Am trying to collect my wages from the shittiest café in Dublin. Went to all possible outposts of this tiny, unholy empire. To no avail. Should I just cut my losses and give up?
No! That’s what the bastards want.
Fabio and Roshin are here today, as I had hoped. I am quite drawn to them. They both live life pretty largely. If in a quiet way. Fabio says, “I do not work for work.” Makes sense. Why deny yourself a pint or a late night for a shitty job? Why sleep all day on your one free day just to store up energy for another helping of crap?
I do not work for work. Good sentiment.
Dublin’s little alterna-kids are out in droves for Creamfields – the big music festival. Two guys with one guitar were wailing outside the Dublin Bus office beside a sign scribbled in ballpoint on a big sheet of white paper, “We are SHIT just give us money.”
They were right – they were shit. However, I did not give them money.
More freaky Irish children haunting me. This time three of them throwing back and forth a can of spraypaint with which they were coloring their hair orange. The fumes were pretty deadly. I doubt they did any damage.
That dick manager is keeping me waiting just to spite me. Good God – if I had any doubts about quitting before, which I did not, this ridiculous afternoon of waiting has galvanized my hatred of this place. I want to get paid my £2 for my 15 hours of work and get the fuck out of here. But, truthfully, it is nice to have an excuse to be near Roshin. Once I get paid I guess I’ll have to go. I had hoped to drop my CV at that sketchy little bookstore – though I’ve learned that a “staff wanted” sign really has no reflection on the reality of the hiring situation. They’re like those Christmas lights left out until July because they’re too much of a hassle to take down and halfway through the year you figure you might as well leave them up as it’s so near Christmas and there’s no sense now just taking them down to put them back up. One day there will be a vacancy, and then won’t that sign come in handy?
Anyway, it won’t hurt to try.
Last night was great fun – Declan let me use his computer lab to check email and print out CV’s – it was nice to not have a time limit and be able to really catch up on email and things. Declan is a very genuine, giving guy.
Last night he and Maeve (coaxed, as she always is, by Declan’s diabolical powers of persuasion) and I went to Cavanaugh’s in search of Irish music. We found what was evidently the plodding old people’s version with old, not very musical codgers thumping out these dirges that all sounded the same but made you tap your feet all the same. Except Declan, who wouldn’t get into it on principle. They played a song called “Pretty Little Girl from Omagh” and we learned that Maeve had been named 1996’s Pretty Little Girl from Omagh, which Declan repeatedly shared with the elderly foursome next to us. Old women at pubs wear what young women do, resulting in the exposure of hazardous levels of wrinkled cleavage. What ever happened to the puritanical modesty of the elderly?
Declan made a very interesting observation about Ireland – unlike the great categorized United States, in a pub you’ll easily get young folks, old folks and middle-aged folks all drinking in the same pub, side by side.
Goddammit, where is that dickhead?
The music sucked, so we went home and Derek pulled out his guitar, rolled a joint, and we butchered songs for hours. The Irish do seem to be a naturally musical sort. It was some of the most fun I’ve had here.
Keira had gone out with her even more bitter friend Shevonne, known as Sinead to Maeve and Louise to Declan.
Irish people adjust themselves brazenly, deeply, and repeatedly in public. I find it rather disgusting and unhygienic. I guess our American Puritanical heritage reaps some rewards. The oppression of desire isn’t always such a bad thing.
Bitter customers in Beanery land. Vast defections from customer-kind. Food service is shit. There goes Roshin. I wish I could – I don’t know. Hold her interest, I suppose.