to "be your vacuum cleaner breathing in your dust." Can you get any sexier than that? Yes. But these are rocking Brits here to wake up your ears, not get you laid.Standout Tracks:
R U Mine?
Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?
12. Drake - Nothing Was The Same
His third time out, Drake does what Drake does best: be Drake. He's gonna serenade you in a monotone voice; he's gonna rap with the confidence that Lil Wayne is still the greatest rapper and will validate him; but most of all, he's gonna give you raw emotion that men will weep along to in the privacy of their bedroom. It seems nothing Drake releases will ever be as iconic as So Far Gone, but he's still one of the best in the game with albums that hold up.Standout Tracks:
From Time (feat Jhene Aiko)
Too Much (feat Sampha)
11. Disclosure - Settle
Earlier this year, two young chaps by the names Guy and Howard Lawrence came out of England and revitalized the genre of House music. No dubstep, no crazy horns. Just a bunch of two-stepping tracks that b-boys and bros alike can vibe to. Featuring some of the best rising and aspiring R&B and Soul singers, each track is a different journey to the perfect mellow. Feel free to play this start to finish at a party that doesn't mind a few slow(er) jams.Standout Tracks:
Latch (feat Sam Smith)
F for You
10. Daft Punk - Random Access Memories
Daft Punk has always been popular, since Discovery and the accompanying Interstella 5555 film. When Daft Punk released RAM with a slew of mid-tempo beats, they were championed - though not without a few upset fans who just wanted to dance their way through an album. Still, with the talents of Julian Casablancas, Pharrell, and Panda Bear at their disposal, it's hard to deny the playability of this album. Definitely an album for the Cadillac or Prius. You know, whatever floats your ass from place to place.Standout Tracks:
Giorgio by Moroder
Touch (feat Paul Williams)
9. Justin Timberlake - The 20/20 Experience, 1 of 2
2013 was clearly the year of comebacks, with JT's perhaps the most anticipated. Taking his FutureSex/LoveSounds one step further, Justin channeled the 70s/80s approach: not shying away from six minutes plus song, calling for each track to be its own experience. An overplayed Suit & Tie aside, this Pop/R&B album is another great addition to JT's discography. We could have done without the B-Sides that is the 20/20 Experience, 2 of 2 though.Standout Tracks:
Don't Hold the Wall
Strawberry Bubblegum
8. Major Lazer - Free the Universe
Hands down the best party/dance/Reggae album of the year. Spearheaded by Diplo the don, the tracks are laced with features from Santogold, Flux Pavillion, Elephant Man, Ezra Koenig, Wyclef and more. (There's a track by Shaggy, but we can all pretend that one doesn't exist.) With twerking finally taking over the nation after years of being around, each song will have you shaking your ass in a different pattern. Twerk Team assemble!Standout Tracks:
Get Free (feat Amber of Dirty Projectors)
Sweat (feat Laidback Luke & Ms. Dynamite)
7. Vampire Weekend - Modern Vampires of the City
A favorite since I first spotted them on MTVu my freshman year, Vampire Weekend dropped their third album to much critical acclaim. Still drawing sounds African music, they leave many listeners wondering what the hell they're playing, adding to their charm. This is the album that the band really start to claim their place among our great acts, rising firmly into the mainstream while staying true to their sound and holding on to their ever-strong fan base.Standout Tracks:
Step
Ya Hey
6. Childish Gambino - Because the Internet
Gambino's latest effort has received flack recently for not being executed to its fullest potential, called a poor MBDTF clone. Nay, I say. If anything it's closer to the Man on the Moon, Vol. II. Both albums feature a clearly depressed protagonist through a range of up-tempo to mid-tempo songs. True, it can be difficult to fully realize the album's message until you read the screenplay Gambino released as a companion piece, exploring his role as a multi-talented artist. Either way, it's still an outstanding album with replay value.Standout Tracks:
3005
Flight of the Navigator
5. Chance the Rapper - Acid Rap
Though only a mixtape - his second at that - Acid Rap is one of the best rap records of the year the way So Far Gone was in 2009. Equipped with his own unique adlibs and offbeat rapping style, Chance hits you with some of the most relatable and honest lyrics while still managing to lighten the mood and have fun on a track. He can also carry a tune, and who doesn't love a rapper who can serenade you, too?Standout Tracks:
Pusha Man/Paranoia
Everybody's Something (ft. Saba & BJ The Chicago Kid)
4. Janelle Monae - The Electric Lady
The Soulful Queen of Sci-Fi is back with the fourth and fifth installments to her Cindy Mayweather tale. This time with features from Prince, Solange, Miguel, and Esperanza Spalding, Ms Monae continues to hit us with the funk as Cindy hides out from the bounty hunters with the aid of her fellow cyborgs and androids while finding love and inspiring a revolution. Though the album is part of a narrative, it and its songs can be enjoyed without context. Jam on.Standout Tracks:
Primetime (feat Miguel)
Victory
3. Kanye West - Yeezus
Despite his ego. Despite his abrasiveness. Despite Kim Kardashian and the Bound 2 video. Through it all, Kanye West is still one of the best musicians in the industry, and Yeezus proves it. Honestly, first listen, I hated it. But all great projects take time to understand. The same happened during 808 & Heartbreaks. With head beats, West Indian influences, and a few reliable samples, Kanye laid the grown work for a harsh sound we all grew to love with lyrics that make us respect him even more.Standout Tracks:
Black Skinhead
Blood on the Leaves
2. James Blake - Overgrown
Standout Tracks:
Retrograde
Digital Lion
1. Beyonce - Self Titled
Standout Tracks:
Blow
Partition
Honorable Mentions:
M.I.A. - Matangi
Lorde - Heroine
Arcade Fire - Reflektor
Mayer Hawthrone - Where Does This Door Go
And there you have it.
Feel free to argue in the comment session.
Word.
October 28, 2013
BlackFacers
In the past week,
there seems to be a sharp spike of fuckery in the world.
And yes, I do mean fuckery.
It started last week.
A white woman in Australia celebrated her 21st birthday.
Innocent enough until you hear it was African themed.
Yes, it was as bad as you might imagine. Worst, actually.
These Australians dressed in daishikis; they wore black face;
they wore warrior paint and painted their bodies black;
some even wore Native American headdresses.
Now, I've never been to Australia,
but are they really that culturally unaware?
The headdresses were the kicker for me.
No. I lied. It was the klansman. What even? Why? Why?!
Dear Australians and all other
non-dark skinned people around the globe,
you can attend an African themed event
without a smear of black paint across your cheek.
For goodness sake, some of you wore war paint and black paint on your skin.
That's not necessary!
Any and everyone would have gotten your costume without black face/skin.
There are even villages of white people in Africa. Did anyone dress up as a missionary or social worker at this party?
Expand your minds, evaluate your choices, and learn to be racially sensitive.
As you see, just because no one was there to be mad in the moment
doesn't mean there won't be a backlash waiting in the wings.
But no, oh no. That's not all.
The shenanigans continued that weekend
as folks got into the Halloween spirit.
The usual suspects were easy to find:
vampires, werewolves, wrecking balls running away from Miley Cyrus.
But a few decided to up their ghosts and spooks game up.
A pair of white guys thought up the perfect Halloween costume:
George Zimmerman and Trayvon Martin.
The guy dressed as Trayvon Martin would of course have to dress in black face and have a bloody gunshot hole in his hoodie.
You could add Skittles and an Arizona Iced Tea, but only if you were willing to go the extra mile.
And though the Trayvon pictured here doesn't have those items, other white men who picked the same costume did.
I'm unsure as to why this seemed like a good idea,
but let me just make it clear for you as your adoptive black friend,
it's not.
Black face aside, you are making light of a tragedy.
A very recent tragedy, one with so much racial tension behind it.
Rule of thumb, don't go as a murdered person.
The only funny or clever murder costumes involve zombies.
...oh gawd, if I see a Zombie Trayvon Martin, white or black, I'll lose it.
And not in a good way.
Let's think about it.
Dressing up as a dead Trayvon Martin is virtually
the same as someone walking around with a burnt yamaka
and calling themselves a Holocaust survivor.
It's not funny. It's not cool. It's offensive.
On the same note, I'm not a big fan of Anne Frank costumes, either.
Maybe let's chill out with that as well.
I have to admit, however, those two events are not the cause of this post.
No, I came across a photo on Twitter today that was just plain wrong.
Four white men came together to form a Jim Crow quartet.
Looking at the photo again forced my left palm to my forehead, and now I must type the remainder of this blog with one hand.
But seriously, what is this malarkey?
I thought it was agreed blatant racism was over.
Black face aside again, Jim Crow was a minstrel.
It was a big slap in black America's face.
Racist to its core with no way around it.
So why would you ever dress up as a damn minstrel
if you aren't performing a rendition of Spike Lee's Bamboozled?
"Oh, my great grandpappy was a minstrel, so I'm paying homage to him."
Oh, so you come from a line of ignorant bigots.
Thanks for that insight into your back story.
[That's not what any of them said, but I can just hear it.]
Now, I'm no stranger to face paint on Halloween.
I myself have donned white face in order to portray
Dave Chappelle's news anchor character Chuck Taylor.
But there were no racial undertones or history behind it.
I just wanted to be radical and throw off white people one year.
While I was out dressed like that,
I saw a white guy in a Rastafarian get up
with black or brown face on.
I really wish I had said something, anything,
but I didn't think I had the leverage.
A young fool, I was.
I attended a party this weekend,
not even a Halloween party,
but I wore my "I'm happy to be here" mask anyway.
It turned out to be a bunch of white kids from my college
that I haven't seen in years.
And almost instantly I was "that black guy" again.
A guy or two were so friendly towards me, it was annoying.
They complimented my clothing, said I was cool,
how they could never pull off what I wore or did.
Then a white friend told me, "All white people wish they were black."
I scoffed at his lame joke, but I'm starting to wonder
what if it's not a joke.
White people in the media have been under fire lately
for appropriating black culture and making a mockery of it.
But what if they're sincere?
What if they admire us so much they want to be us,
so much so they don't realize how ridiculous or racist they're being?
Does it excuse their behavior? No, I don't believe so.
It's been said that white people love black culture, not black people.
However, there should be fewer pitchforks and torches
and more open conversations, no matter how frustrating they can be.
Some white people will never learn if we don't talk to them,
my fellow Americans (Australians, etc.) of color.
Otherwise, we'll just continue to suffer
throbbing forehead veins until the end of time.
Word
there seems to be a sharp spike of fuckery in the world.
And yes, I do mean fuckery.
It started last week.
A white woman in Australia celebrated her 21st birthday.
Innocent enough until you hear it was African themed.
Yes, it was as bad as you might imagine. Worst, actually.
These Australians dressed in daishikis; they wore black face;
they wore warrior paint and painted their bodies black;
some even wore Native American headdresses.
Now, I've never been to Australia,but are they really that culturally unaware?
The headdresses were the kicker for me.
No. I lied. It was the klansman. What even? Why? Why?!
Dear Australians and all other
non-dark skinned people around the globe,
you can attend an African themed event
without a smear of black paint across your cheek.
For goodness sake, some of you wore war paint and black paint on your skin.
That's not necessary!
Any and everyone would have gotten your costume without black face/skin.
There are even villages of white people in Africa. Did anyone dress up as a missionary or social worker at this party?
Expand your minds, evaluate your choices, and learn to be racially sensitive.
As you see, just because no one was there to be mad in the moment
doesn't mean there won't be a backlash waiting in the wings.
But no, oh no. That's not all.The shenanigans continued that weekend
as folks got into the Halloween spirit.
The usual suspects were easy to find:
vampires, werewolves, wrecking balls running away from Miley Cyrus.
But a few decided to up their ghosts and spooks game up.
A pair of white guys thought up the perfect Halloween costume:
George Zimmerman and Trayvon Martin.
The guy dressed as Trayvon Martin would of course have to dress in black face and have a bloody gunshot hole in his hoodie.
You could add Skittles and an Arizona Iced Tea, but only if you were willing to go the extra mile.
And though the Trayvon pictured here doesn't have those items, other white men who picked the same costume did.
I'm unsure as to why this seemed like a good idea,
but let me just make it clear for you as your adoptive black friend,
it's not.
Black face aside, you are making light of a tragedy.
A very recent tragedy, one with so much racial tension behind it.
Rule of thumb, don't go as a murdered person.
The only funny or clever murder costumes involve zombies.
...oh gawd, if I see a Zombie Trayvon Martin, white or black, I'll lose it.
And not in a good way.
Let's think about it.
Dressing up as a dead Trayvon Martin is virtually
the same as someone walking around with a burnt yamaka
and calling themselves a Holocaust survivor.
It's not funny. It's not cool. It's offensive.
On the same note, I'm not a big fan of Anne Frank costumes, either.
Maybe let's chill out with that as well.
I have to admit, however, those two events are not the cause of this post.
No, I came across a photo on Twitter today that was just plain wrong.
Four white men came together to form a Jim Crow quartet.
Looking at the photo again forced my left palm to my forehead, and now I must type the remainder of this blog with one hand.
But seriously, what is this malarkey?
I thought it was agreed blatant racism was over.
Black face aside again, Jim Crow was a minstrel.
It was a big slap in black America's face.
Racist to its core with no way around it.
So why would you ever dress up as a damn minstrel
if you aren't performing a rendition of Spike Lee's Bamboozled?
"Oh, my great grandpappy was a minstrel, so I'm paying homage to him."
Oh, so you come from a line of ignorant bigots.
Thanks for that insight into your back story.
[That's not what any of them said, but I can just hear it.]
Now, I'm no stranger to face paint on Halloween.
I myself have donned white face in order to portray
Dave Chappelle's news anchor character Chuck Taylor.
But there were no racial undertones or history behind it.
I just wanted to be radical and throw off white people one year.
While I was out dressed like that,
I saw a white guy in a Rastafarian get up
with black or brown face on.
I really wish I had said something, anything,
but I didn't think I had the leverage.
A young fool, I was.
I attended a party this weekend,
not even a Halloween party,
but I wore my "I'm happy to be here" mask anyway.
It turned out to be a bunch of white kids from my college
that I haven't seen in years.
And almost instantly I was "that black guy" again.
A guy or two were so friendly towards me, it was annoying.
They complimented my clothing, said I was cool,
how they could never pull off what I wore or did.
Then a white friend told me, "All white people wish they were black."
I scoffed at his lame joke, but I'm starting to wonder
what if it's not a joke.
White people in the media have been under fire lately
for appropriating black culture and making a mockery of it.
But what if they're sincere?
What if they admire us so much they want to be us,
so much so they don't realize how ridiculous or racist they're being?
Does it excuse their behavior? No, I don't believe so.
It's been said that white people love black culture, not black people.
However, there should be fewer pitchforks and torches
and more open conversations, no matter how frustrating they can be.
Some white people will never learn if we don't talk to them,
my fellow Americans (Australians, etc.) of color.
Otherwise, we'll just continue to suffer
throbbing forehead veins until the end of time.
Word
August 20, 2013
Wild Rumpusing in Ireland: Horses, Guinnesses, Burritos, and a Cabaret
Due to lack of Verizon Wireless service in Ireland,
I am unable to tweet and chronicle my adventures.
Because I'm a writer and feel the need to blab about
my trip immediately, enjoy this series of blog entries.
~~
Prologue-Chapter 2
*some names have been changed to protect the identities of those I've met on this trip*
~~
Chapter 3
Monday, August 12th. 6:33 because old people love to eat breakfast at 7 and to be on the road by 8, even during vacation. Especially during vacation. Irish breakfasts are interesting. Their bacon is ham and their sausage patties are not sausage patties. I would later find that it was indeed no sausage patty, but black pudding. I was unaware pudding could come in burnt-looking patty form. It's nice to try new things.
I sipped the last bit of apple juice from what seemed to be an ounce-sized glass - though the Irish use the metric system - and headed to the bus with two minutes to spare. "Oh look, he made it," one of the tourist shouted out as I lurked down the aisle to my assigned seat. I'd forgotten that my sister referred to me as late all the time. Again, our not seeing each other for ten years prior began to rub me. "You almost had to sing a song," another yelled. Again, I recalled a tidbit Joe the tour guide said from the introductory meeting: "And if you're late to the bus, you have dance. ...maybe sing a song for us." I hoped it wouldn't become a running joke, but I felt the inevitable coming.
I decided to leave my headphones in my back pocket during the trip, expecting Joe to have valuable information to share while we rode to whatever our destination might be. For party conversation's sake, he did. Apparently, around 60% of Ireland's population was currently under 32. That meant either a lot of babies were having babies, the older generation died out/left Ireland, or the baby bomb was real in Ireland. Either way, I considered my chances for finding my ginger prince higher.
Ireland possessed small armed forces - so small they only had an air core, not an air force. Additionally, they faced an economic crisis not unlike the States'. The writer I was thought of an insurgency seeking to exploit these weaknesses in order to gain control of the island and bring true peace and happiness to its inhabitants. Before I could think of a proper plot twist to deepen the storyline, I spotted a highway sign in two languages. As if reading my mind, Joe's voice hissed through the intercom, "Ireland is in fact a bilingual country. Gaelic, the country's national language, and English. We make sure to write Gaelic on all our signs and to speak it to uphold our history and heritage." It'd be cool if the States had signs written in the prominent language of Native Americans, but the casinos would do as heritage preservation enough.
"Now, Irishmen are notorious gamblers. If it rains, they'll bet to see which raindrop will fall down a windshield to hit the bottom first." Joe's hamming began to wear me down as I chuckled. He continued to tell us about horse racing, year long horse racing with two seasons: flat (regular, circular, chase the mechanical bunny racing) and hunt (a mix of everything else, including obstacles). Shortly after the explanation, the bus pulled into a parking lot. I peered out the window at a sign: Irish National Stud & Japanese Gardens.
Chapter 4
"You're very welcome to the Irish National Stud Farm. I'll be your tour guide Natasha today; now
won't you follow me this way?"
I attempted to snap a picture of Natasha in front of the beautiful lake as two swans swam behind her, but alas, my camera still experienced an "lens error." I hoped all the horses ugly creatures with crooked legs. No beauty of Ireland deserved to escape my shutter.
To my dismay, they were all beauties. When you have horses that have placed first in multiple races not only in Ireland but abroad as well and use them to inseminate meres during a four-six month period, you can't not expect majestic creatures. It did strike me as odd that these horses were essentially pimped out to create strong ponies that would mature into winning horses like their papas. Given the common male mentality that "more sex, the better" - and these horses were getting laid - everyone in the group seemed to except the ranch, perhaps even envy the horses. I supposed as long as the horses weren't required to hand over their sugar cubes and apples all was fine. However, you have to wonder how much money went into the care after each hefty cost to mate with it.
Invisible Spirit, their most prized and fertile horse, was insured for close to a million, if not more. Having sex with three to four different mere a day for four to six months at around 100k a session (pending on the successful insemination of the mere), that great stud pulled in revenue. Apparently, he and the other stud know what hot shit they are. They each had their own grazing land to reduce the chance of confrontation with each other. To say my imagination did not drift to an all out horse brawl would be a lie.
The studs weren't the only attraction the Asian couples captured on film. Meres and their children also inhabited the ranch. Each mere and pony pair actually approached the gate and began the feeding process, making for a wonder photo-op I'm sure they were trained for. At least the old folks were getting their money's worth. While teet-sucking engrossed them, I turned my attention to the mini-horses fenced in across the dirt path. Initially I noticed five scampering along their low to the ground bodies. That was until I counted four hooves. The mini-horses were fairly well hung... for their size.
Throughout the tour, I took the opportunity to properly assess the group. While being a majority of Caucasian and Asian senior citizens, I took note of a few anomalies: two couples in their forties/fifties, two families (one of six with a son and daughter, the other of four with two sons), two young females about my age. Each family had a son who seemed college-aged, but I was unable to get a good read on them without feeling like a creep.
Once the tour of studs finished, we were invited to tour the Japanese Garden at our leisure for photo opportunities. I tried my camera to see if the lens error had corrected itself; it hadn't. With no other options, I walked around the garden as my sister snapped photos of me with her overly fancy camera. While posing in ways my sister found annoying and not-aesthetically pleasing, I came across a sign that read "#3 - The Path of Confusion" that pointed into a dark cave. I figured it was part of collection of sign insinuating the Path of Life and immediately followed. Through many twists, paths, and bridges, I found my ways to different signs and interesting pieces to be photographed in front of. And though I didn't come across the signs in numerical order - I didn't even find them all - it was okay, because the true path of life has many options. There's a poem in there some where.
Chapter 5
On the ride returning from the Stud Ranch, the tour group faced a difficult choice: The Guinness Brewery or Jameson Distillery. The bus would stop at each location to drop off whomever wished to hop off. Truly, I wished to see both; and it was even an option. We just would have needed to find our own on way there, as we already need to find transport back to the hotel. And though I am mostly a man of liquor, the Guinness factory spoke to me as we pulled up to it. Mostly because I had just woken up from a nap and more than half the bus filed off.
The Guinness Brewery was a marvelous place. Dark and sleek. And that was just it's first floor gift shop used to distract you from walking around on your own tour and to ensure you buy something. While my sister and I initially fell for this trick, I soon snapped out of my poppies-like haze and suggested we make our way through the multi-floored showroom.
The first floor was showered in indigo lighting that accompanied the small waterfall to the right of the room. 'Lex and I followed the arrows around to the left of the room were we found a large vat of bailey to play with. I resisted the urge to make a bailey angel, but the room was crowded and I didn't wish to inconvenience the other patrons. We passed glass cases of "hops!"before walking up a staircase circling the waterfall. My dysfunctional camera pained me so during this opportunity and rare photo-op. I'm not even certain if my sister captured a good shot of it.
To say I clearly recall the Guinness would be a lie, because they would never release their entire formula. Instead, I received a view into their bottling, packing, and shipping process. Barrels can be such a joy to look at. There was an opportunity to wait in line for a tasting, but my sister and I decided to skip the long line and head up the next escalator. Had I been with a bigger group, though, I could have waited half an hour for that roller coaster of a stout.
Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves back in the gift shop, though I sneaked up to the less crowded, smaller 2nd floor to buy trivial things for my house and roommates (lower in cost to the gifts I brought my mother earlier in the day). I waited by the down escalator while 'Lex dealt with the longer "mainstream" checkout line.
Before exiting the premises, I took note of the map on the wall showcasing pubs in the surrounding areas. I recognized one of the streets as the location of the Nepalese restaurant from the night prior and planned a route home. Outside, my sister stood at the bus stop. I realized I had forgotten my bus voucher, but I always wanted to see more of Dublin.
"Hey, 'Lex, let's walk back to the hotel."
"No, Greg. My feet are tired."
"But the city. The sights!"
"I've got enough of 'em."
"It's not even that long a walk. Like, half an hour tops." I proceeded to persist, but she had none of it. "Fine, I'll meet you back at the hotel."
"You're not walking back alone with all those bags looking like a tourist. Mom would kill me."
"Yeah, you're right." I continued to edge towards the corner.
"Fine, let's go." I had wore her done.
"Ok, cool. Let me just check that map one more time."
Soon we were on our way down the same street that change names three times before returning to Dame Street. "Ah, I recognize this place," my sister said as she dragged behind, refusing to walk faster. Along the way we stopped into a cigar and whiskey store, primarily to buy her husband the Irish whiskey he so badly desired. Browsing the wall of whiskey, I found one that spoke to my soul: Writer's Tears. It was too perfect a name for me to pass up. "Really?" my sister gave me a cock-eyed look. "Writer's Tears? I don't need you to be any sadder, little brother." I shrugged and asked the clerk to fetch it for me anyway,
Whiskey added to our many bags, we walked pass Mama's Revenge. "We should probably put our bags back in the room before we go there, huh?" But my sister didn't want to go, as she reminded me that her feet ached and that I'd be eating lunch alone. I chalked it up as my time away from her the Dallas to London flight stole from me.
Bags back in the room, I sped walked back to Mama's Revenge. When I ordered a sweet-chili beef chalkboard, they asked me if I had my student ID on me. I was honored the little Hispanic women thought I could be an Irish university student. Receiving smiles from the ladies, I sat down with my 7Up can, received my burrito, and properly went to town on it. The chili really rounded out the flavor of the burrito. To trying new things.
Chapter 6
As fast as lunch passed through me, the bus heading towards a dinner destination arrived. The
marvelous Taylor's Three Rock cabaret, one of the highest ranking tourist attractions in Dublin. During the two hours of down time, I googled a quick fix for my camera. Apparently all I needed to do was tap the extended lens softly with a pen. The lens error vanished and all was right in the world. I snapped a picture of the venue but decided to restrain myself from photography during dinner and the performance. No one like a flash in their eye as they forget their table manners on holiday.
The venue was packed with ten touring groups, one each to an a table, which were set up in an Oktoberfest manner. Not that I've ever been to Oktoberfest, but it's how I imagined it. My sister sat to my right, senior citizens to my left and across from me. She sat next to one of the college-aged guys and his family. During discussion, led by my sister and eavesdropped on by me, we found that his family were also from Jersey. You couldn't really hear an accent from any of them, though his father had a strong presence about him that commanded a room in a lightheaded way - much like dads on ABC comedies during the late 90s and early 00s.
At this time it should be addressed that the UK and southern Ireland refers to the 00s as the noughties. I suggest we Americans hijack the term as our own because it is brilliant and better than having nothing better to call that decade than the double O's.
The midwestern couple sitting next to me periodically struck up conversations with me that I would tear myself away from eavesdropping for. We exchanged pleasantries and jokes with the older couples sitting across from us. The man that sat across from me had a very decent voice. It wasn't all-american or blurry sounded like the other senior citizen males. The sound of his voice was soft and creaky - almost as if he wanted to lure you into his white van with candy - but there was a wit unmatched whispering beneath it. Though he shared many one liners, nothing he said intrigued me more than his voice.
By this time I was well into my pint of Smithwick's, a smooth pale beer that I would rank slightly above Coors and the American beers like it. With the starter (Irish term for appetizer) just arriving, I was feeling social but not social enough to yell across the table. The rest of the meal was slow to churn out as well. When my sister was done with her dinner roll, she stole the college kid's bread when the addition piece she asked for didn't come out. She promised to pay him back for it.
During the meal, his dad brought up the idea of heading out to a pub after the show. "We walked in their earlier this afternoon, made nice with the bartenders. Nice guy. Said the joint closes as 11:30, but we'll be able to stay a little after." The suggestion seemed aimed at his 20 year old son and my sister until he turned to me and invited me as well. I smiled and said sure. Making friends isn't so hard when you have a talkative sister. Once the meal was done and the dessert plates were being whisked away, I ordered a Guinness and prepared for the show as the lights began to dim.
The show opened with the three lady steppers: two blonde, one brunette. One blonde had that smirk across her face as if she knew she was prettier than the others, drawing my hatred for her immediately. Soon they were replaced with three male dancers. The man to the right had a dark, slim, and mysterious look to him. The middle dancer was the obviously the leader and jokester, sporting a wide Irish grin I could help but admire. But the young man to the left, he looked fresh faced, as if he hadn't been on the job long. His dirty blond hair and boyish charm drew my gaze. I regretted my no photos policy already. My sister turned around to point him out to me. I pretended to watch the jokester. As if reading my mind, she snapped multiple pictures of the young lad. I wish she had snapped pictures of the jokester, too, though.
The dancing was interspersed with subpar singing from a male and female soloist accompanied by a violinist and flute player to either side of the stage. Danny Boy and other Irish classics were sung; no tears were shed during the Bing Crosby medley. The main attraction came in the form of an aged Irish comedian advertised to us by Joe Laverly as a leprechaun. Having served 50 years in the industry and serving up self-deprecating jokes, he might as well have been. His speciality were simple, corny Irish jokes you could retell at your water cooler. I promised myself I would remember a few for my corny joker lover back in the states, but alas, damn that blonde in the black dress of a beer.
Chapter 7
Once the bus pulled up to the Davenport Hotel, the 20 year old, his dad, 'Lex and I immediately walked over to Kennedy's pub across the street and a stone skip away. We walked in to find a couple in a corner chatting and a small group in another. Two or so locals sat at the bar. With four empty stools at the bar, the kid and his father took the middle two. Walking behind 'Lex, she took the first seat next to the kid leaving me to walk over and sit next to his dad. Not a bad seat since he placed me in front of the beers on tap. "Go head and order. First rounds on me," the dad said. We thanked him, though I wasn't surprised. My freshman at Loyola had taught me that white males enjoy buying rounds of drinks for friends. It's a bonding experience, invites conversation, and not partaking in such a thing is frowned upon.
I gazed upon the brews on draft. One circular red tab that read O'HARA'S IRISH RED appealed to me. I watched at the short, capped bartender poured my drink. He seemed like a man you would find behind many an Irish pub, and I appreciated that about him. Retrieving a coaster, we placed my beer in front of me. I took a fine sip of the beer and was immediately transported to a Baltimore bar that brews their own recipes: Brewer's Art. The taste reminded me of their Resurrection. Similar, yet different and still delicious. I decided I had a new favorite beer.
"You should try the Crean's beer next," The kid yelled down to me. "I think I just fell in love." I chuckled. I soon discovered he was a history and education major at a college in Scranton. I admired his passion, the words dripping of pride as the left his mouth. His father a hard worker who deserved a holiday. Eventually the topic turn to child raising, though I'm not sure how. I was absorbed into the fineness of my brew.
Towards the end of the conversation, you decided to be social. "I'm sorry, guys. I just realized I don't even know your names." Being seats two chairs away served as a great excuse for always forgetting peoples names.
"I'm Frank, and this is my son Sam. It's nice to meet you, Charles."
Introductions aside, I decide to order another beer. Another O'Hara's, but this time their IPA. It wasn't until I had the glass in front of me I realized the tab read IRISH PALE ALE and not INDIAN PALE ALE. I braced myself for something different and was meet with a taste I was again familiar with. No clear Baltimorean counterpart, but without a doubt the best IPA to grace my taste buds. "Is this a local beer?" I asked the bartender. He assured me it was, saying it was in a few bars in the south of Ireland. There would be no more beer tasting for the duration of my trip. The search for other O'Hara's flavors was on.
Through the night, I was proud I made conversation with the bartender. Granted I was drunk and had no idea what to say to 40-something Frank, but proud nonetheless. Halfway into my IPA, Sam seemed impressed with something. "1850. Wow, is that how long this bar has been here?" I looked up to the framed shirt he was staring at. I asked the bartender the same question.
"Yeah, it's been here since."
"I wouldn't have guessed this place older than the 70s." The bartender wasn't sure whether I meant it as compliment or not. Neither was I.
"Yeah, a bar down the street has been here since the 1600's. Soldiers used to meet in the pub and discuss plans." I wasn't sure if the bartender was gassing up we drunk tourists or not by that point, but I took it as fact for the time being.
Soon after a short walk around the pub, Sam's mom entered the pub to join the fun. I couldn't read rather Sam and his father were pleased with her arrival, but 'Lex chatted her up for a while anyway. I chatted with Sam for a bit until our drinks were done and yawns started to replace words. It was a shame we wouldn't have a chance to return to Kennedy's tomorrow, for our tour of southern Ireland continued in the morn.
Word.
Chapters 8-13 (coming soon)
I am unable to tweet and chronicle my adventures.
Because I'm a writer and feel the need to blab about
my trip immediately, enjoy this series of blog entries.
~~
Prologue-Chapter 2
*some names have been changed to protect the identities of those I've met on this trip*
~~
Chapter 3
I sipped the last bit of apple juice from what seemed to be an ounce-sized glass - though the Irish use the metric system - and headed to the bus with two minutes to spare. "Oh look, he made it," one of the tourist shouted out as I lurked down the aisle to my assigned seat. I'd forgotten that my sister referred to me as late all the time. Again, our not seeing each other for ten years prior began to rub me. "You almost had to sing a song," another yelled. Again, I recalled a tidbit Joe the tour guide said from the introductory meeting: "And if you're late to the bus, you have dance. ...maybe sing a song for us." I hoped it wouldn't become a running joke, but I felt the inevitable coming.
I decided to leave my headphones in my back pocket during the trip, expecting Joe to have valuable information to share while we rode to whatever our destination might be. For party conversation's sake, he did. Apparently, around 60% of Ireland's population was currently under 32. That meant either a lot of babies were having babies, the older generation died out/left Ireland, or the baby bomb was real in Ireland. Either way, I considered my chances for finding my ginger prince higher.
Ireland possessed small armed forces - so small they only had an air core, not an air force. Additionally, they faced an economic crisis not unlike the States'. The writer I was thought of an insurgency seeking to exploit these weaknesses in order to gain control of the island and bring true peace and happiness to its inhabitants. Before I could think of a proper plot twist to deepen the storyline, I spotted a highway sign in two languages. As if reading my mind, Joe's voice hissed through the intercom, "Ireland is in fact a bilingual country. Gaelic, the country's national language, and English. We make sure to write Gaelic on all our signs and to speak it to uphold our history and heritage." It'd be cool if the States had signs written in the prominent language of Native Americans, but the casinos would do as heritage preservation enough.
"Now, Irishmen are notorious gamblers. If it rains, they'll bet to see which raindrop will fall down a windshield to hit the bottom first." Joe's hamming began to wear me down as I chuckled. He continued to tell us about horse racing, year long horse racing with two seasons: flat (regular, circular, chase the mechanical bunny racing) and hunt (a mix of everything else, including obstacles). Shortly after the explanation, the bus pulled into a parking lot. I peered out the window at a sign: Irish National Stud & Japanese Gardens.
Chapter 4
"You're very welcome to the Irish National Stud Farm. I'll be your tour guide Natasha today; now won't you follow me this way?"
I attempted to snap a picture of Natasha in front of the beautiful lake as two swans swam behind her, but alas, my camera still experienced an "lens error." I hoped all the horses ugly creatures with crooked legs. No beauty of Ireland deserved to escape my shutter.
To my dismay, they were all beauties. When you have horses that have placed first in multiple races not only in Ireland but abroad as well and use them to inseminate meres during a four-six month period, you can't not expect majestic creatures. It did strike me as odd that these horses were essentially pimped out to create strong ponies that would mature into winning horses like their papas. Given the common male mentality that "more sex, the better" - and these horses were getting laid - everyone in the group seemed to except the ranch, perhaps even envy the horses. I supposed as long as the horses weren't required to hand over their sugar cubes and apples all was fine. However, you have to wonder how much money went into the care after each hefty cost to mate with it.
Invisible Spirit, their most prized and fertile horse, was insured for close to a million, if not more. Having sex with three to four different mere a day for four to six months at around 100k a session (pending on the successful insemination of the mere), that great stud pulled in revenue. Apparently, he and the other stud know what hot shit they are. They each had their own grazing land to reduce the chance of confrontation with each other. To say my imagination did not drift to an all out horse brawl would be a lie.
The studs weren't the only attraction the Asian couples captured on film. Meres and their children also inhabited the ranch. Each mere and pony pair actually approached the gate and began the feeding process, making for a wonder photo-op I'm sure they were trained for. At least the old folks were getting their money's worth. While teet-sucking engrossed them, I turned my attention to the mini-horses fenced in across the dirt path. Initially I noticed five scampering along their low to the ground bodies. That was until I counted four hooves. The mini-horses were fairly well hung... for their size.
Throughout the tour, I took the opportunity to properly assess the group. While being a majority of Caucasian and Asian senior citizens, I took note of a few anomalies: two couples in their forties/fifties, two families (one of six with a son and daughter, the other of four with two sons), two young females about my age. Each family had a son who seemed college-aged, but I was unable to get a good read on them without feeling like a creep.
Once the tour of studs finished, we were invited to tour the Japanese Garden at our leisure for photo opportunities. I tried my camera to see if the lens error had corrected itself; it hadn't. With no other options, I walked around the garden as my sister snapped photos of me with her overly fancy camera. While posing in ways my sister found annoying and not-aesthetically pleasing, I came across a sign that read "#3 - The Path of Confusion" that pointed into a dark cave. I figured it was part of collection of sign insinuating the Path of Life and immediately followed. Through many twists, paths, and bridges, I found my ways to different signs and interesting pieces to be photographed in front of. And though I didn't come across the signs in numerical order - I didn't even find them all - it was okay, because the true path of life has many options. There's a poem in there some where.
Chapter 5
On the ride returning from the Stud Ranch, the tour group faced a difficult choice: The Guinness Brewery or Jameson Distillery. The bus would stop at each location to drop off whomever wished to hop off. Truly, I wished to see both; and it was even an option. We just would have needed to find our own on way there, as we already need to find transport back to the hotel. And though I am mostly a man of liquor, the Guinness factory spoke to me as we pulled up to it. Mostly because I had just woken up from a nap and more than half the bus filed off.
The first floor was showered in indigo lighting that accompanied the small waterfall to the right of the room. 'Lex and I followed the arrows around to the left of the room were we found a large vat of bailey to play with. I resisted the urge to make a bailey angel, but the room was crowded and I didn't wish to inconvenience the other patrons. We passed glass cases of "hops!"before walking up a staircase circling the waterfall. My dysfunctional camera pained me so during this opportunity and rare photo-op. I'm not even certain if my sister captured a good shot of it.
To say I clearly recall the Guinness would be a lie, because they would never release their entire formula. Instead, I received a view into their bottling, packing, and shipping process. Barrels can be such a joy to look at. There was an opportunity to wait in line for a tasting, but my sister and I decided to skip the long line and head up the next escalator. Had I been with a bigger group, though, I could have waited half an hour for that roller coaster of a stout.
Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves back in the gift shop, though I sneaked up to the less crowded, smaller 2nd floor to buy trivial things for my house and roommates (lower in cost to the gifts I brought my mother earlier in the day). I waited by the down escalator while 'Lex dealt with the longer "mainstream" checkout line.
Before exiting the premises, I took note of the map on the wall showcasing pubs in the surrounding areas. I recognized one of the streets as the location of the Nepalese restaurant from the night prior and planned a route home. Outside, my sister stood at the bus stop. I realized I had forgotten my bus voucher, but I always wanted to see more of Dublin.
"Hey, 'Lex, let's walk back to the hotel."
"No, Greg. My feet are tired."
"But the city. The sights!"
"I've got enough of 'em."
"It's not even that long a walk. Like, half an hour tops." I proceeded to persist, but she had none of it. "Fine, I'll meet you back at the hotel."
"You're not walking back alone with all those bags looking like a tourist. Mom would kill me."
"Yeah, you're right." I continued to edge towards the corner.
"Fine, let's go." I had wore her done.
"Ok, cool. Let me just check that map one more time."
Soon we were on our way down the same street that change names three times before returning to Dame Street. "Ah, I recognize this place," my sister said as she dragged behind, refusing to walk faster. Along the way we stopped into a cigar and whiskey store, primarily to buy her husband the Irish whiskey he so badly desired. Browsing the wall of whiskey, I found one that spoke to my soul: Writer's Tears. It was too perfect a name for me to pass up. "Really?" my sister gave me a cock-eyed look. "Writer's Tears? I don't need you to be any sadder, little brother." I shrugged and asked the clerk to fetch it for me anyway,
Whiskey added to our many bags, we walked pass Mama's Revenge. "We should probably put our bags back in the room before we go there, huh?" But my sister didn't want to go, as she reminded me that her feet ached and that I'd be eating lunch alone. I chalked it up as my time away from her the Dallas to London flight stole from me.
Bags back in the room, I sped walked back to Mama's Revenge. When I ordered a sweet-chili beef chalkboard, they asked me if I had my student ID on me. I was honored the little Hispanic women thought I could be an Irish university student. Receiving smiles from the ladies, I sat down with my 7Up can, received my burrito, and properly went to town on it. The chili really rounded out the flavor of the burrito. To trying new things.
Chapter 6
As fast as lunch passed through me, the bus heading towards a dinner destination arrived. The marvelous Taylor's Three Rock cabaret, one of the highest ranking tourist attractions in Dublin. During the two hours of down time, I googled a quick fix for my camera. Apparently all I needed to do was tap the extended lens softly with a pen. The lens error vanished and all was right in the world. I snapped a picture of the venue but decided to restrain myself from photography during dinner and the performance. No one like a flash in their eye as they forget their table manners on holiday.
The venue was packed with ten touring groups, one each to an a table, which were set up in an Oktoberfest manner. Not that I've ever been to Oktoberfest, but it's how I imagined it. My sister sat to my right, senior citizens to my left and across from me. She sat next to one of the college-aged guys and his family. During discussion, led by my sister and eavesdropped on by me, we found that his family were also from Jersey. You couldn't really hear an accent from any of them, though his father had a strong presence about him that commanded a room in a lightheaded way - much like dads on ABC comedies during the late 90s and early 00s.
At this time it should be addressed that the UK and southern Ireland refers to the 00s as the noughties. I suggest we Americans hijack the term as our own because it is brilliant and better than having nothing better to call that decade than the double O's.
The midwestern couple sitting next to me periodically struck up conversations with me that I would tear myself away from eavesdropping for. We exchanged pleasantries and jokes with the older couples sitting across from us. The man that sat across from me had a very decent voice. It wasn't all-american or blurry sounded like the other senior citizen males. The sound of his voice was soft and creaky - almost as if he wanted to lure you into his white van with candy - but there was a wit unmatched whispering beneath it. Though he shared many one liners, nothing he said intrigued me more than his voice.
By this time I was well into my pint of Smithwick's, a smooth pale beer that I would rank slightly above Coors and the American beers like it. With the starter (Irish term for appetizer) just arriving, I was feeling social but not social enough to yell across the table. The rest of the meal was slow to churn out as well. When my sister was done with her dinner roll, she stole the college kid's bread when the addition piece she asked for didn't come out. She promised to pay him back for it.
During the meal, his dad brought up the idea of heading out to a pub after the show. "We walked in their earlier this afternoon, made nice with the bartenders. Nice guy. Said the joint closes as 11:30, but we'll be able to stay a little after." The suggestion seemed aimed at his 20 year old son and my sister until he turned to me and invited me as well. I smiled and said sure. Making friends isn't so hard when you have a talkative sister. Once the meal was done and the dessert plates were being whisked away, I ordered a Guinness and prepared for the show as the lights began to dim.
The show opened with the three lady steppers: two blonde, one brunette. One blonde had that smirk across her face as if she knew she was prettier than the others, drawing my hatred for her immediately. Soon they were replaced with three male dancers. The man to the right had a dark, slim, and mysterious look to him. The middle dancer was the obviously the leader and jokester, sporting a wide Irish grin I could help but admire. But the young man to the left, he looked fresh faced, as if he hadn't been on the job long. His dirty blond hair and boyish charm drew my gaze. I regretted my no photos policy already. My sister turned around to point him out to me. I pretended to watch the jokester. As if reading my mind, she snapped multiple pictures of the young lad. I wish she had snapped pictures of the jokester, too, though.
The dancing was interspersed with subpar singing from a male and female soloist accompanied by a violinist and flute player to either side of the stage. Danny Boy and other Irish classics were sung; no tears were shed during the Bing Crosby medley. The main attraction came in the form of an aged Irish comedian advertised to us by Joe Laverly as a leprechaun. Having served 50 years in the industry and serving up self-deprecating jokes, he might as well have been. His speciality were simple, corny Irish jokes you could retell at your water cooler. I promised myself I would remember a few for my corny joker lover back in the states, but alas, damn that blonde in the black dress of a beer.
Chapter 7
Once the bus pulled up to the Davenport Hotel, the 20 year old, his dad, 'Lex and I immediately walked over to Kennedy's pub across the street and a stone skip away. We walked in to find a couple in a corner chatting and a small group in another. Two or so locals sat at the bar. With four empty stools at the bar, the kid and his father took the middle two. Walking behind 'Lex, she took the first seat next to the kid leaving me to walk over and sit next to his dad. Not a bad seat since he placed me in front of the beers on tap. "Go head and order. First rounds on me," the dad said. We thanked him, though I wasn't surprised. My freshman at Loyola had taught me that white males enjoy buying rounds of drinks for friends. It's a bonding experience, invites conversation, and not partaking in such a thing is frowned upon.
I gazed upon the brews on draft. One circular red tab that read O'HARA'S IRISH RED appealed to me. I watched at the short, capped bartender poured my drink. He seemed like a man you would find behind many an Irish pub, and I appreciated that about him. Retrieving a coaster, we placed my beer in front of me. I took a fine sip of the beer and was immediately transported to a Baltimore bar that brews their own recipes: Brewer's Art. The taste reminded me of their Resurrection. Similar, yet different and still delicious. I decided I had a new favorite beer."You should try the Crean's beer next," The kid yelled down to me. "I think I just fell in love." I chuckled. I soon discovered he was a history and education major at a college in Scranton. I admired his passion, the words dripping of pride as the left his mouth. His father a hard worker who deserved a holiday. Eventually the topic turn to child raising, though I'm not sure how. I was absorbed into the fineness of my brew.
Towards the end of the conversation, you decided to be social. "I'm sorry, guys. I just realized I don't even know your names." Being seats two chairs away served as a great excuse for always forgetting peoples names.
"I'm Frank, and this is my son Sam. It's nice to meet you, Charles."
Introductions aside, I decide to order another beer. Another O'Hara's, but this time their IPA. It wasn't until I had the glass in front of me I realized the tab read IRISH PALE ALE and not INDIAN PALE ALE. I braced myself for something different and was meet with a taste I was again familiar with. No clear Baltimorean counterpart, but without a doubt the best IPA to grace my taste buds. "Is this a local beer?" I asked the bartender. He assured me it was, saying it was in a few bars in the south of Ireland. There would be no more beer tasting for the duration of my trip. The search for other O'Hara's flavors was on.
Through the night, I was proud I made conversation with the bartender. Granted I was drunk and had no idea what to say to 40-something Frank, but proud nonetheless. Halfway into my IPA, Sam seemed impressed with something. "1850. Wow, is that how long this bar has been here?" I looked up to the framed shirt he was staring at. I asked the bartender the same question.
"Yeah, it's been here since."
"I wouldn't have guessed this place older than the 70s." The bartender wasn't sure whether I meant it as compliment or not. Neither was I.
"Yeah, a bar down the street has been here since the 1600's. Soldiers used to meet in the pub and discuss plans." I wasn't sure if the bartender was gassing up we drunk tourists or not by that point, but I took it as fact for the time being.
Soon after a short walk around the pub, Sam's mom entered the pub to join the fun. I couldn't read rather Sam and his father were pleased with her arrival, but 'Lex chatted her up for a while anyway. I chatted with Sam for a bit until our drinks were done and yawns started to replace words. It was a shame we wouldn't have a chance to return to Kennedy's tomorrow, for our tour of southern Ireland continued in the morn.
Word.
Chapters 8-13 (coming soon)
August 19, 2013
Wild Rumpusing in Ireland: You're Very Welcome
Due to lack of Verizon Wireless service in Ireland,
I am unable to tweet and chronicle my adventures.
Because I'm a writer and feel the need to blab about
my trip immediately, enjoy this series of blog entries.
~~
Prologue
Saturday, August 10th. A small yellow imp rattled my doorknob. It didn't startle me, as I was warned by my sister the night prior my three year old nephew is early to rise and requires the assembly of all inhabitants - human and animal alike - for breakfast. Though a bright child, Steven didn't remember the plans of iHop until his father planted the idea of pancakes, bacon, and eggs in his head.
Though he's only met me once prior to my visit to Wichita Falls, Tx (where my sister lives and works), he took to me quickly. I'm certain he called "Uncle Greg" no less than 50 times in the past 20 hours. Maybe his little toddler senses knew he'd only have a short while with me before I took off with his mother for Ireland; maybe he was genuinely excited to have someone else around to play with. Either way, we enjoyed each other's company immensely.
After breakfast, my sister continued to fiddle with her new semi-professional grade Nikon camera and pack her luggage as my new snap-and-shoot Coolpix remained in its box. I'd toy with it later, I figured. By 12:30, it was time for us to depart. My brother-in-law drove us to the small Wichita Falls airport, my sister wishing her husband a fun week of father-son time before he rode off into the distance.
Checked luggage and flight times confirmed, we walked through the single lane security check to the single waiting room and made nice with a fellow passenger. No more than 15 minutes waiting, we received news over the intercom that the plane experienced malfunctions and was being repaired in Dallas, where my sister and I needed to fly in order to catch our connecting flight to London, where we would then catch a 30 minute flight to Dublin. The next flight to Dallas was two hours from arriving.
Before my sister arranged to have all of our flights switched, we contemplated calling her husband to drive us to Dallas, it being only a two hour drive. Had we managed to convince him, we still wouldn't have made it through Dallas airport security fast enough. Originally, had all flights ran smoothly, we would have made it to the Dublin hotel before noon. Now we wouldn't arrive until 14:05 or so, well after the tour program we signed up for began. Luckily, the only site we would miss before the group returned to the hotel would be the Dublin Castle. But a castle was a castle.
In a frustration, I stepped outside the airport to curse the building. Lip-syncing to Prince songs three minutes later cooled me down. It helped time pass.
Soon enough, we were on the smallest plane I'd ever flown in to Dallas. A short 40 minute flight. However, before boarding our connecting flight to London, we noticed something. Perhaps my sister still knew how to work her cute charm, because the handsome southern gentleman who switched our tickets bumped her up to first class. Granted, he wasn't able to give us our tickets from London to Dublin and instructed us to acquire them from British Airways upon arriving, but a bump up was a bump up. My sister tried to charm me into first class with her, but with no seats left, there wasn't a chance. I told her to enjoy it.
I was seated on the far right of the five-seat middle aisle next to three 20-something looking Dutch travelers I wouldn't have minded getting to know during the nine hour flight. Before I could embark on such an unusual endeavor for me, my sister walks up the aisle. "Yeah, the guy made a mistake. We're both alllll the way in the back." I was heartbroken. Now I had to sit next to my sister for nine hours. Not that there was anything wrong with it, but when you spend a week long vacation with family - no matter what age - you're going to get sick of them at some point. I was simply hoping to prolong that inevitable moment.
If the snafu in Wichita Falls ticked off my sister, the running around through London's UofMD campus-like airport infuriated her. The flight had mellowed me out, so I reminded 'Lex to relax and just let would be be. Our tardiness wasn't going to change anyway we sliced it. Though her persistence and the help of an Englishmen, we obtained our tickets to Dublin. As my sister scurried off to exchange currency, I sat down in a chair to see which gate our plane would eventually fly out of. In the meantime, I took the opportunity to set up my camera. The first shot I captured: my new navy Nikes.
Chapter 1
Sunday, August 11th. A non-existent Saturday left me adrift. I find myself in a strange land inside an even stranger hotel. It was far too clean, far too polished to be a proper hotel reception area. Or perhaps this was to be the beginning of my spoiling.
My sister and I walked to the receptionist, a tall, dark woman with long black hair pulled into a ponytail. Her Polish-sounding accent threw me for a loop. "Hello, you're very welcome to the Davenport Hotel. How can I help you?" My sister gave both our names. "Aw yes, Clark? CIE Tours, yes? Jah, you aren't the only late ones. About six others." A relief we wouldn't be the alone missing the first trip, but what misfortunate had befallen our soon to be comrades. I decided I didn't care enough six seconds later.
With agenda and room key in hand, we rose in the lift - half, maybe even a quarter of the size of an American elevator might I point out! - to the fourth floor of the Davenport Hotel. 408 was a nice room: two queen sized beds, coral wallpaper, two plush armchairs, a desk, a clean and stunning bathroom. But no electricity it seemed. No, the outlets cleared worked as 'Lex plugged in her iPad which immediately lit up. We flipped every light switch three or four times before I found a little port on the wall to the left of the front door. Unlabeled, on a hunch, I slipped the key card out of my pocket and into the slot in the port. Without fail, all the lights popped on to burn our retinas. "Welp," I said, "That's a smart way to cut down on your light bill."
Two hours of settling in and realizing my new camera decided to experience a "lens error" swiftly became 16:52. An opening day info session with free drinks was soon to commence. The tour company must have anticipated late arrivals by now. We made our way down to the meeting room on the first floor a little tardy; everyone else sat in the three-row L-shape of chairs around the room. Our tour guide, Joe Laverly, greeted us at the door; I knew him to be the tour guide because he was the only one standing and I immediately spotted his lack of dental care. Also, the accent. That, too.
We take our seats next to what seems to be a white family of four, though I can't tell who's with who just yet. The demographic of the room is old. Capital "O" old. But what else could you expect from an Irish holiday? Mostly white senior couples, I took more note of the four older Asian couples in the room. My mind took to racial stereotypes of Asians on vacation taking pictures of everything and speaking quietly to each other. "What are you laughing at?" my sister turned to me. I could only shake my head.
A waitress soon turned the corner with a tray of drinks: the first full of wine glasses and small gin & tonics, the second full of pints of Guinness. Joe's eyes seemed to follow this tray closely. "Now you have to understand something," he said. "To an Irishmen, a pint of Guinness is like a tall blonde in a black dress." The first round of laughter commenced. I laughed as well, until I thought he might be hamming up his Irishness for laughs. I don't take kindly to hamming.
In the midst of the hilarity, one of the senior members of the group took a sip from his wine glass. "Hey, wait a minute," he said spotting the second tray, "Is this Guinness or...?" The room bursted into snickers. This could turn out to be an entertaining trip after all.
Being late, the tour guide directed the waitress in our direction. My sister ordered a white wine while I look around the room. "...Guinness, please." When in Ireland, right?
Many things were said during this information session: important things like where we'd be going and food options. But all of it paled in comparison to what he would reveal towards the end of the session.
"Now, we in Ireland have a saying. It's 'Where's the craic?'" Commotion came over the room. "No, no, it's not like your crack. This is Ireland craic. It really just means where's the fun." Turns out it's an gaelic acronym: Ceol(Music), Rince(Dance), Amhrain(Songs), Inis Scealta(Storytelling), and Cainte(Gossip/Conversation). Surprisingly, "drink" was not part of the acronym, but then again, most craic was found in a pub anyway.
By the end of my pint, the session was over. People quickly filed out of the room as they left their glasses on the counter. It seemed as if many of the older folk were hurrying to eat dinner they should have digested two hours ago. I suggested to my sister we should do the same.
Chapter 2
After a sitcom's length of time deciding from the hotel's guide of restaurants what to experience, we agreed upon a Nepalese/Indian place a few blocks away. Directions drawn on a map from the Polish-ish lady receptionist and we were on our way.
As soon as we stepped outside into the Dublin air I was met with a familiar feeling. The hotels, rows of small business and restaurant chains, the clean and small streets. I felt as if I were back in Boston. Granted, yes I know, Boston is full of Irish descendants; trust me, it was more than that. The aura of the place was too similar for me to ignore it.
Walking the streets of Dublin gave me first taste of true sightseeing. There were handsome tourists and natives alike all over the city. Being the capital and largest city in Ireland, this was to be expected. However, the hipsters were not. I knew they were hipsters because they dressed like American hipsters and had the same "I'm dressed better than you, ironically"demeanor to them. Irish hipsters. I almost fell in love before reminding myself of my mission: finding a red-haired fiancé to smuggle in my suitcase through Customs. Listen, we all have fantasies.
The other attraction to catch my eye: Mama's Revenge. Twas an Irish burrito spot. To my dismay, it was closed on sundays, but I vowed to my sister we were eating there for lunch the next day. "Okay, little brother, " 'Lex said as she continued to snap pictures of regular buildings like a tourist.
After 3 blocks and two left turns, we found the restaurant only to be told they do not accept debit or credit. A ten minute detour to locate an ATM and discreetly withdrawal funds in Euros later, we returned. The young, 5'2" Nepalese woman who shooed as away the first time now smiled as came prepared to spend money.
Cobra beer was my second drink in Ireland. I received a small bottle and a small glass as I continued to ponder whether I wanted to branch out this a spicy chicken dish or stick to the butter chicken I had been introduced to while still in university. "Be careful, Greg. Indian spicy is different from regular spicy." Oh sister who I have not seen in nearly 10 years, you know me not. For the price of €18 ($24.02 American), sticking with what I knew seemed foolish. New land, new experiences, new taste.
Once the food arrived - and I was slightly toasty of two beers on an empty stomach - the food tasted delicious. Not too spicy at all.
"What's this flat bread?"
"Naan," I told her. I allowed what little I knew about Indian food take charge that day in an attempt to impress her. It didn't seem to affective.
Food done and dessert declined, we were offered shots of Bailey's on the house. Whether it was because they knew we were tourists or because they were new to the neighborhood, I decided to take them up on the offer. It's vacation, and it was off to a good start as far as I was concerned.
Word
Chapters 3-7
I am unable to tweet and chronicle my adventures.
Because I'm a writer and feel the need to blab about
my trip immediately, enjoy this series of blog entries.
~~
Prologue
Saturday, August 10th. A small yellow imp rattled my doorknob. It didn't startle me, as I was warned by my sister the night prior my three year old nephew is early to rise and requires the assembly of all inhabitants - human and animal alike - for breakfast. Though a bright child, Steven didn't remember the plans of iHop until his father planted the idea of pancakes, bacon, and eggs in his head.
Though he's only met me once prior to my visit to Wichita Falls, Tx (where my sister lives and works), he took to me quickly. I'm certain he called "Uncle Greg" no less than 50 times in the past 20 hours. Maybe his little toddler senses knew he'd only have a short while with me before I took off with his mother for Ireland; maybe he was genuinely excited to have someone else around to play with. Either way, we enjoyed each other's company immensely.
After breakfast, my sister continued to fiddle with her new semi-professional grade Nikon camera and pack her luggage as my new snap-and-shoot Coolpix remained in its box. I'd toy with it later, I figured. By 12:30, it was time for us to depart. My brother-in-law drove us to the small Wichita Falls airport, my sister wishing her husband a fun week of father-son time before he rode off into the distance.
Checked luggage and flight times confirmed, we walked through the single lane security check to the single waiting room and made nice with a fellow passenger. No more than 15 minutes waiting, we received news over the intercom that the plane experienced malfunctions and was being repaired in Dallas, where my sister and I needed to fly in order to catch our connecting flight to London, where we would then catch a 30 minute flight to Dublin. The next flight to Dallas was two hours from arriving.Before my sister arranged to have all of our flights switched, we contemplated calling her husband to drive us to Dallas, it being only a two hour drive. Had we managed to convince him, we still wouldn't have made it through Dallas airport security fast enough. Originally, had all flights ran smoothly, we would have made it to the Dublin hotel before noon. Now we wouldn't arrive until 14:05 or so, well after the tour program we signed up for began. Luckily, the only site we would miss before the group returned to the hotel would be the Dublin Castle. But a castle was a castle.
In a frustration, I stepped outside the airport to curse the building. Lip-syncing to Prince songs three minutes later cooled me down. It helped time pass.
Soon enough, we were on the smallest plane I'd ever flown in to Dallas. A short 40 minute flight. However, before boarding our connecting flight to London, we noticed something. Perhaps my sister still knew how to work her cute charm, because the handsome southern gentleman who switched our tickets bumped her up to first class. Granted, he wasn't able to give us our tickets from London to Dublin and instructed us to acquire them from British Airways upon arriving, but a bump up was a bump up. My sister tried to charm me into first class with her, but with no seats left, there wasn't a chance. I told her to enjoy it.
I was seated on the far right of the five-seat middle aisle next to three 20-something looking Dutch travelers I wouldn't have minded getting to know during the nine hour flight. Before I could embark on such an unusual endeavor for me, my sister walks up the aisle. "Yeah, the guy made a mistake. We're both alllll the way in the back." I was heartbroken. Now I had to sit next to my sister for nine hours. Not that there was anything wrong with it, but when you spend a week long vacation with family - no matter what age - you're going to get sick of them at some point. I was simply hoping to prolong that inevitable moment.
If the snafu in Wichita Falls ticked off my sister, the running around through London's UofMD campus-like airport infuriated her. The flight had mellowed me out, so I reminded 'Lex to relax and just let would be be. Our tardiness wasn't going to change anyway we sliced it. Though her persistence and the help of an Englishmen, we obtained our tickets to Dublin. As my sister scurried off to exchange currency, I sat down in a chair to see which gate our plane would eventually fly out of. In the meantime, I took the opportunity to set up my camera. The first shot I captured: my new navy Nikes.
Chapter 1
Sunday, August 11th. A non-existent Saturday left me adrift. I find myself in a strange land inside an even stranger hotel. It was far too clean, far too polished to be a proper hotel reception area. Or perhaps this was to be the beginning of my spoiling.My sister and I walked to the receptionist, a tall, dark woman with long black hair pulled into a ponytail. Her Polish-sounding accent threw me for a loop. "Hello, you're very welcome to the Davenport Hotel. How can I help you?" My sister gave both our names. "Aw yes, Clark? CIE Tours, yes? Jah, you aren't the only late ones. About six others." A relief we wouldn't be the alone missing the first trip, but what misfortunate had befallen our soon to be comrades. I decided I didn't care enough six seconds later.
With agenda and room key in hand, we rose in the lift - half, maybe even a quarter of the size of an American elevator might I point out! - to the fourth floor of the Davenport Hotel. 408 was a nice room: two queen sized beds, coral wallpaper, two plush armchairs, a desk, a clean and stunning bathroom. But no electricity it seemed. No, the outlets cleared worked as 'Lex plugged in her iPad which immediately lit up. We flipped every light switch three or four times before I found a little port on the wall to the left of the front door. Unlabeled, on a hunch, I slipped the key card out of my pocket and into the slot in the port. Without fail, all the lights popped on to burn our retinas. "Welp," I said, "That's a smart way to cut down on your light bill."
Two hours of settling in and realizing my new camera decided to experience a "lens error" swiftly became 16:52. An opening day info session with free drinks was soon to commence. The tour company must have anticipated late arrivals by now. We made our way down to the meeting room on the first floor a little tardy; everyone else sat in the three-row L-shape of chairs around the room. Our tour guide, Joe Laverly, greeted us at the door; I knew him to be the tour guide because he was the only one standing and I immediately spotted his lack of dental care. Also, the accent. That, too.
We take our seats next to what seems to be a white family of four, though I can't tell who's with who just yet. The demographic of the room is old. Capital "O" old. But what else could you expect from an Irish holiday? Mostly white senior couples, I took more note of the four older Asian couples in the room. My mind took to racial stereotypes of Asians on vacation taking pictures of everything and speaking quietly to each other. "What are you laughing at?" my sister turned to me. I could only shake my head.
A waitress soon turned the corner with a tray of drinks: the first full of wine glasses and small gin & tonics, the second full of pints of Guinness. Joe's eyes seemed to follow this tray closely. "Now you have to understand something," he said. "To an Irishmen, a pint of Guinness is like a tall blonde in a black dress." The first round of laughter commenced. I laughed as well, until I thought he might be hamming up his Irishness for laughs. I don't take kindly to hamming.
In the midst of the hilarity, one of the senior members of the group took a sip from his wine glass. "Hey, wait a minute," he said spotting the second tray, "Is this Guinness or...?" The room bursted into snickers. This could turn out to be an entertaining trip after all.
Being late, the tour guide directed the waitress in our direction. My sister ordered a white wine while I look around the room. "...Guinness, please." When in Ireland, right?
Many things were said during this information session: important things like where we'd be going and food options. But all of it paled in comparison to what he would reveal towards the end of the session.
"Now, we in Ireland have a saying. It's 'Where's the craic?'" Commotion came over the room. "No, no, it's not like your crack. This is Ireland craic. It really just means where's the fun." Turns out it's an gaelic acronym: Ceol(Music), Rince(Dance), Amhrain(Songs), Inis Scealta(Storytelling), and Cainte(Gossip/Conversation). Surprisingly, "drink" was not part of the acronym, but then again, most craic was found in a pub anyway.
By the end of my pint, the session was over. People quickly filed out of the room as they left their glasses on the counter. It seemed as if many of the older folk were hurrying to eat dinner they should have digested two hours ago. I suggested to my sister we should do the same.
Chapter 2
After a sitcom's length of time deciding from the hotel's guide of restaurants what to experience, we agreed upon a Nepalese/Indian place a few blocks away. Directions drawn on a map from the Polish-ish lady receptionist and we were on our way.
As soon as we stepped outside into the Dublin air I was met with a familiar feeling. The hotels, rows of small business and restaurant chains, the clean and small streets. I felt as if I were back in Boston. Granted, yes I know, Boston is full of Irish descendants; trust me, it was more than that. The aura of the place was too similar for me to ignore it.
Walking the streets of Dublin gave me first taste of true sightseeing. There were handsome tourists and natives alike all over the city. Being the capital and largest city in Ireland, this was to be expected. However, the hipsters were not. I knew they were hipsters because they dressed like American hipsters and had the same "I'm dressed better than you, ironically"demeanor to them. Irish hipsters. I almost fell in love before reminding myself of my mission: finding a red-haired fiancé to smuggle in my suitcase through Customs. Listen, we all have fantasies.
The other attraction to catch my eye: Mama's Revenge. Twas an Irish burrito spot. To my dismay, it was closed on sundays, but I vowed to my sister we were eating there for lunch the next day. "Okay, little brother, " 'Lex said as she continued to snap pictures of regular buildings like a tourist.
After 3 blocks and two left turns, we found the restaurant only to be told they do not accept debit or credit. A ten minute detour to locate an ATM and discreetly withdrawal funds in Euros later, we returned. The young, 5'2" Nepalese woman who shooed as away the first time now smiled as came prepared to spend money.
Cobra beer was my second drink in Ireland. I received a small bottle and a small glass as I continued to ponder whether I wanted to branch out this a spicy chicken dish or stick to the butter chicken I had been introduced to while still in university. "Be careful, Greg. Indian spicy is different from regular spicy." Oh sister who I have not seen in nearly 10 years, you know me not. For the price of €18 ($24.02 American), sticking with what I knew seemed foolish. New land, new experiences, new taste.
Once the food arrived - and I was slightly toasty of two beers on an empty stomach - the food tasted delicious. Not too spicy at all.
"What's this flat bread?"
"Naan," I told her. I allowed what little I knew about Indian food take charge that day in an attempt to impress her. It didn't seem to affective.
Food done and dessert declined, we were offered shots of Bailey's on the house. Whether it was because they knew we were tourists or because they were new to the neighborhood, I decided to take them up on the offer. It's vacation, and it was off to a good start as far as I was concerned.
Word
Chapters 3-7
July 15, 2013
On Trial for a Murder He Died In
This past Saturday around 9 or 10pm
I watched Twitter closely
as I spotted the first tweet announcing
the jury in the Zimmerman trial had reached a verdict.
At the moment, I was playing a card game with my friend,
but I knew this moment in history was worth multitasking.
Minutes later the verdict was announced:
Zimmerman found innocent on all charges.
Acquitted.
I felt sick.
I understood from the proceedings of the trial
Zimmerman would not catch every charge thrown his way,
but not a single one?
My immediate rage was directed at the jury,
six white women who did not convict this man.
Then I realized what proof they had to go off of,
and aimed my disbelief towards the prosecution.
Could they not gather the necessary evidence
to send Zimmerman to prison?
Did such evidence ever exist?
What more could have been done?
All cylinders fired as I finally turned
to Zimmerman and his attorney Don West.
They smirked and laughed in the wake of their victory.
A tweeter mentioned, "You'd smile too if you just beat a murder case."
Albeit true, it doesn't make it any less disgusting.
Many people across various social media outlets
have mentioned that this is not a racial situation,
but that it is a failing of the justice system and process.
Believe or not, I spotted one person of color
not necessarily defending Zimmerman
but presenting his case in a light I found interesting,
and in fact almost fell for.
The gist of his argument goes as follows:
- We only know Zimmerman's side of the story, not Trayvon's.
- There was still cause for reasonable doubt for the jury (as far as motives are concerned).
- When faced with a situation involving a suspect perceived as dangerous at night and alone, most of us would have acted first before even allowing ourselves to be placed in danger. Strike first or lie flat, I suppose.
I allowed his points to cool me down.
It wasn't until the next morning
I began to debunk them.
- Rachel Jeantel, a witness in the trial, portrays Trayvon's side of the story, though secondhand.
- Zimmerman was told not to pursue. The purpose of a neighborhood watch program is to WATCH, not to take action. Zimmerman should have stood by and continued to watch Trayvon at the very most. Pursuing a possible suspect puts yourself in danger, a danger which Zimmerman obviously felt equipped for.
- With that in mind, Zimmerman pursued Trayvon ready for a violent confrontation before Trayvon displayed any violent tendencies. Zimmerman was prepared to strike first because he already viewed the kid he was following as a no-good hoodlum.
While the trial was not a matter of color,
the crime without a doubt is.
Zimmerman, a large-enough white* man,
looked down on Trayvon, a black seventeen year old,
as suspicious for walking around a gated community with a hoodie on.
To me, it screams racial profiling.
Apparently there had been break-ins around the gated community,
but who's to say it was all by one criminal?
Who's to say the race of these home invaders?
Did Zimmerman have a description to go off of, to look out for?
The most vile part of the trial and media's take on the situation
is the criminalization of Trayvon Martin.
Pictures of him throwing up the middle finger and sporting gold grills are shown.
I'm almost positive those pictures were flown around last year
and it ended up being another kid who looked like Trayvon in the pictures,
but I may have my facts wrong on that one.
They attempted to bring up old charges such a theft on school grounds
- which were dropped - and suspensions he racked up in high school.
If these reports of Trayvon's past are true,
it does not matter.
Zimmerman did not know Trayvon personally.
He did not know his record.
There is no proof Trayvon ever tried to break into someone home in that neighborhood.
In any case, one with a criminal past does not a criminal forever make a person.
Back in April, I stopped blogging after the Boston Marathon bombing.
I had just spent a week in Boston and left the day before the bombing occurred.
I was in shock. I didn't know how to handle the situation.
The same week,
the gun regulation law requiring background checks was overturned.
There was one other piece of unbelievable news that week,
but my memory is failing to recall it.
The point being, I was scared.
Scared to the point of not knowing how to react.
And so I spent the next few months without writing.
After the verdict in the George Zimmerman case,
I was perhaps ten times as scared in comparison to the bombing.
The bombing was malicious and affected the country,
but it was an isolated incident.
The killing or imprisonment of an innocent black man or woman
is far too common and directed to the community at what seems like all times.
Realizing this is what turned my fear into rage, my rage into a seeking for justice.
As it happens, my yearn for justice reminded me why I wanted to become a writer.
My goal as a writer has always been to educate others of the struggles of the not-so-privileged, of those different from them. I see how important that goal is now. When we don't understand each other, people are convicted of crimes before they're even made a suspect, people are persecuted for their beliefs, people are told they don't deserve the same rights or that they are an abomination.
I want to live in an Americawhere every citizen can
respect, understand, and love each other.
Judging from the verdict
of the Zimmerman case
- the mere fact such an event transpired -
I realize we are far from it.
But I still need to work towards it.
I hope you'll do the same
in your own way.
Word.
[pictures taken from Buzzfeed's photo coverage of the NYC Trayvon Martin march]
*edit - Zimmerman's father is white American and his mother is from Peru, making him "white Hispanic" or any other term you can call to mind. - 7/15/13, 5:17PM
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