June 29, 2001

Had a hopeful interview with a computer education company – won’t get it, but nevertheless restored some of my faith in myself.  Called all the rest of the numbers on the theatre sheet and was soundly denied.  The phrase “send in a CV” to me sounds like the persistent gritting of crumbling teeth.  I hate it almost as much as, “Well, it’s not worth my time to teach you only to have you leave in four months.”  I couldn’t possibly hate anything more than that.  How stupid could you possibly think I am?  Or perhaps more appropriate is, “How stupid are you that it took YOU four months to learn ANYTHING?!”  Come to think of it, not a person I would specially want to work for.  Sort of a Darwinian job-selection process – stupid employers reveal their plumage and operate in such a way that prevents me from working for them.

Then I stopped by the hell café in hopes of seeing Roisin – she was there.  ALONE.  So I helped her make some cappuccinos (got it down to a science!) and sat and talked with her until she locked up and we went to a pub for a drink.  She always drinks those half-pints of Guinness.  Cumulatively she had a pint, but it has to come in those little glasses.  Makes you feel like an alcoholic with your mega sized pint glass towering over it.  Then we went to her place to hang out and proceeded to hold host to a parade of her friends.  One of them was actually a very giggly girl, which surprised me – the sort of person that finishes every sentence with a peal of jackal like laughter twice as long as the phrase preceding it.  A very annoying, but very nice girl.

Tea is a great social constant and leveler of Ireland.  At the end of the evening it was giggly girl, stoned off his ass man, dude in black with big heavy chains, and the guy with the red mohican (what they call mohawks).  All of them crazy, young, alternative, drug-using kids.  All of them starving for a cup of tea.  Red Mohican asked if anyone wanted a cup, everyone agreed, he proceeded to go collect enough mugs, wash them, brew us all a cup, and even add the milk and sugar.  I have yet to develop the Irish resistance to weather, so as I sat shivering on the balcony with my coat buttoned to the top and my collars up, I held that cup of tea with reverence and drank like it was gold.  Like it was the first, last, greatest cup of tea, brewed in the Holy Grail from the blood of Christ himself.

An amusing side-note about drugs.  Man in Black with Chains was upset that evening because a deal for grass had gone awry.  It seems he collected £400 for a sizeable amount of grass and simply gave it to his dealer, who promised to go procure said drugs and return with it.  Can you see it coming?  So the grass is not forthcoming and the dealer has gone missing, which leads desperate Black Chain to call him persistently on his cell phone.  Finally the dealer answers in a hoarse whisper and tells him not to call anymore as he is being busted by the Gards who have confiscated the money.  Alas.

Red Mohican is skeptical as he has heard of dealers using that excuse before, Black Chain is absolutely unretrieveably out £400, stoned man giggles, and Roisin seems inclined to ease Black Chain’s suffering.  Yes, it seems she and Black Chain are an item, which sort of disappoints me.  Especially as she was wearing a thin cotton shirt did nothing but highlight her insistent nipples and her pants were so loose as to leave a four inch gap of flesh around her midsection revealing the stomach/hip/incredibly sexy area. I’ll have to find a more appropriate word for it as a glimpse of it really does just drive me mad.  The lines of the muscles form a human arrow to between the legs and all that promises and entails.

So even though they were far from tired, 1:30 meant time to start the long trek back to Drumcondra.  I actually considered perhaps getting a taxi, but that cup of sweet milky tea had sort of restored my faith in mankind and where I’ve chosen to spend my life, so I walked it.

The night was really very beautiful and clear and calm.  I walked up to the Quays and the light breeze turned the river into living purple cobblestones, cut by the green red and yellow zebra stripes of light reflected from the hotels and pubs along the banks of the Liffey.  The only sounds were the occasional call for a taxi and the crunch of grit and flattened John Player Blue boxes and crushed beer cans under my feet.  As I got to O’Connell Bridge the breeze died down some and the river looked like frosted glass as I turned left and crossed the river.  The drivers of Dublin for once laid it easy on their horns and the children finally seemed to be safely locked up somewhere and I actually had one of the nicest walks of my life winding up Dorset Street and looking into the bright take-away shops and passing people clutching their oil-stained brown paper bags.  It was really lovely.

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