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.

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.

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.

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.

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…

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.

Lounging around and looking smart.

One of my roommates from Hong Kong wrote a short description of every person in my flat for his blog. This an excerpt of his description of me translated from Chinese by Google Translator:

“United States Male, 21 years old, student. In the early occupation of the youth, full of authentic American accent to speak English, from Florida, he said the truth, he was a bit sissy, but the people are very friendly, interest in the Internet. He was the computer even more time than Yagami!”

I hope the sissy part is an awkward translation. Yagami is his internet name. It means Eight God. In my defense as far as the time spent on the computer goes, I am just following a trend. Walk into the living room at any given time and you will witness at least three heads buried in a computer screen. I can easily get sucked into the internet world when no one else in the flat speaks English very well and they are already ignoring each other for the comfort of online entertainment. Conversation tends to stick to very broad, boring topics and even then it gets confused. I also don’t think I had friends yet when he wrote the description.

So, those are my excuses. Truth is, he is right. I am on the internet way too much. It made me realize I need to go out and do more things. I missed a journalism society meeting and a bodhrán class today out of pure laziness. The Polish guy above me is trying to find a running partner. I will have to take him up on that.

I still want to be in the journalism society. The bodhrán class I may have to skip out on since I have missed two classes already. Plus, the cheapest bodhrán I’ve found is like 50 euros.

My Florida friend and I are intent on making some genuine Irish friends. These societies, clubs and classes could help.

Whoa, it’s time for an interruption. Another translation of the description by my roommate changes the word “sissy” to “effeminate.” Am I really being called out on this? Despite pretending not to care about gender roles, I am slightly offended. Mostly for being singled out. He isn’t the most masculine either with his awkward mannerisms and diamond earring. I would expect this from my old Polish roommate who cared way too much about his muscles and overall masculinity. He would talk to you while his pecs twitched to the rhythm of whatever music was playing. It was very hard to keep a straight face when he was shirtless. My Brazilian roommate has a lisp and talks about gay clubs all the time for fucks-sake and I am the “slightly effeminate” one?

In going with the theme, yet another description of me was written by a Missouri friend. Her blog has a theme where she writes about a new person every day. This is what she said about me on day nine of her trip in Dubin:

” [...] quiet on the first uptake but soon I got to know how witty he is.  He and his sarcastic friend [...] are a perfect match for conquering Dublin.  He’s an interesting, smart guy and quite daring too.  He is not living in Griffith, rather an apartment uptown with some other international students.  For a while he wasn’t sure where he was staying and I’m not sure I would get on as calmly as he has been.  He’s also a sweet guy.  He offered to walk us home even though he lives on the other side of town and I’m sure his girlfriend is a lucky girl.  We haven’t gotten along well with too many Americans but [...] [they] seem like some great people to laugh about pretty much anything with, especially poor Lee Chung who was left behind in a small Irish town.”

Some context: Lee Chung is the butt of many jokes in my American circle of friends. He is a Chinese exchange student who got left behind on a bus tour. The poor guy.

Well, at least her description of me is more flattering. There, stroke the bruised ego a bit.

So, that is it for the night. I have to go to a class early in the morning that I thought I could drop (going as far as to not show up last week). As it turns out, my beginning German class is canceled and so now I need another class to be considered a full time student. Very frustrating. Hopefully, I will get a language class so I can graduate on time. Just in case, I’ll have to drag my ass to this graduate ethics course. I am not even sure it will count as anything more than an elective back home.

You looking at me?

Today was a lovely day.

And if you could, please go back and read that fist sentence in the worst/best Irish accent you can muster. I put worst before best because “the worst Irish accents are always the best.”

Except the robot woman who tells you what floor you’re on in elevators/lifts. She is just creepy. I don’t know why all the lifts have to talk here.

My day started off with a lack of courage. I needed to get out to the Liberty area to snap photos of strangers wearing fancy clothes for a “street fashion spread.” It seemed like a fun idea when presented to me as an alternative to writing a real story for the Liberty newspaper. On the other hand…

I don’t think the Liberty area is exactly known for its fashion. A dying market place and middle to lower-middle class housing maybe, but not fashion. Now, whose idea was this?

There is an art school in the area filled with brightly dressed, preening parrot-like students, but I consider the use of them cheating. They don’t actually live in the area.

Well, I allowed myself a few of them.

Overall, the day turned into quite the adventure.

It lightly rained at first, but then the sun peaked out and really brightened everything up.

I had picked up a Cannon Rebel SLR yesterday from a Missouri friend. Taking advantage of the snazzy camera, I took pictures of anything remotely interesting without confining myself to the fashion assignment.

At one point I took a picture of two locals walking down the sidewalk. One was carrying an ottoman on his head and made for an interesting picture. They started to harass me a bit for taking the photos. I should have assumed this would happen judging from their Irish thug uniform of matching cotton track suits. Yes, I guess track suits are considered masculine here. As long as you shave your head as well. Having a Hibernian Husky at your side is a bonus.

“Hey, he’s taking pictures of us!”

The audacity of it. They told me I couldn’t just do that and tat I wasn’t “in Africa anymore.” They then alluded to me carrying things on my head as well.

It was very strange. I don’t look very African. I mumbled something with my American accent, which they did not understand completely. I believe the ensuing confusion allowed me to pass.

The same street had small children who would leap out from behind objects and scream as I passed. I would jump every damn time.

Another strange thing I came across was a horse obviously geared to pull a carriage, but with no sign of carriage in the vicinity. It was munching on a small patch of grass behind some apartments. A small crowd of about five to six people was watching it eat. I asked if they knew who’s it was and they replied no. I asked if it was strange that it was here and they just shrugged their shoulders. No one acted like the horse was out of place and most of them went back inside.

There is no way the horse could survive on the tiny plot of grass behind the apartment complex. It was already tearing up the one spot it was standing on. I snapped some photos and left. Though, none of the pictures came out well because the horse refused to face me or show me its side.

I knew I was hanging out way too long on Marrowbone Lane and trying my luck. This was the place where my Florida counterpart in Ireland got an attempted mugging in broad daylight.

“It was the stretch with the barbed wire across the top of the wall,” she said when I asked exactly where it happened. I must have passed that thing a dozen times.

One photo I got in the area was very enjoyable. I found a couple who were carrying an old stereo around, trying to find somewhere to throw it away. The man was more dressed up, so I decided to use him. He was very purposefully suited in Converse and indie clothing. They were very surprised and laughed when I asked to take pictures. He even held the stereo over his shoulder for me in some ’80s rapper pose.

Most people politely declined to have their photo taken. There were a great many “no’s” that in another time in my life would have been devastating. Others ignored me like a common beggar or pesky solicitor.

“I’m not a solicitor!” I yelled to one well dressed women who refused to make eye contact.

I later was told that solicitor can mean attorney in Ireland. I guess I sounded really crazy.

Another man tried to give me two euro, thinking I was begging. I cannot lie. I was tempted, but did not take it. I finally got through what I wanted to do and took some photos of him, though, he was adamant that he was “not so much in the face.”

It’s ridiculous trying to decipher some quotes through heavy Irish accents. Even when I ask for them to spell a word, the way they say the letters has an accent. It’s frustratingly amusing.

In the end, I think I got about five people to comply with my photoshoot before calling it a day. I had already gone out on another day with a Missouri friend and gotten the same number.

So after having enough fun, I went to meet my Floridian counterpart so we could walk back to my flat and watch a movie. Coming from the Liberties, it was a strange route and I was excited by the adventure. It’s refreshing to come across a familiar place from such a foreign angle. I found some old parks with old churches covered in ivy as well as some other pleasant detours.

I eventually found her, we walked back to my place and watched some Indian film that was what I considered, a grittier, severely more depressing version of “Slumdog Millionaire.”

I then went upstairs to my previous Brazilian roommate’s flat (he moved there yesterday) for a dinner party. Some Brazilian girls from the second story were there as well as his French friend, new Polish flatmate and all of us from the third floor.

Awkward hilarity ensued. Going into details would probably ruin the humor but I’ll do it anyway.

One point that seems particularly stupid once explanation is my Brazilian roommate being too drunk and his inability to quit using bananas as a conversation starter. Miscommunication due to English being a predominately second language also helped the mis-purposeful comedy night move along.

The grand finale was the discussion over my old Brazilian roommate’s abstract painting of him receiving oral sex from a girl he knew. Him and his French friend kept dropping hints to the Brazilian girls as to what it was. The realization on their faces and the later discussion completed the night for me.

I wish some of it could have been filmed for a motion picture comedy. That way I could heartily laugh at the most awkward moments without the room looking at me in confusion. I was practically holding in stifled laughter the entire dinner.

Now, I should go to bed. Thanks for reading.

One of the first things I wanted to see. The prick with the stick: James Joyce.

From my window I can hear the staggered passings of nocturnal taxis, the occasional group of drunks and the muffled echo of a tenor singing covers at a nearby pub. Of course he is singing U2. It seems the entire city has a collective hard-on for Bono. Or is it just a front for tourists? There’s proof to support both theories.

Supporting the hard-on theory is a free map of Dublin showing the proposed site for a phallic U2 tower. Further proof finds the band the fifth richest business in Ireland, according to a “Lonely Planet” ripoff.

Yet, every native I talk to can’t stand the band.

So, yes. This is my temporary home: Dublin. I live above a convenience store painted bright red and named after the nearby monument Spire. My bed sits by the window and is one of three beds crammed into the room. There is another room by this one with another three beds. The building is old and everything smells musty, but it is kept relatively clean.

The flat has a large living room, dining room, kitchen and utility room (which houses the toilet and shower). It is an awkward setup, tedious to explain, although amusing to witness. One roommate theorizes that the building is shaped like an upside down triangle. That explains the lack of 90 degree corners in the flat.

The place is like a small-scale UN meeting in its diversity, but with more booze, laptops and twin beds. Also, there is less talk of peace and disarming North Korea than at a typical UN get-together. Hong Kong, Japan, Poland, Brasil and the USA are all represented in the flat.

Both of my Asian roommates have taken up Christian names to make it easier for westerners. I am finding it a common practice here. It would be neat to come up with my own name in some other country.

My Japanese roommate works all too many hours as a chef at a Japanese restaurant and when he comes home, he likes to drink a beer or two and watch “every sport, but Cricket.” We talk about what little attachment I have to Japan and I throw out butchered Japanese phrases — any I can remember.

My Hong Kong roommate works at an Asian grocery store and promised me I could get fifty-percent off if I came in while he was working. He offers this in a very grave and serious manner, which is hilarious. He enunciates each word, lowers his head and widens his eyes. I cannot tell whether he is intentionally being funny or not. He has only been here a month or so and laughs often at his laptop screen. He has a friend who is often at the flat (living here really) who is also from Hong Kong.

My Polish roommate wants to be an actor and is moving back to Poland very soon to be in a play. He watches many movies. By many movies, I mean a few movies over and over. The apartment only has about five DVDs, which he cycles through. In fact, he has watched “Billy Elliot” at least three times in the past two days. He considers Sylvester Stallone a great actor and likes his mumbling.

My Brazilian roommate is short, extremely outgoing and sounds like a guru with his accent. He likes to talk about women and go out to drink. He is the self-proclaimed God Father of the flat. He takes the money and keep things in chaotic order. He works in the pub below our flat. Both the pub and flat are owned by the same person.

When I first arrived, he brought me and my Hong Kong roommate to a dinner at his French friend’s flat. It was a grand time with the two friends constantly making gay jokes about their close friendship at the expense of the French guy’s Mauritian girlfriend.

Before moving to Dublin, I had never heard of Mauritius. Since living here, I have met three people from there. In case you are as ignorant as me on the subject, Mauritius is a small island off of Madagascar. The population speaks English, French and Creole. The dodo bird lived there once. That is about all I have gathered.

My last roommate is the token female of the flat. I think just about all the roommates are in love with her on a basic instinctual level. She is a pretty Brasilian who prances around the place in fairly skimpy outfits (by prudish Protestant standards). All I know about her is she sings along to Cold Play and smokes on the balcony.

I was surprised to find Dublin such an international mixing bowl. I had a misconception that is was overwhelmingly native.

In my defense, this boom in immigration has occurred only in the last decade, according to many spoken sources. It s interesting to hear professors talk about Dublin pre-2000.

To go back a bit, I arrived in Dublin on the last day of August. My mother came with me to help me find a place and get me settled in. She is a flight attendant, so she has been to Dublin, but never for more than 24 hours. We stayed at the Maldron Hotel and the next three days were spent perusing local restaurants, searching daft.ie for potential shares and stopping by a few tourist traps.

While walking, we found Dublin’s “China Town” on Parnell Street and were treated to some of the best Chinese and Korean food I have ever consumed. I at first called it China Street, a more accurate name, but was corrected by a hotel attendant who asked me if I was talking about China Town. It is much less a town than a street, but Dublin is not a very big city so maybe the scale is skewed. Virtually every restaurant on the street has a great all you can eat breakfast for 5-7 euros.

We did a traditional Irish breakfast in the hotel restaurant. The Irish breakfast is very ham oriented, so I was a little disappointed since I don’t eat pork. The black and white pudding is a little nauseating to think of concerning basic ingredients. The name is due to one of the puddings being colored with blood.

The obligatory fish and chips and pint of Guinness was handled by an overpriced pub on the main city centre vein, O’Connell Street, near where I now live.

The good eats ended when my mother (and her purse) left. I was thankful to have the jump start, though. We looked at some places  while she was here, but none appealed to me completely.

After she left, I found the cheapest hostel online and stayed there for a week. It was a blur of people and names. I especially became friends with a group of French girls, a Texan attorney and an Italian lawyer who always wore suits.

The Italian lawyer was especially amusing to me. “If I cannot wear my suit, I will not go out!” he said in a Mario Brothers voice when told he was already overdressed and to just come to the bar as he was. His demands were met and the whole group waited for him to get dressed.

Two of the French girls seemed stand-offish and stereotypically snobbish at first, but we eventually became friends. They were bitchy in some of the best ways. It started with a core group of two girls, but grew to about four or five French girls toward the end of my stay at the hostel.

It is sad to watch so many people slip through your fingers, but that is the nature of the beast. An awward cliche, I know. The beast of traveling? I am sorry. I couldn’t do better at this time of night.

An Australian girl and experienced traveler told me that although going through so many people is slightly depressing, “you get used to it.”

Those temporary friends can certainly be useful later. One might be able to take advantage of them for an empty couch sometime in the future.

There is so much to catch up on. I have only made it to the beginning of October in my story, so I will take a break here. I think my life gets more eventful and amusing from here on out. Things to look forward to include pigeon murders, meeting other Americans, awkward Pulp Fiction dances and my new college burning down.

No kidding.

I think someone I know has this.

I just got back from the Keys. I went with a friend’s family, which made the experience extremely cheap. All-in-all, I think it cost me about $25: $10 for sunglasses (I forgot to bring any) and $15 for the best Cuban meal of my life.

My posts on this blog are getting more and more sparse as time progresses.

It has been difficult getting around to updating this thing. Any minor effort at compiling my daily activities to display on the internet has been reduced to sporadic, A.D.D., Twitter posts. You know, Twitter, that revolutionary micro-blogging tool that is so popular amongst the young crowd.

In that vein, I have decided to end this blog post with a series of embellished Twitter posts of mine.

*** Went to hemmingways bar hangout last night: Rows of bras, photos of jimmy buffet, bad pop country covers, & a tree trunk.5:31 PM Aug 14th from txt

This bar was only a few steps off the beaten path, but that was enough to make it at least 50% less crowded than the other bars in town. It’s called Captain Tony’s Saloon, named after an interesting character who died quite recently. The place is a smoky, cosy old bar with a rich history that includes a prior-to-fame Jimmy Buffet (his first gig there was for $10 and two Budweisers) and Ernest Hemmingway’s (supposedly his original hangout). The Sloppy Joe’s down the street claims the title of being Hemmingway’s choice bar, but it should be noted that Captain Tony’s was the original Sloppy Joe’s in the ’30s.

There are plenty of hanging bras, business cards, dollar bills, photos and framed newspaper articles to please any drunken eye. The middle of the bar even has a tree trunk shooting through the roof. My gang had a blast there and I especially enjoyed learning about the place (because I am a nerd). Also, the house beer was delicious — a mild, but complex dark beer. The night ended with hiccups, two knocked over trashcans and a broken flip-flop; all contributions from one of our party who doesn’t drink nearly often enough for my amusement.

***An obese, unfriendly pediatrician seems kind of contradictory, but alas i have met one.11:46 PM Aug 12th from txt

This describes one of the family friends in our group: “the papa bear” and owner of the main luxury boat we used. Maybe, if I knew him better, I would think differently. As far as first week impressions go, he was kind of mean. I am glad to have gone snorkeling at Sombrero Reef on account of his boat, though. I had never seen a sting ray in the wild. I am also grateful for the bountiful seafood brought back each night by this fishing and lobstering crazed group of manly-men.

***The Fl Keys. Wish you were here! Raping the oceans with gas guzzling boats, excessive fishing and reef snorkeling.3:32 PM Aug 12th from txt

This same group I was with represents so easily how we are destroying the planet. After a day of only catching “smalls,” lobster that are too small to keep and thus illegal to eat, they decided to grill them up on the boat and eat them anyway before heading back to shore. So much for the lobsters repopulating. I think there’s a reason for their complaints of less lobster this season compared to past.

***I love tacky key west houses. Looks so much better in mass rather than just that one lonely house on your local neighborhood St.1:28 PM Aug 9th from txt

It made me think of a Tallahassee friend who’s parents have a very Key West house. I think they would be very happy in the Keys, a place full of arts, crafts and contradictions — like its cultural homogeneity of laid back solitude and excessive partying.

***Not sure if i really miss this place. Going to the keys in a couple days though. At least its somewhere new.4:40 AM Aug 9th from txt

Of course I am talking about Gainesville: My home, my hell. The Keys was definetely a new place. I was surprised to see wild iguanas and a species of tiny deer called Key deer.

***I don’t think UF’s international center could be more incompetent and confusing.7:56 PM Aug 7th from web

They are trying to screw me out of money. I will hopefully handle the situation next week when I visit Gainesville.

***More moving madness.4:41 PM Aug 4th from web

I believe I was helping my girlfriend organize the chaos.

***Wow, @DiannGoff892 wants sex, no strings attached. I better jump on that with the money I’ll be making from that nice Nigerian prince.1:57 AM Aug 4th from web

Junk mail can be highly entertaining for me. When my brothers and I were little, we would fight over the junk mail that was sent to our house.

***@roysyourboy Thanks. It’s like part of me is at the Screaming Marlin too.11:22 AM Aug 1st from web in reply to roysyourboy

So many of my belonging are scattered across Florida.

***I am becoming a moving pro. I think I should start tackling grand pianos on pulleys.12:45 PM Jul 31st from web

I seriously am considering it.

***Mouth party! I highly recommend Boca Fiesta.5:32 PM Jul 20th from web

Warren, owner of Boca Fiesta and previous drummer for Against Me!, talked about avocados with me! I was star-struck and enamored.  The food was genuinely (and I must admit, suprisingly) good.

***The grass IS greener on the other side. If you’re going to Ireland.5:29 PM Jul 20th from web

I leave on my voyage on the 27th of this month.

***Thought this was funny for all those “crab core fans” DSXF better jump on this band wagon/sensation quick. http://tinylink.com/?drjQBT…10:42 AM Jul 20th from web

Whenever conversation goes to stupid YouTube videos, this has been my contribution. The band is Attack Attack. Their genre is crabcore and yes, they synchronize a guitar flip over their heads in the music video. It’s a mix of screamo, electronica and everything bad in music. It’s glorious, side-splitting material.

***It is nice to see all my friends in Gainesvile.6:38 PM Jul 19th from web

Despite the short nature of Tweets, I think I got everything across in this one.

***@roysyourboy Late nights are depressing. I think it’s because they’re technically mornings. They can’t even be labeled coherently.

We were both up way too late/early.

***@p4tr1ck Is that the tv you spent all your grownup money on?3:22 AM Jul 16th from web in reply to p4tr1ck

He was a good roommate. I miss many aspects of the house on 5th Ave. That specific kind of chemistry will probably never be found again.

***Harry Potter has inspired a new literary generation! http://www.fanfiction.net/t…6:48 PM Jul 15th from web

I believe this is where I left off in my last blog post and thus, I end this one. You (the reader) are now caught up on my extraordinarily boring life.