Fa la la la la la la la BAM there’s yor headline. No need to congratulate me on my cleverness.

Went to Dublin’s Christmas tree lighting Sunday night. It was cold and windy. Mostly windy, which made it cold. It also decided to drizzle. In short, typical Irish weather.

There were people on stilts, choreographed dances by local dance troupes and a traditional choir. Not many people attended considering it was a city-wide event. It seemed kind of pointless to shutdown the entire street for the paltry mob.

A few words from public officials like the mayor, a count down and then they lit the fake, tumored Christmas tree. Not too much fanfare, really. I was hoping U2 would treat the city to a concert or something. Well, U2 is a bad example since I hate their music and would never hope for them to be there.

Today my class had a guest speaker who does documentaries for RTE3, mostly on depressing issues such as psychiatric ward abuse, Alzheimer’s love heart break and slow demises in hospice.

I had just seen one of her documentaries on music being sold in a media place around here. I recognized the yellow cover when she plugged it in her lecture. Honestly, I only remember it because it was by the Nirvana live at the Reading Festival DVD.

Her current project is on people growing up gay/transgender/etc. in Ireland. I can sum up whatever she produces with “it probably sucks.” It’s even more a stigma here than in the United States.

Tomorrow there is no class. I get a holiday due to the nation-wide public services strike.

Floods, strikes, lame Christmas tree lightings: this place is starting to get lively.

Shaw goes religion

It was a miserable Wednesday morning. The wind blew strong from every direction and the rain seemed to fall sideways.

One woman held up a hand to shoo me away. I wondered if she knew about that ’80s to ’90s phenomenon where you put out your hand and shouted an exaggerated “ba-rick wall” to whoever you were trying to ignore. It seemed to have vague connections to Valley girls or something. I think a popular comeback when I was growing up was to spit on the perpetrators brickwall hand and say “grafitti.” I held myself back from doing this to the innocent, although slightly rude, old woman.

I watched people cross themselves as they passed the doors.

There was a Gypsy beggar sitting in drizzling rain outside the church entrance.

I turned away from her and rummaged around for change. It was mostly 10 cent pieces and a 1 euro coin. This was not a completely charitable donation. I wanted information. I crouched down and asked if she often waited outside the church.

“I don’t do English.”

Those may not have been her exact words. She tended to mumble, but I gathered “English” and some sort of negative as to her speaking it.

I tried again, rephrasing and speaking clearly. I was really hoping to get a unique angle on church attendance in the area. Obviously, this woman sat outside the church all day, maybe she noticed more people attending lately. Maybe the surge in traffic is why he chose the spot. I got the same answer as before.

“I don’t do English,” she said shaking her head.

I begrudgingly tossed the fist full of change in her paper cup.

After about a dozen parishioners refused me an interview, I decided to give up.

So many excuses came out of the people’s mouths.

“I’ve an appointment at half past 10,” one elderly woman said as she looked at her watch. I offered to walk with her and she declined. I thought the most polite people were the ones who listened to me and then declined. At least they did not lie or ignore me.

“What do you want? Oh, no.”

At another church, a gruff old priest told me point blank there were no new people in the church. I liked him, he didn’t smooth over his words with deceitful tact. Then again, maybe that’s why he’s a lower priest, delegated to selling candles and prayer cards in the church shop. He directed me to a few other priests.

The first priest was not there. I left my number with a woman who seemed to act as secretary and shop keeper.

I found another priest who gave me some decent quotes. While talking to me he touched my arm. I cringed a little. He kept it there until we parted. He seemed like a nice guy overall. It’s just that anyone who is that devoted to Catholicism tends to put me at unease.

He was very bitter about the city taking away the bus stop in front of the church. He partially blamed that for the drop in attendance. I think he hoped I would write it in my story and help his cause.

I did write it in as a kind gesture, although I am sure it will get edited out. It’ a bit of a tangent.

My last stop was the parish priest. He was not there and I was told to come back in a few hours. I did and I was told to come back the next day.

I came back to the Liberties area two days later on Friday. It was a much nicer day.

The one priest had never called me back, so I went again to find him. He was again absent and so I again left my number with the secretary candle seller.

I went to find the parish priest and he was not there either. I was told he was at lunch and to come back in a few hours.

I wandered in the Liberty Market. I wondered what it looked like historically. It had surely let itself go. At least the cheap flea markets in America have some spirit to them. If you’re going to go tacky and cheap, don’t half-ass it.  Despite the slim pickings and overall trashiness, the area was busy. Nothing interesting was being sold. No miracle magnet bracelets, WWII knives or cute inbred puppies — just fake brand name clothing and light fixtures.

I was tempted to get something to eat, but the lunch rush hour and long lines ended up dissuading me and saving me money.

There was still a lot of time left so I waited in the church’s Grotto Shrine and Shop – a tacky looking area with rocks masoned together to resemble a shallow cave. Inside the cave are smooth marble-looking walls with a wall of candles. A Mary, mother of Jesus, lawn ornament overlooks the spectacle.

I watched a homeless man discreetly ask praying people for change. One woman knew him by name.

Strangely he never asked me for money. He asked me for a light. I said I did not have one and then procured one out of his pocket. He then asked me for the time, but before I could answer, procured a watch.

A woman on the way out warned the shop keepers that he was there disrupting the spirituality of the shrine.

I went again to harass the parish priest. I rang the bell. Earlier in my attempts, I had become used to ringing the doorbell multiple times and waiting countless minutes for an answer. This time, it swung open right away.

She recognized me from before, but still interrogated my purpose. Eying me suspiciously, we stared at each other for a long time.

“Who are you again?”

I answered and she kept silent. It was a long uncomfortable silence. Her gaze was only broken periodically with a glance to the office out of my view. I wondered if we were having a stare-down and if I had to win it to talk to the priest.

Finally, the parish priest came into view and let me in. I guess I won the stare-down.

He was much larger than the other priests, like a bouncer for the Catholic faith. He had a very firm handshake and was much more wary of me than the others.

We interviewed with him sitting across the room. He gave the politically correct quotes I expected from someone in his position.

I did like one quote where he said the word “bum” in relation to it filling seats. I finished my story with that quote. It seemed appropriate to end a story with a quote about people’s ends.

On the way home I went through a narrow and trashed alleyway because it looked interesting. It ran alongside the church on a side rarely seen by the public.

I stumbled upon an old horseshoe. Instinctively, I picked it up and wrapped it in a brown paper bag that previously held a box of pens (somewhere in interviewing I lost my pen and had to buy more).

I could tell by the remnants of manure on the ground that the novelty horse and carriages sometimes went through here. I looked at the seldom seen side of the church. It was bordered by ugly concrete slabs and chain link fencing. It looked like a crack addicts playground. The concrete was flat enough, though. I thought the priests could easily set up some basketball hoops and get their game on between sermons.

There were bike tires, broken bottles and plastic bags scatted everywhere. It was the polar opposite of the Grotto shrine on the other side of the church.

I went home and cleaned up the horseshoe. I hung it in the hallway by the front door. As I was finishing the story, it fell down with a clang.

Talent shows make me lose hope in entertainment

Yes, they are two 17-year-old twins having fun. Collectively known as “Jedward,” I like them to the extent that they are making a mockery of the whole formulaic approach to finding talent on television. Anything that brings down shows like “X Factor” and “American Idol” is fine with me.

They are no reason to watch “X Factor,” though. Now it’s just boring singing coupled with bad singing.

That’s my rant. I had to bring it up because the media here is filled with the twins since they are from Ireland.

I’ve been doing a lot of nothing lately. It is kind of making me go crazy. When I first got to Dublin there was so much to do. Everyone wanted to hang out and explore the city. Dublin was a huge scavenger hunt.

The other day I got a little of that exploring spirit back in me and went to the Chester Beatty Library. They have tons of old religious manuscripts and books from all over the world.

Today was more of the nothing I have been experiencing as of late. I wrote 1/10 of an essay in about ten minutes and then spent the rest of the day watching various episodes of various television shows. I intermittently glanced at German nouns and verbs. I did a short workout I’ve been doing with the exercise equipment left over from past roommates. It’s actually fun to have a chin-up bar in my bedroom doorway. There’s also these handy handles for pushups.

I expected to gain more study abroad friends while here, but the school is a lot different than I expected. At the Dublin Institute of Technology students don’t pick their classes, but have a set curriculum. Only two things are chosen: a language and where they study abroad their spring semester of their junior year.

The students form tight-knit groups from being in the same classes every year. Us Americans throw a kink in the system by hopping classes.

Also, I don’t think Irish students here have as much an interest in the foreign exchange students as Americans tend to have toward foreigners. We are just an interruption, a faceless, changing rotation of students from various countries. This opinion is shared by my Irish cultural studies professor (who teaches a predominately international group), so I feel validated in stating it.

I am a shy person, which is obviously a hindrance. If I had stayed at the dorm, it might have helped. I could not afford the exorbitant prices, though. It’s a lot more romantic living off O’Connell anyways.

My roommates are at very different points in their lives. We are cordial and they make me laugh sometimes, but that is about it. Overall, we are quite a rag tag group. With a little more time and a good script, we might make it past the pilot episode.

Not to say this has been a regrettable decision. I have had some great experiences here. I am merely at a slump in the semester. School is almost over and Dublin has lost its romantic spark for me. It was never a bright spark, but it was there. Classes were less-than stimulating and held sparingly. I couldn’t get a job due to tightened restrictions after the Celtic tiger stopped roaring. I was stuck being poor with a lot of time and not a lot of things to stimulate me.

Mostly, I miss music. The scene here is thin and starving.

I am really looking forward to my girlfriend visiting in December. Everything is fine when she is around.

We are going to make a band with her friend when I get back. Our band name is Gorgeous. It will be trade-off folk and punk with everyone trading instruments and vocals. I think it is going to be epic.

Extra! Extra!

The Original Wolfman, man.

The health bill passed the House of Representatives. Water was found on the moon. Fort Hood had a shooting. Jay-Z played “Empire State of Mind” on Jools Holland’s show. Some of my postcards made it to various friends. I rediscovered Cab Calloway. I most likely passed a German quiz. I’m starting to really resent Ireland blocking all the fun websites.

I am pulling an all-nighter for the sake of getting back to a respectable schedule. It is now 11 am and I am going strong.

Every night for the past couple weeks I have been going to bed a little later until yesterday I woke up at 4 pm and realized I had become nocturnal. Sure, I would wake up early for classes when required but afterwards I would go straight home and sleep the evening away. It was time for drastic measures. I will probably not get a lot done today and end up a cranky, groggy mess — so be it.

I was assigned a story about church attendance in the Liberties area for class. I should be working on it, but I do not think that will happen today. Interviewing people right now seems like a terrible idea. Tomorrow is Sunday, though. I perfect day for a story about churches.

I need some harmless activities to entertain me throughout the day. By harmless I mean ones that won’t hurt my wallet or my brain.

I spent the past few days reading Reddit (internet crack for nerds) and playing Megadeth riffs on my acoustic. I did make it out to the modern art museum next to my flat at one point. The museum relocated Francis Bacon’s entire art studio to the middle of the building. It’s eerie and was probably a tedious endeavor.

I also met my UF friend’s Norweigian roommate’s German boyfriend at an Italian restaurant. In other words: my friend’s roommate’s boyfriend at a restaurant if you take out all the adjectives.

There is a major sporting event of some sort going on today. I am sure the streets will be filled with merry drunks in whatever team colors are appropriate. Walking merchants will be selling scarves, pinwheels and pom poms.

Last I looked it was raining. Maybe I will bundle up and head to Phoenix Park.

Some fun, some brooding

The things accessible on Google images...

Thursday night I was invited to an Irish student’s birthday party. It was really nice to finally meet some Irish people in Ireland.

It all started in the school cafeteria. Usually I starve until I get home, as I really can’t afford to eat there, but hunger had beat me into submission that afternoon.

I got my overpriced Mediterranean vegetable stew and started searching for a seat. The place was packed. I immediately regretted my decision. I craned my neck in despair, finding no empty table.

There were seats for sure, but I wanted nothing better than to find an empty corner to hunch over my tray in isolation. Anything would be better than gathering the courage to sit with strangers. It was like middle school as I looked for people who looked approachable.

West coast boy moves to the sunshine state and attends the most cliquey middle school during the most awkward time in a growing boy’s life. I was not welcoming the parallels as they seeped into my consciousness.

Luckily, a student called me over to sit with her group.

“You don’t recognize us do you?”

I was slightly embarrassed. Even if I am terrible with names, I am usually good with faces.

It turns out, they are from my picturing reality: studies in documentary class. I wrote out the entire name of the class just to show how hillariously pretentious it sounds.

They were really nice and there were enough slightly nonuniform piercings to make me feel almost at home: septum, gauged, lip.

The birthday party was in Blackrock, a slightly affluent suburb town south of Dublin.  We ended up going back to Dublin city for the clubs fairly soon after arriving. My pockets were much lighter by the end of the night, but I had a blast.

Needless to say, I spent Friday lazing about. I emailed someone about getting into the magazine class and it worked out. Everything fell into place and my classes fit together like pieces in a magical schedule puzzle.

Today I hammered out about three pages of a paper due Monday or Tuesday.

I’ve been eating a lot of ramen lately. I mix in frozen vegetables and crab sticks that my Polish roommate left when he moved.

I forgot to mention I had a pint with my professor at his favorite pub hangout with the other Americans on Tuesday. It was lovely. He is very intelligent and most importantly, liberal and quirky.

Summary: Despite social anxiety a kind soul offered for me to sit with her group of friends during lunch. They invited me to go to a birthday party that night. I invited another American friend and we had loads of “craic.” The next day I lazed and did nothing. Today I did mostly nothing, but worked on my paper. Somewhere in there I perfected my school schedule.

Drab details: an account of me trying to register for classes

Bang!

11:35pm hit and with the ferocity of a gun shot at the starting line, I started registering for classes.

This will be my last semester at UF if all goes well.

I wanted applied magazines to be my capstone class, but the class was full. I was optimistic, but expecting this to happen.

A reference to the finishing stone that forms the top of a masonry wall in architecture, the capstone class is traditionally one of the last classes you take in journalism. It represents your specialization in journalism, whether photography, news, editing, online or magazine.

The applied magazines class is also known as “The Orange and Blue” class. Every semester a new theme is chosen by the class and positions delegated to classmates. Every story ties to the magazine’s theme. I think “skin” was a recent one.

The class I was forced to take for the moment is the confusingly and similarly named, magazine productions. This class works on the alumni magazine. It is essentially PR for the journalism college. I dread being stuck as a cog in this machine, interviewing professors and gloating about the achievements of the university.

Usually, this would be remedied by a few visits to the always helpful front office. As a soon-to-graduate senior, I get special attention. But alas, I am all the way in Dublin and at such a crucial time!

Hopefully, it all works out. The end of my undergraduate studies is going to be stressful enough. I want to have a little fun.

For the moment (and this will not likely change), I am also signed up for law of mass communication, ethics in journalism and beginning intensive German part 2.

These are the last things I need to graduate along with the capstone.

Here’s to a vague future.

Some bands I have been listening to lately

CocoRosie are a French, freak folk sister act. They were born and raised in the States, but their stomping ground is definitively in France. Children’s toys, harps, synth and beat boxers (particularly live) are all at their musical disposal. I found them while Wikipedia hopping other freak folk acts. I am pretty sure I started with Devendra Banhart, and though the musicians are both under the same genre banner, they could not be more different.

The YouTube video I have posted is a live performance by CocoRosie on French television. I recommend skipping the first 38 seconds of dialogue. Their live rendition of “Werewolf” is much more of a rap compared to the studio version, but it is still entertaining. The voice of one of the sisters sounds a lot like a female of version of For He Who Hung the Moon — a local Gainesville folk singer: http://www.myspace.com/forhewhohungthemoon. There is his MySpace if you would like to compare and tell me how wrong I am.

The lead vocals are so harsh and high pitched. The music is essentially a conventional mix of dance beats and punk sensibilities, but it is infectious as hell. I never realized I liked so many French all girl bands. I found them on a friend of a friend’s music blog. I particularly like the chorus of the song “Bloody Bloody Whiffy Scuzzy.” The Decibelles guitarist sounds like a seagull crying at my old Elementary school on free popcorn day while the drummer coos playfully in the background. Warning: if you faint at the sight of blood, particularly fake menstrual blood, do not watch this video.

Waylong Thorton and the Heavy Hands are a husband and wife duo from Gainesville. Waylon plays guitar and contributes yelping garage rock vocals and Meg is the “heavy hands” drummer. It doesn’t get much heavier than this. They can be described as a blend of surf rock, garage rock and just plain rock n’ roll. Throw some punk and folk in there and you have the Heavy Hands. On a side note: they are really nice people as well. Meg is going to have a baby soon. A miniature pair of heavy hands, if you will. They just came out with a new album called “Evil.” It is one of the strongest they have produced. It opens up with a very biblical (the angry old testament mind you), Ennio Morricone flavored rant riff. If you contact them on any one of the many venues they are represented (Facebook, Myspace, etc.), I am sure they would be more than happy to lead you to a copy of the album online somewhere.

My girlfriend told me I would have to live under a rock to not have heard this song by MGMT. I guess I live under a rock. I only discovered this song a few weeks ago. I have known the band for a few years, though it was “Kids” that solidified their status as kings of psychedelic synthpop (a very specific title indeed) in my book. I was introduced to them in a period of time when I would “Tivo” blocks of music videos and rummage through the videos almost daily. “Time to Pretend” was my introduction to MGMT: a video where they jump around a fire on a beach and show trippy images of the repeated images of band members. I felt the song was kind of dull, although it did grow on me. Overall, I felt the duo was trying to be bombastic and bigger than life, but managed only to be a blip on the heart monitor of hippy acid dance music. The Michael Jackson tinged ”Electric Feel” gave me renewed hope in them, although I was not totally convinced of the glory and praise they were receiving from critics. “Kids” is the song that changed my mind. It is a manically happy, yet depressing piece of art. It is a brilliant piece of music, lyrically as well as in its simple, catchy instrumentation. I read somewhere the lyrics in the chorus could refer to “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein, which is a perfectly presentable theory and a bonus.

Controversy aside, the music video perfectly portrays a child’s perspective on life: the scary bogey man who lurks around the corner, the fears which are more concrete and ugly at that age. It fits the lyrics like a glove. As a child I always wondered how adults did not fear imaginary monsters. It turns out they just fear different kinds of monsters than kids.

I keep introducing Spark is a Diamond to friends, but so far I am the only one who enjoys them. One friend claimed the music was fine until the vocals came in. I am pretty sure that is most people’s train of thought. I can only imagine what my dad would say after hearing their songs. For the record, I think the exact opposite of everyone else. The expert mash up of  in-your-face dance beats and alternating female/male vocal screams is something the world has never seen. Or has never seen done well. It is a fine line that Spark is a Diamond walks on. I do not believe any other band could mix dance and hardcore punk and achieve anything but trash. This band, however, achieves magic.

Well, that is it for now. From  the looks of the list, I guess I have been in a dance music kind of mood lately. Usually it is predominately punk and folk, so I welcome the change. That is not to say old Sum 41 and the new albums from Andrew Jackson Jihad, Monsters of Folk and The Avett Brothers have not been in heavy rotation as well. I think that last sentence has a double negative. Oh well.

A good start

I can only take so many pictures of churches and towers in a city before they all start looking the same.

I wanted to go to bed early last night, but the flat mates above me wanted to socialize. I feel like I ignore everybody enough as it is, so I obliged.

I had finaly got on a respectable schedule too, waking up around 10 am and going to bed before 2 am. That was broken last night.

I woke up this afternoon only to be pleasantly suprised by a clean and rearranged living room. My Japanese roommate is back from vacation and with his excess energy had attacked the falling apart apartment. He went to over 10 countries during the month and was in high spirits. He is an addict when it comes to travel. Every country is like another shot of heroine for a junkie. His high was contagious.

As soon as I walked out, the flat mates above me invited the third floor to eat lunch with them. It consisted of meat pie, couscous and bawdy jokes.

A good start to the day. It is particularly rainy, so I will probably stay in and study German.

London was more than fine. Comparing my first impressions of Dublin and London, I would much rather live in the later.

The activities were endless. I really enjoyed the west part of town where Rough Trade Records is located. Stands fill the area, selling anything from antique golf clubs to Black Sabbath records with bent corner sleeves.

I went with an American friend. We in turn met up with another American who is studying in Scotland. The two went back to Scotland on Sunday, but I stayed behind for two days. I really enjoyed my time alone. I was free to wander the streets and take the train to random stops based on the name of the station. I was very liberating and no matter where I went, there was something to see.

I did all the cliche London touristy things of course. Big Ben, the Eye and Tate art museums were all on my hit list. I particularly enjoyed the free art museums. At least 50-percent of my time was spent studying paintings and cocking my head at sculptures.

I will have a chance to go there again in December on my way to Paris with my girlfriend. I cannot wait to show her around.

I have been recently learning about my family history through a second cousin on Facebook. I met her once in Indiana when I was in my very early teens. She is now married with children.

I had heard vague notions that my family was from North Ireland, but now I have more specifics: names, dates, stories.  According to her, My great great grandfather (I am not sure the appropriate amount of greats) Francis Bennie Stone was born in Ireland before 1790. She said he moved to Virginia and married an Indian maiden.

The presence of Native American blood was always a rumor in my family. If you look at my great uncles, you can clearly see it.

So, I guess my great great grandfather ran an “employment agency” as my cousin wrote in a hilarious euphemism for slave trading.

It seems my family is from Ulster. I just visited the area when I went to North Ireland. What a drab place.

I have been thinking about posting some relics from my old music blog on here. I was reading over some today and I think they should be shared again. I should also start writing new music articles. It would be good or me. Maybe, I will start inserting music critiques along with my day-to-day life occurrences.

Dublin Update Part II

Spoiler alert: this post is a cliff hanger!

“Things to look forward to include pigeon murders, meeting other Americans, awkward Pulp Fiction dances and my new college burning down.”

That’s how I ended a blog post a few days ago. I never got around to playing catch up on my adventures in Dublin.

But first, an example of a conversation that happened just seconds ago:

Me: “The picture on the television doesn’t look very clear.”

This is an understatement. The screen is covered in a blizzard of peppered snow, with the picture flickering and skipping like a broken record.

Roommate: “Yeah, I think it is a French movie.”

I just thought I would give an example of the breakdown in communication that occurs in this flat.

Alright, back to bringing everyone to the present. I will use my series of comments on Twitter to help remember what happened.

Well, I guess in early September someone told me I sounded like I was from Hollywood because I had an American accent. That seems important.

Oh, another highlight was clipping my toenails on September 17.

Obviously I post very momentous events on Twitter.

I am going to have to finish this later. I just got distracted for almost two hours talking to my friends and family through Skype.

To be continued…

Quick Update: Bitching and Moaning.

You know there's a board game called Aggravation? Why would I play something called Aggravation? I guess, it's geared toward sadists.

My class must have been canceled. I showed up and no one was there.

That means I got only three hours of sleep just to be further disappointed. I could have slept in like a curled up newborn. That’s how I felt this morning. It was wonderful.

I am worried I missed some big update when I missed class last week. Maybe class was moved and not canceled. That would be a nightmarish situation.

So, the flat seems to be falling apart somewhat. My Brazilian roommate left to another floor quite awhile ago. He was the one who used to collect money for dish soap, toilet paper and other communal goods. No one has taken his place since he left. I would feel awkward taking responsibility, since I am just a temporary tenant. It seems like it may come down to that, though. I’ll give it a  few more days of anarchy.

The toilet is broken and the whole place is starting to smell like piss. I cleaned the bathroom and it still smells this way. I don’t know who to talk to. The Brazilian roommate is everyone’s contact to the landlord and so it is a little aggravating that he just up and left us.

No one is keeping up with chores. There used to be a schedule made every month or so, but it has fallen in disarray.

I think half the problem is the lack of communication in this madhouse. Only half what is said gets across because everyone speaks varying amounts of English.

I also need to make sure I get my security deposit back.

Alright, bitching and moaning over.