Disclaimer

Posts this week may be a bit slow, in light of the combination of RAG week and a draft of a large paper coming due Friday, so hang in there, faithful readers.

I will, however, relate this quick story. On Friday I was having my regular fish dish at a local establishment. It's been unseasonably cold here the last few days (low 40s), so it took me a bit to unload the backpack, coat, etc. But when I put down my pack, it made a much larger noise than it should have. I looked at my bag trying to figure out what I had in it that was breakable. Then people around me rushed over to assist a diner who had keeled over. It hadn't be my bag at all.

A woman in her 60s had just gone ass-over-teakettle off the back of one of those super short "stools" that are popular here. As soon as I saw them picking her up it was obvious: she was trashed. She wasn't in any pain, no flash of embarrassment, just a goofy smile at being picked up and placed back on her low stool. Which, within one minute she rolled off the back of again. This time some of the staff and patrons assisted her right out the door and into a cab. I checked my watch: 3:30pm.

A small, older, weather-beaten man who looked a bit like what I imagine Squiggy from Laverne and Shirley would look like with another 20 years on him saw me check my watch.


"Tis a shame, tisntit, to see a woman like that." I nodded. He looked back to the spot where she had been sprawled out. "Bad enough when it's a man, indeed, but what's it, not even half three in the afternoon?"

"Right, just about." I turned to the bartender. "I'll have a double of whatever you served that lady." Squiggy and I shared a laugh.

"Honestly man, I don't mind the ladies gettin a wee bit randy any more than the next, but to see im go off their stools in the middle of the day is a shame."

Call me sexist, but I had to agree.

Quick Hits

It hasn't rained for a few days now, and I get the feeling that the people here don't quite know what to make of it. It's almost as though it makes them uneasy. And then it occurred to me: know why there are so many good Irish writers for such a small population? Rain. Rainy days all the time. You're cooped up inside, what else you gonna do? Same goes for why there are so many good drinkers, too. I remember when I was in Japan I read something about why the Japanese are so good at working together in groups and see value in making things smaller and more compact. Well, Japan is a populous nation with, if I remember right, only 1/7th of its land being inhabitable. Result? Everyone has to crowd in like it's the family holiday picture. You wanna be alone in Japan? Fat chance. In fact, it's part of the psyche that wishing to be alone hardly occurs to anyone.

. . .

This coming week is Raise A Grand week on campus. The general premise is that students are asked to donate to charity, with the goal being to raise one thousand euro. It's called RAG week for short. To encourage donation, the campus organizes all kinds of entertainment events. And for some unknown reason (see above), it's also associated with skipping a week's worth of classes and going on the piss. So prepare to see more words misspelled next week.

. . .

I'm pretty sure the Constitutional Law lecturer is pissed off at the class. I think it started about two weeks ago when she wanted people to share their opinions on some Irish cases that held that it was acceptable to treat men and women differently in the eyes of the law, even though the Irish Constitution allegedly has an equality clause. No one had an opinion. In fact, no one participated at all. Then there was another class where hardly anyone showed up because most of them had an essay due the next day. Then we had a mandatory "tutorial" where we were supposed to read four or five articles and come ready to discuss them. I bet less than 1/3 of the class did the readings. You know, lots of people avoiding eye contact. Yes, I had done them, and I almost think the fact that I was one of the few able to participate in the discussion made it worse for the Irish kids - here's someone who's not even from here and he's done the work, what's wrong with the rest of you? (Right, nerd factor still going strong).

So now what's happened is, the two classes this week have gone like this: lecturer comes in at quarter past, gives a handout, essentially reads said handout as fast as she can, does not ask for any opinions at all, and tersely says "that's it." Yesterday the lecture lasted exactly 15 minutes. I asked the flatmates about it and they confirmed my fears.

"Oh yea, sounds like you'll be fooked on the exam. She's probably spendin' her time makin' it dastardly."

And there's no forced curve here. Never thought I'd long for a forced curve. Feck.

Different Turns of Phrase

I've mentioned before that the Irish use different turns of phrase. It's not so much that I don't know the words, but when you couple the accent with changed meanings and a touch of slang, it sometimes feels like we're actually speaking two different dialects of English. And it's much more than lifts, or petrol, or going on holiday. In Ireland it seems everything is described in slightly different words. Examples?

We fill up; here they top off.

We watch out; they mind.

We take courses; they take modules.

We show parking passes; they put up discs.

We go to lecture halls and study groups; they go to theatres and tutorials.

We have semesters; they have moiteys.

We play sports on a field; they play on a pitch.

We get in shape; they get in top form.

We eat fries; they eat chips. Not to be confused with our chips, which are their crisps.

We use Q-tips, ok admittedly: cotton swabs; they use cotton buds.

We put waste in a trash bag; they put rubbish in a refuse sack.

When asked how we are, we're almost always 'fine' or 'good'; they are almost always 'great' or 'grand.'

We eat garlic bread; they eat garlic toasties.

We wait in line; they get in the queue.

We know sketchy people; they know dodgy ones.

We know sluts; they know slappers.

We check out chicks; they point out 'that bird there.'

We smuggle booze into the law ball in a flask; they do it in a shoulder.

We get drunk; oh, wait, that one's universal.

I go on a bender; here, I go on the piss.

Radio Free Ireland

I am getting a big kick out of Irish Radio. The style is totally different than at home. As much as American stations brag about how many songs or minutes of music per hour, you'd think the DJs here are instead getting paid by the word. The bulk of the hour is taken up with chatting between two or even three DJs about what's new at the movies, what happened on Desperate Housewives or Lost, or Ireland's chances in the Six Nations Rugby Tournament. Then we might mix in one or at most two songs. Then we'll check our text messages:

"Here's Ronan from Kildare, please wish my wife Emure happy birthday, she listens to you every morning. There you are Ronan. And here's Maria from Galway wondering when tickets go on sale for the Summer Oxygen concert. Available now, Maria, get a move on." Et cetera.

Let's check in with traffic, here's Pauline. Whatcha got, Pauline? "Well there is a truck jackknifed on the N-12, blocking all south bound traffic. Garda estimate it will be removed in three or four hours. Galway city nothing out of the ordinary today, but of course expect congestion near the Cathedral as novenas are continuing through tonight."

Lest you think this is just the morning show, no. This is all day, all the time. Supposing you listen for over an hour to hear more than four songs, you'll also notice there is no format like in the USA. A recent hour provided Ozzy Osbourne, Everly Brothers, an Irish Traditional song, Kanye West, and the Who.

Then we go to the phones for the morning quiz. This morning the topic is the body. The three questions are, what H-word pumps blood around the body, true or false: the sartorius is the longest muscle in the human body, and what is the proper name for the windpipe. Gerry from Tuam (pronounced TOOM) gets all three right (shocker!). His prize? A hamper. Although I have a sneaking suspicion that they're using the word in a different context then I am used to. That happens a lot around here, but that's a whole 'nother post.

Then there is FlirtFM (link). How to describe FlirtFM? It is so anti-corporate radio, even for here, that I would say: imagine a world where college radio was all too corporate and formulaic. FlirtFM would still be low-budget alternative. They'll come right out and say, "that song sucked. I'm not playing it anymore." Now, on the one hand it's refreshing. But the flip side is that it sometimes sounds like three kids in a studio playing around. The first time I heard it I honestly thought it was "bring your kids to work" day. One of them blew their nose audibly on the air. You can judge for yourself (listen here), but maybe not right now. They only broadcast 8am to 3pm and 6pm to 2am Monday to Thursday, and 8am to 2pm Friday (FYI Ireland is five hours ahead of the east coast). That's right, no weekends. They have things to do.

Keeping in Touch in Modern Times

One cheap way to keep in touch these days is the use of instant messaging, or IM. I'm sure most of you reading this have a good understanding of how it works, but you might not realize that our older generations do not. For example, here is an IM session between my two younger brothers, myself, and my father on the Monday after the superbowl:

...

Middle Brother says:
patty i just sent you an email

Pat says:
ok

Pat says:
should i read it now or use IM?

Middle Brother says:
give it a quick read it will save time

Dad has been added to the conversation.

Middle Brother says:
hi Dad

Pat says:
got it

Pat says:
nice call on the game. i dont think i would have hit it

Middle Brother says:
your telling me

Little Brother has been added to the conversation.

Middle Brother says:
that's scary little brother

Pat says:
i did stay up and watch it here, not sure why. wasnt that good a game and didnt end till almost 4

Middle Brother says:
little brother did you help dad with his phone?

Pat says:
little brother get dad in on this - he's at your boss's computer typing

Middle Brother says:
wow, that's late

Little Brother says:
oh yes, he has a new flip phone, calls all the time to figure new things out

Middle Brother says:
he should be invited on this

Pat says:
does it have a cd player? Like the one he didn’t know came with his boom box?

Little Brother says:
i'm not sure he can handle all this

Pat says:
probably not

Middle Brother says:
flip phones= no pocket calls

Middle Brother says:
Chunka [dad’s nickname] what do you say?

Dad says:
hi

Pat says:
it takes him about 8 minutes to type something though

Middle Brother says:
welcome to technology

Little Brother says:
this might take a minute

Pat says:
no shit

Middle Brother says:
he should dictate to your boss

Pat says:
get her in there

Little Brother says:
My boss is in freeport

Pat says:
crap

Little Brother says:
he's hunting and pecking

Dad says:
little brother just screwed me up by changing screens i never took typing lessons

Middle Brother says:
haha

Pat says:
that is obvious

Middle Brother says:
chunka thoughts on the Bowl?

Dad says:
f you pat

Middle Brother says:
don't you mean who gives an F?

Dad says:
O yes who does. i thought seattle gave it away and the rsfs sucked

Pat says:
Yes both.

Middle Brother says:
I didn't think anyone on Pitt deserved the MVP

Pat says:
it was hard to pick one

Pat says:
big ben sucked

Middle Brother says:
pat are most interested in the Bowl out there?

Pat says:
they find it mildly interesting, but boring

Pat says:
that game didn't help. bit of a suckfest.

Middle Brother says:
yeah, the timing is crappy

Middle Brother says:
is it on regular TV ?

Pat says:
yes on Sky One Sports, same co. that owns fox

Dad says:
pat the tenant claims her stove does not work neverhas igoing to get al take a look at it

Pat says:
we got no commercials either

Pat says:
dad > yes do you think Al could look at it? I have to have you buy a new one and have Al install it.

Little Brother says:
i can hear the chunka hammering on my boss's key board, like he does when he uses a phone, then he drills the enter key to send it, boom!!

Pat says:
haha

Middle Brother says:
Your boss is going to have divots on her keyboard

Middle Brother says:
BOOM!

Dad says:
f you too

Middle Brother says:
BOOM!!

Pat says:
good thing it's not mom trying to get around those FIREWALLS!

Middle Brother says:
never heard of that?

Dad says:
what the hell are firewalls

Pat says:
have little brother tell you the story.

Pat says:
has to do w mom thinking that she cannot email anyone outside her own office

Middle Brother says:
right

Middle Brother says:
firewalls= computer security they protect your computer from harmful viruses

Pat says:
don't even try

Middle Brother says:
I like hitting my enter key hard too BOOM!

Pat says:
sweet

Little Brother says:
BOOM!

Pat says:
well i got a half gallon in the mail today that should save about $50

Middle Brother says:
Little brother I just dropped an elbow on my enter key....BOOM!

Pat says:
really hoping for another one for my bday

Pat says:
maybe you could give it a flying elbow off the top rope

Middle Brother says:
Skyy? How is it wrapped

Pat says:
in bath mats

Middle Brother says:
new ones I hope

Pat says:
right

Little Brother says:
didn't break?

Pat says:
did not break

Middle Brother says:
lest you get a Skyy and hair tonic

Pat says:
but it's only half full. liability: little brother

Little Brother says:
have a shot for me

Middle Brother says:
haha

Pat says:
that will not be a problem

Pat says:
seriously, why didnt you guys send a full one?

Dad says:
pat do you want me to get a new stove(used)if al can't fix the old one

Middle Brother says:
keep the flatmates on the cheap stuff not the Skyy

Pat says:
dad > yes

Middle Brother says:
what does a new stove go for these days?

Little Brother says:
i didn't send it, my boss did. it's probably the one you bought that she wanted to keep

Pat says:
hmm

Pat says:
duly noted

Dad says:
do you guys talk abouty anything other then drinking

Pat says:
no

Pat says:
sometimes sports

Little Brother says:
liability= boss

Little Brother says:
i found this new vodka the other weekend, three olives grape. It's great with sprite!!

Little Brother says:
taste like grape kool-aid

Middle Brother says:
expensive isn't it?

Dad says:
i0 applied for my passport today

Pat says:
comes with a free umbrella in it i bet

Pat says:
little brother have you applied for yours yet?

Middle Brother says:
very good chunka what is the lead time? 3 weeks?

Little Brother says:
no i will soon

Dad says:
6 weeks

Little Brother says:
not more expensive than stoli

Middle Brother says:
sometimes they are quicker you never know, mine was shorter than expected

Pat says:
mine too

Little Brother says:
i think u can get them within 3 weeks or so

Middle Brother says:
did you offer the finger in your picture by chance?!

Dad says:
Your boss just came in so we can't talk about her anymore

Middle Brother says:
you can get them real quick but cost much more

Pat says:
i think mine took like 4

Pat says:
right. expedited is like 3x the cost

Pat says:
plus maybe more since i got mine before 9/11

Little Brother says:
if you pay an extra $60 you can get it in 3 days

Middle Brother says:
true, but probably not necessary unless you are traveling soon

Little Brother says:
right

Pat says:
so pull your head out and put in for it

Little Brother says:
ok

Dad says:
right it cost $97. extra $60 if you need it quick

Dad says:
little brother wants to go in may what to do with little leauge

Pat says:
i did not think of that

Pat says:
that's a good question, how will that work with LL?

Little Brother says:
one of the parents might have to take over for a game or two

Pat says:
oh dear

Little Brother says:
they can't do any worse

Pat says:
that's funny

Middle Brother says:
the two chunkas in Ireland that's scary

Dad says:
i don't know have to cross that bridge when we know i was hoping [j's] father might help. f you again little brother

Dad says:
f you again

Little Brother says:
BOOM!

Pat says:
the big BOOM was for the F!

Dad says:
ireland will never be the same might decide to retire there

Little Brother says:
what?

Pat says:
no eagles clubs but gambling is legal

Middle Brother says:
Little brother are there any keys missing from your boss's computer yet?

Dad says:
i won $100 on the office 100 sq. pool had final score 1 and 0

Pat says:
excellent

Middle Brother says:
nice one dad

Little Brother says:
not missing, but dented in

Dad says:
who gives a f about your boss's computer

Pat says:
His boss

Little Brother says:
not me, that's why i stuck you in there

Dad says:
who?????????

Middle Brother says:
i hit a $100 parlay on the game !!

Dad says:
i got to go i have to pay acouple of billsgo to the mall and stop at the eagles

Pat says:
sign that book

Middle Brother says:
see ya chunka

Little Brother says:
keep it real chunka

Dad says:
see you guys latter i may have to make this my monday ritual

Pat says:
i think i just heard your boss's keyboard cry out.

Dad says:
i don't think your boss's keyboard could takeit bye

...

Heartwarming, no?

Dirty Old Town Exclusive

Did you guys hear about the email making the rounds in Boston? Maybe you read the story.

Apparently a recent graduate of Suffolk Law School exemplified why you never put anything in writing unless you don't mind the whole world seeing it. Ironic that she was chiding a senior attorney for not putting something in writing.

We here at Dirty Old Town have obtained a copy of said email string. For your enjoyment:

-----------------------------

From: XXXXXXXXXXX [   XXXXXX@bu.edu]
Sent: Friday, February 10, 2006 9:54 AM
To: XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Subject: FW: Thank you

Read from the bottom to the top.there was an intervening exchange of
voice mails as well.as you can imagine, they were as unprofessional as
her e-mails.

-----Original Message-----
From: William A. Korman [
wak@kormanlaw.com]
Sent: Friday, February 10, 2006 9:55 AM
To: 'XXXXXXXXXXX'
Subject: RE: Thank you

You can e-mail this to whomever you want.

-----Original Message-----
From: XXXXXXXXXXX [   XXXXXX@bu.edu]
Sent: Friday, February 10, 2006 9:47 AM
To: 'William A. Korman'
Subject: RE: Thank you

OH MY GOD!

Where to begin?

First of all, how unprofessional, and secondly, it is "reap what you
'sow,'" now "sew". If she is going to use a cliche, couldn't she at
least spell it right?  And WTF is with her "blab la bla"?  Does she not
read your e-mail about it being a small community?!  So, finally, can I
forward this along to some folks?  I am sure they would love to see how
the up-and-coming lawyers are comporting themselves!  (Clearly she did
not go to BU!!!)  XXXXX

-----Original Message-----
From: William A. Korman [   wak@kormanlaw.com ]
Sent: Friday, February 10, 2006 7:59 AM
To: 'XXXXXXXXXXXX'
Subject: FW: Thank you

Did I already forward this to you?

-----Original Message-----
From: Dianna Abdala [   dabdala@msn.com]
Sent: Monday, February 06, 2006 4:29 PM
To: William A. Korman
Subject: Re: Thank you

bla bla bla

----- Original Message -----

From: William A. Korman
To: 'Dianna Abdala'
Sent: Monday, February 06, 2006 4:18 PM
Subject: RE: Thank you

Thank you for the refresher course on contracts.  This is not a bar exam
question. You need to realize that this is a very small legal community,
especially the criminal defense bar.  Do you really want to start
pissing off more experienced lawyers at this early stage of your career?


-----Original Message-----
From: Dianna Abdala [   dabdala@msn.com]
Sent: Monday, February 06, 2006 4:01 PM
To: William A. Korman
Subject: Re: Thank you

A real lawyer would have put the contract into writing and not exercised
any such reliance until he did so.

Again, thank you.

----- Original Message -----
From: William A. Korman
To: 'Dianna Abdala'
Sent: Monday, February 06, 2006 12:15 PM
Subject: RE: Thank you

Dianna -

Given that you had two interviews, were offered and accepted the job
(indeed, you had a definite start date), I am surprised that you chose
an e-mail and a 9:30 PM voicemail message to convey this information to
me.  It smacks of immaturity and is quite unprofessional.  Indeed, I did
rely upon your acceptance by ordering stationery and business cards with
your name, reformatting a computer and setting up both internal and
external e-mails for you here at the office.  While I do not quarrel
with your reasoning, I am extremely disappointed in the way this played
out.  I sincerely wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.

              - Will Korman

-----Original Message-----
From: Dianna Abdala [   dabdala@msn.com ]
Sent: Friday, February 03, 2006 9:23 PM
To: wak@kormanlaw.com
Subject: Thank you

Dear Attorney Korman,

At this time, I am writing to inform you that I will not be accepting
your offer.

After careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that the pay
you are offering would neither fulfill me nor support the lifestyle I am
living in light of the work I would be doing for you.  I have decided
instead to work for myself, and reap 100% of the benefits that I sew.

Thank you for the interviews.

Dianna L. Abdala, Esq.
---------------------------------------------------------------


I swear, you can't make stuff like this up! And on behalf of all soon-to-be graduates, let me say that I am shocked and chagrinned. Sure, we all think like this, but we're at least smart enough not to put it in writing! Honestly!

Mailbag

A reader from Tuscaloosa writes in (which is really impressive, because my address is buried in My Profile):

Dear Pat,

Why is there no sex in the blog?

Curiously,
Reader

An excellent Valentine's Day question! Here is my response:

Dear Reader,

This is by design. My mum reads this blog.

Informatively,
Pat

You too can email me with questions. Write to: dirtyoldtownblog [at] gmail [dot] com.

Classes

For some strange reason, people other than my parents have complained that I don't talk enough about what classes are like. For starters, they are not taught via the Socratic Method like at home (which is calling on a random student and quizzing them about a particular case for up to half an hour). It is strictly lecture. Kind of like undergrad, but to a certain extent even worse. There is no discussion. When a lecturer ends a class, they usually shout out "any questions?" But everyone is packing up and dialing the mobile phones at that point. For the most part I am in large lecture halls with 50-100 other students. Most are law students but some are "commerce."

And it's perfectly acceptable to text someone in the middle of class. No one makes any effort to hide it. And while they don't take cell phone calls in class, almost every lecture is interrupted at least once by a cell phone ringing. The person silences it, but still at home you'd likely get a snide comment from a professor, and probably a talking to if it happened more than once.

Strangely, classes are scheduled from the beginning of an hour to the end, with no breaks in between. So for example, on Thursday I have Irish Constitutional Law II from 4 to 5 and Entertainment Law from 5 to 6. The trade-off is that they never start on time. Between 5 and 10 minutes after is the norm. But they almost always keep you until the end. Also, there is no pattern to when a class meets. Like European Community Law II meets Monday at 5pm and Thursday at 10am, in different rooms of different buildings.

European Community (EC) Law II I like quite a bit. It is one of two classes I have where the law I learn would be no different if I took it at home. The idea is to try and understand how the implementation of the EC treaties works, inasmuch as they are supposed to guarantee the free movement of goods, services, people and capital between member states. It's somewhat analogous to the way the states interact with each other and the federal government, although that's a gross oversimplification. The guy who teaches it is from France, and his accent reminds me a bit of Inspector Clouseau. The Irish students complain that he is hard to understand, but I have to admit I find him easier than many of the Irish accents. Probably because I am so used to the French Canadian accent, eh?

He is very dry with his wit, and you can easily miss his jokes if you are not paying attention. He was explaining this part of the treaty that doesn't allow member states to restrict the importation of goods that are produced domestically.

(Try to imagine the thick Inspector Clouseau accent) "I have chosen for you to review, on this point, the inflatable luuv dolls case. I see that you are confused by my accent, so let me rephrase. They were sex toys. The British government did not allow importation of German-produced luuv dolls, even toe, the U.K. was producing tem. So, what was the British argument? I'm not gonna even tell you, because it was quite stupid, eh? The Germans were able to successfully argue to the Court of Justeece, that there was no difference between the British and German luuv dolls, except for some are better looking."

The other class I have where the law will be directly applicable is Law of the Sea. This is taught by a middle aged Irish guy who reminds you of one of your friend's dads that you liked growing up. He's always smirking like he's about to tell a joke, and although he rarely does, he just has a manner that puts you at ease. Early in the semester I went up and introduced myself to him, mostly to find out if there were any pre-requisites that he expected me to have, but also to be a kiss-up. This partly worked and partly backfired.

On the day after the Barrister's Ball, I showed up late. Law of the Sea meets for two hours with a break at the half. I came in at the half and went up front to get the day's handout and also apologize for being late. Law Ball, I explained. Huge grin breaks across his face.

"Tell me all about it! Where was it this year? How were the speeches? Many people? Good craic? Oh tremendous, sounds like you had a grand time!"

It was almost like I was getting congratulated on being late. Strange. The backfire part goes like this: we'll be talking about the USA wanting to fly over other countries' airspace, including that over their seas, to get to Libya to drop bombs.

"Where's Pat from USA sitting today? Oh, there you are. Pat help me out, what year was that?"

Or, we talk about international treaties that the USA never ratifies. "And Pat, tell everyone why that is, what's the States' take on that?"

You get the idea. No dozing off in that class.

I also have Entertainment Law, Irish Constitutional Law II, and Industrial and Intellectual Property Law, but I can't think of a good anecdote from them. I'll work on it.

On Thongs

Okay, I have an announcement to make. Thongs are officially over. That's right, girls, you can all relax now and go back to wearing regular underwear. Even granny-pants, if you must. Thongs were cool for a while. Every once in a while you'd catch a glimpse of one as she reached for her drink. They almost seemed exotic, as though the wearer were more cosmopolitan. But this time has passed. Seeing thongs has become commonplace. Far far too commonplace. There is no mystery. It's been replaced by a desire for more mystery. I'd rather not be thinking about your laundry in the middle of class. I don't want to know about that tattoo or freckle, or where your tan line is. Thanks anyway.

One class this week, the girl in front of me had to stand up several times to pass handouts down her row. By the end of class I had seen way more of her than I wanted. Probably more than she wanted, too. I actually took to staring at a very interesting spot on the wall until she got seated again. The low-slung jeans didn't help, either. Seriously people, there is a time and a place for things. And for thongs, the time and place was never during Monday morning Industrial Law class. And I'm here to say that now, the time has completely past. Retire those thongs to the same fashion purgatory we sent hip huggers, skorts, Jam shorts and bell bottoms. The place we tried to send pedal-pushers, only to see them rise again under the moniker of capri pants.

Let me say something else about these low-slung jeans. They are terrible, too. I realize that you ladies don't make the pants, you just wear them, but it needs to be said. Women should wear the waistband of their pants on their waist. It's that simple. It's the same infallible logic that says: don't wear horizontal stripes unless you wish to appear more wide. With pants worn on the waist, it emphasizes the fact that your waist is smaller than your hips. It shows the hourglass shape. This is good. When you wear them on your hips, it looks like you have big hips and shows a non-curvy or pear shape. This is bad. The only time you should wear such a low waist is when you can truthfully say, "my hips are too small. I need to emphasize them more." If this is the case, have at it. But please make sure the crack of your bum is covered. That’s all I ask.

No, Really, I am

So I do have to check in the local police. Police station - easy enough to find, right? On a Thursday afternoon I check the handy "international student information" book handed out at orientation. Reading the directions, I have an idea where it is, but they're sort of vague at the end ("follow the road around"), and it gives the number, so I call to confirm.

"Garda Immigration." Garda is gaelic for police.

"Hi, I'm an American student visiting here and I know I need to check in with you--"

"Oh, no, don't come today, lad, we'll be closing up soon." I look at my watch: 3:00.

"Um, ok, is tomorrow better? Maybe in the morning?" I ask.

"Well, why dontcha coom on Moonday morn'. Make sure someone's here to greet ye. Ok, then? Cheers."

"Ok, and while I have you--" click. Dial tone.

Oh well. So on Monday morning I set off for the police station having a vague idea where it is. I meant to call again but I didn't think of it until I was off walking. This sort of forgetfulness happens to me a lot. I'm used to it. So I walk up to the roundabout near my apartment complex, follow the road my directions say and start "following the road around." After I pass some car dealerships on the corner, it quickly turns into an industrial area. Warehouses, wholesalers, guy driving a forklift. Each bend in the road I feel like I'm getting further and further away from town and more and more into . . . not the city, per se, but an industrial center. I'm reading every sign but nothing looks like police or garda. Finally I come upon a little coffee shop/breakfast place. I go in and show my booklet's directions to the clerk and ask her if she knows where it is.

Strangely, she throws her hands up. Did I ask an offensive question?, I wonder. Then she starts to explain in an eastern European accent that she's new to the area. One of the interesting things about the European Community is the free movement of people. I learned this in class, so my $ is not wasted here. Anyway she says she doesn't know, but she'll ask the manager to come out and tell me. Excellent, thinks me.

While she's off in the back room, I step inside from the cold, and to allow another patron in the door. As I do, I notice there are tables set up. I poke my head around the corner to see . . . you guessed it . . . cops in donut shops . . . no less than six officers are sitting at a table enjoying their coffee and donuts. Honestly, you can't make this stuff up! Seeing as how Svetlana is taking her time, I politely (no, really!) approach the cops' table and say, "Hi, I'm supposed to turn myself in for a capital crime, not that I'm sure what that means, but as an immigrant, they said I should go to the Garda Immigration Office, do you know where that is?" I point at my book to let them know it's a keen joke on my part.

What happens next is amusing in my book. The grey-haired sergeant gives a big belly laugh, the two officers younger than me with their crew cuts give me the stone face, and the two lady cops lean over to look at my book to help me out. The middle aged guy has no discernable reaction.

The lady cops direct me across two blocks, over to the next strip mall. "Next to Kelley's," are their last directions. So I head out the door, ninety degrees from the road, and find Kelly's Book Bindery, across from which is, as promised, a strip mall. So I look at all the signs: insurance, travel, furniture. No garda station. No immigration sign. So I walk along the strip mall, and notice that there are doorways into the upstairs offices between every 5 or 6 businesses. After going back and forth twice, I notice that one door has, among its half dozen plaques, "immigration." Sonuva! So an hour and a half after setting out to find an office less than a mile from my apartment, I find it.

Opening the door, I find three very American-looking (don't ask) young people sitting in the lobby. They're chatting away, and there's no one attending the very Department-of-Motor-Vehicles-looking-windows. There's one round table with forms on it. I walk up to it and ask, "are you guys waiting to check in with immigration?"

"And then I said holy shit Holly -- oh, yeah, we're waiting for the guy. You're supposed to fill out a form and take a number. He said he was going out for coffee -- so like I said, I said, like, Holly, what the … " You get the idea. I look at my watch: 9:05 am.

I walk over to the number dispenser. It's all out. I start to ask my self-absorbed compatriots if they got a number, but think better of it. I settle into a chair and pull out "A Burnt-Out Case," a novel by Graham Greene that I recommend; it's an easy read and still counts as a classic because of the author. I'll reserve further commentary because there might be a blog entry about it some day.

I'm not a good enough writer to convey how long it felt before the guy got back, so I'll just say this: I looked at my watch when he came in and it said: 10:22 am. He then proceeded to take us one at a time between coffee sips.

One thing I noticed, when it was finally my turn (10:48 am), was a small placard at the window which said, and I am paraphrasing,

"ATTENTION INTERNATIONAL STUDENTS: It is required that you show proof of funds. Please have your statement showing proof of funds in an Irish Bank with not less than €4,800 if you are attending for the year, or €2,400 if you are attending for the semester. This notice is effective 3/15/05."

Now, I had followed the advice of my many sources (see below), and did not establish an Irish bank account, for the following legitimate reasons:

1) The exchange rate for cash or checks is about 3%; for ATM withdrawals it's about 1.5%.

2) Cash and checks can get lost, and traveller's [sic, for the angry grammarian] cheques [ditto] cost money.

So I sidled into the chair having flashbacks to my airport immigration check-in experience. How could I get my money sent over quickest? [sic; I don't always think gramatically correctly] Would they approve me today? What if they didn't, would I be able to pull this off within the one-month time frame, especially seeing as how they don't staff this office when it's inconvenient or when there's a sale at Dunkin' Donuts? I waited for the inevitable question which . . . never came. That's right. I got my legal alien card with nary an enquiry [sic] about my financials. Apparently the sign was bullocks.

Welcome to Ireland.

I am a Legal Alien

One of the interesting things about being an American studying in Ireland is that you are not required to get any visa ahead of time. But what you do have to do, within one month of arrival, is check in with the police. When you come through customs at the airport, they can only give you the tourist visa, which allows you to stay for three months and not work. But if you check in with the police with your student info, you get a six month stay plus the ability to work part time. I'm not sure what happens if you don't check in with the police within a month, but suffice it to say that at Orientation they make it sound scary.

Going through customs at the airport was when I got my first taste of the laid back Irish style. The general experience is the same as everywhere else. Overtired unshowered passengers make their way through long lines of velvet ropes, struggling with their carry-ons and their immigration index cards. Folks borrowing pens from each other because they forgot to fill them out on the plane. You know the drill.

But upon arrival in Ireland they shouted for students to step over to a separate line. Great, express line! Straight to the front row! Yeah, fat chance. They check everyone else through immigration, and only once they're all through do they then send one cranky guy over to check all the students through. So that added about an hour and a half of wait time. To be fair, I was warned that that would be the case when I talked to the student from my school who came over last semester.

When we finally get checked through, we have to show the immigration guy our passports, a letter of acceptance from the school, and the immigration card. I was also told to have a bank statement just in case, as sometimes they ask for proof that you have access to enough money to get through the semester. But my guy doesn’t ask for the bank statement. He does, however, ask for proof of health insurance.

Now, I will be the first to admit I am a procrastinator. It's not something I like about myself, and it's something I work on to try and get better at; and I'm way better than I used to be. But one thing I am not, and I know it's a weird combination, it a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants person. I will do the research, find out what the story is ahead of time, and be organized about it. And I had at least triple-checked (probably even more, considering the number of sources I had) what I needed to bring with me, and especially what I would need to have access to at immigration. Not once had someone mentioned proof of health insurance.

Of course, my mind starts racing. Now, I do have health insurance through my school, so if worse comes to worse, I'm sure I can somehow contact someone there and have some sort of proof sent over. But, how long will that take? It was about 8:30 am at that point, which means 2:30 am back home. And whom would I call? I would need someone stateside who would appreciate the urgency of the matter. And then what? Do they make me wait here until proof arrives? Anyway, you can see the issues.

So I explain to the immigration guy that I simply do not have any proof with me. I explain to him that I have insurance coverage through my school, and they do not issue a separate insurance card. I show him my student ID (which I realize proves nothing), and tell him that it's really all I've got at the moment. This guy, who was not up to the billing of the oh-so-friendly Irish, refuses my ID, lets out a sigh, then begins typing on his computer. So of course my mind starts racing again. Do I sweet talk this guy? Try to make friends? Or just act like a respectful courteous visitor? Since he's typing away looking crankily through his half-rimmed glasses, I choose the latter.

After a few minutes he stops typing, tells me to look in the camera, takes my picture and sends me off.

"I'm all set?" I ask.

"Yes. Next!" He shouts.

I have split second urge to ask about the insurance, but keeping my wits about me, I bundle up all my crap and got out of there pronto!

...

Ok, I'll continue with the police check-in next time. Sorry for all the "to be continued" but I'm hoping to continue to have entries more days than not. Plus I'm due in class in 20 minutes. Ok, ok, really 30-35 on Irish time.

Wednesday Night, The End

Continuing...

As we exited Sally Long's we I noticed the line for the club had gotten quite long. In fact, it stretched almost the entire block, across from where we stood to the front door. I though this was a stroke of good luck, since we could easily get in line without attracting the attention of the bouncers. Not so fast. [B] has a better idea. "What we'll do is walk towards the front and then act as though we've seen someone we know. Then we talk amongst ourselves like nothing happened."

I'm thinking that walking in the first place might be a challenge, but off we go. [B] loudly pretends to say hello to someone. This was not a good move, as the surrounding people look to see who the new drunk guy is. Then we all crowd onto the sidewalk nearby. Within thirty seconds a bouncer walks up to us. "The queue starts back there, lads."

"Sure, sure," [B] says for all of us. "We're just saying hello to our friends." Then he turns and faces the wall. The bouncer walks on but has clearly taken note of us. [B] and [C] give each other a look like they have done good work here. Of course, a minute later the bouncer is back.

"The queue starts down there, in case you didn’t hear the first time." We look and each other and head for the back of the line.

...

On our way in, what I'm really interested to see is if they will let [A] come in. He has run the typical path from ready-to-pass-out, to vomit, to able-to-keep-glassy-eyes-open-but-still-very-drunk. We get up to the doormen who are checking IDs. I have no idea if they remember us or are even the same guys, but we sail through without even having to show then anything. We head into the lobby-like area, check coats, then get in a short line to actually pay. Had I had my wits about me I wouldn't have let this happen, but [B] and [C] got a bit ahead, then [A] with me directly behind.

At the pay window, it's 6 euro. Says it right on the sign. [A] hands a 5 note over and starts to walk off. Think house of cards, and this was like removing just one of them. The lady calls him back. He gets confused, thinking he's being ripped off. Tries to explain that he already paid, and not without plenty of slurring. Had he given her 6, he never would have had to talk. I'm just about to hand over one euro on his behalf when she actually reaches her arm out of the window to point at the sign. In [A]'s defense, there is no set price at this club, so even though he'd been there many times, there was no way to know how much it would be. Although I suppose that cuts both ways, too: all the more reason to find out before you just drop a five and leave.

The worst part about it was, she takes the 6 euro, lets [A] walk away. I'm thinking what a strange country this is when I see her give a look to the guy who actually watches the door from the lobby into the club. Then she points at [A]. This is another point where if I had been on home turf, I would have felt compelled to say something. I would have asked her why she would be so low as to take his 6 euro first, then have him kicked out. Was that 6 gonna put the club in the black tonight or what? But what I actually did was quickly paid my 6 and got inside before anyone knew I was with him. Phew, that was close. Plus - let's be honest - there was no way he deserved to get in anyhow.

Once inside I found the guys and told them what had happened. [B] did go and talk to the last doorman but to no avail. Then [D] made an offhand remark about how much more drunk [A], [B] and [C] were than him and me, and that we ought to do some catching up. Good idea, I actually thought. I went up to the bar and ordered a double shot of vodka. Normally I would never order a double, but everywhere in Ireland uses those upside down bottle things to measure shots. So you don't get the typical "heavy pour" you get with a shot.

I returned to the group to find [B] and [D] downing shots of whiskey. "What've you got there? Water?" asked [B].

"No, vodka. A double." I said and promptly drained it.

"Fair play! Fair play!" They all shouted, patting me on the back. One thing I should point out, however, is it's not wise to play catch-up with Irish guys. Even if you are one. But again I got a bit lucky. [B] seemed to remember [D]'s comment, but not my agreement, and proceeded to buy three more rounds of whiskey shots for the two of them. When he bought the first I felt a bit left out. When he bought the second I thought I'm actually quite lucky here. And on the third I started to feel vicariously sick watching them.

...

Shortly after that, [B] and [C] disappeared into the crowd. [D] and I shot the breeze for a bit, watching the girls. Then suddenly someone had me in a headlock. Not the "oh crap I've got a fight on my hands" kind, but the "which drunk friend is this trying to say a hearty hello" kind. I turn to see a girl with straight brown hair, about six inches taller than me (which, granted, isn't saying much), whom I have never seen before in my life. And she's wearing some strange club outfit including either very long shorts or very short capri pants; they ended right at the knees. Maybe they were supposed to be capris and she was just too tall for them.

Running her hand through my hair, she hollers over to her friends, "I've found the softest hair in all of Galway!" Which of course causes the two sober ones to continue talking to each other and the two drunk ones to come over and try to touch my hair. Had I had my wits about me I would have insisted on some type of trade for the touching, but as it went I just sort of gave them an, "ok, ok, that's enough."

"What's your secret?" drunk girl 2 wanted to know.

"No gel." I said.

"Wow." she said, reaching for another feel.

"[D]!" I said, "let's check on [B], I think I saw him over here!" It wasn't easy to pull [D] away, as he was desperately trying to get the drunk girls to give him their real names. In drunk girl fashion, their short attention spans had shifted back to the other friends.

...

[D] and I set up on one of the balconies with a view of the dance floor and soon spotted [B]. Not that it was all that tough; he left a wake of stumbling patrons and cranky girls. His move with the ladies seemed to go like this. Apropos of nothing he would walk up, take a girl by the hand and then attempted to twirl her rapidly, regardless of how much room there was, or how willing she was. Incidentally, This is only slightly different from one of my brother's favorite moves, which is to dance energetically, and then feign accidentally backing into the girl of your choice. For [B], most girls seemed to offer little resistance to being taken by the hand, but the violent twirling was something else. Generally I think twirling girls is probably a pretty good move, they do seem to like it. But I would offer one caveat: it's probably best that the girls actually know who you are first.

At one point I turned to look for the bar, and [D] whacked my shoulder.

"Didya see that? That one just cuffed him!"

"No, dammit! Which one?"

"That one over there. Come on let's go ask him about it."

So we trotted down to the dance floor and found [B] on the sidelines, still grooving a bit, but apparently gun-shy from getting out in the middle of it.

"[B] what the hell happened with that girl? I saw her slap you one."

[B]'s eyes took a full second to focus on [D] and recognize him. Then he said, "oh that, my fault. I called her a wanker for no reason." Then he seemed to find his rhythm again. It was almost like he had been to confession and was now absolved from that sin, because he no sooner finished talking as went back on the floor trying to twirl more girls with newfound abandon.

Wednesday Night, Continued...

When we last left our heroes, the bouncers up the block were pointing us out as ne'er-do-wells. One of our foursome had dropped to his knees at the altar of alcohol. I was ready to throw in his towel, but his good friend, my roommate, was not. The problem being, after [A] got out of the cab, he took two sideways steps, bonked his head on wall, dropped to his knees, and ignoring our discussion about the future of our night, quite promptly puked. Strangely, this only seemed to intensify the interest of bouncers up the block. What to do?

Not to worry, [B], my roommate had a plan. Since we had been dropped off a block away, which put us in front of another pub (duh), we'll go in said pub via the back door, have a beer, come out the front door, and no one would be the wiser! Smashing!

First, he grabbed [A] by the shoulders and shouted at him: "steady yourself, man! I have a plan!" Amazingly, this seemed to work. [A] got up and stumbled with us towards the back door of the pub.

"Patrick, I'm feeling much better, but wouldya do me a favor and get me water instead of beer?" [A] said to me.

"Sure thing buddy." Apparently we were fast friends. As if I would let him drink more!

So, with more than minimal effort, we dragged [A] into the pub on the corner, called Sally Long's. Even this can't be done without incident, as some weird sensitive pony-tail man tried to give [A] a hard time about being plastered. I turn to tell "sensitive" to [something I would only write knowing my mom would never read it], but I stop myself short, knowing that I am a stranger in a strange land. Instead I feel quite impotent just giving him a harsh look. Not to worry though, as [C] filled in everything I was thinking and more. [C], like myself, is slight but also a bit wiry, and we stood shoulder to shoulder against this fool, which is a bit silly because said fool probably only weighed 125 pounds, but that's not the point. In that moment, we bonded, man. Truly. Especially when that little fruit turned tail and ran. Which he really did. It's the truth.

So we then turned our attention to Sally Long's. I found it a strange joint, inasmuch as it seemed to be a traditional Irish pub except for the fact that there was death metal playing. I am not making this up. On one hand was your regular clean-cut, short-haired Irish guys and gals tending bar, and your regular young American dudes and gals drinking. Then juxtapose them with ripping-fast guitar chords over guttural chanting lyrics. I will admit I sort of fancied it, and not just because it seemed to make [A]'s recovery tougher.

I excused myself to the toilets (back home we say "bathroom," but who are we kidding, we're using the toilet, not the bath). At Sally Long's they're labeled "Sallys" and "Longs." Even still, I used "Longs." What are they gonna do, measure?

When I got done reeling it in, the lads were ready to put our plan into action.

To be continued...

Just Another Wednesday Night...

So one day last week, I was walking home from class, and I thought: no one's at home, I might as well take my time to get there. So I stopped at every spot along the way including the Tesco Shopping Mall. Wandering through said mall, I noticed the map of said shopping mall. Included on the map was the "crèche." I will freely admit that, until my first year in law school, I would never have known the word "crèche" meant, even though I am a practicing Catholic. But in my first year, we spent a lot of time on the separation of church and state. And during that first year I learned what 14 years of catechism did not teach me; which is to say, the crèche is the cradle into which the baby Jesus was born. I had seen the word "crèche" on several maps of malls, and even on the map of my own campus, too. And I wondered, as much as this is a Catholic country, to they really have Nativity scenes in all the malls and on every campus?

So I followed the map to the crèche. I really wanted to see if the mall had its own nativity scene. Imagine my surprise to learn that it was the daycare center!

...

I've always been a big believer in the premise that shared experience is the way to be better friends. One good way to pull that off is drinking together. If you don't believe me give it a try! Here's the problem though: when you happen upon folks when they are drunk, but you are not, the premise doesn’t work so well. Here is what happened to me that same day last week; that is, the same day I discovered what crèche means here.

...

So I walked into the door to our 'flat' and heard boisterous noises coming from the common room. I went to my room, dropped off my stuff and went to see what all the 'crack' was about. Entering the common room, I see that one of my roommates, we'll call him [C], was drinking with his two buddies playing XBOX. Let's call his friends [A] and [B]. [A] is absolutely shitbombed. [B] is medium, as is my roommate, [C]. I say "hey lads, what's the crack?" Now, 'crack' is a gaelic term, spelled "craic," loosely translated as 'what's the fun?' Apparently I got extra credit for using a gaelic word, because the lads all but got up and tackled me: "wot's the crack! For fock's sake we'll show ye! Here - give 'em some absinthe!"

Three shots of absinthe and a couple of beers later, I was wondering what I had done to myself. But what could I do? Obviously I needed to "represent," right? Right?

"Paddy! We're goin' to CP's [a club downtown] aren't you coming with us?" Was the next thing I remember. Right! Off we go! I walked, more deliberately than was probably necessary, out towards the front door. But, I heard a panicked voice from the common bathroom. I sneaked closer.

"Is everything ok?" I shouted.

"Everything's fine!" came the voice from inside.

"Okay," I said, "just checking because we're heading out now."

"Patrick? Is that you?" came the reply.

"That's right," I said, recognizing [A]'s voice, "aren't you coming with us?"

"Christ! I can't work this lock! Will you help me?" [A] said. What could I say at this point? I was the last one out of the flat, and admittedly the lock is tricky. Oh, fuck it.

"[A], listen to me closely: pick the doorknob up, and the turn the lock the wrong way, then the right way, that's the trick to it."

{jiggle, jiggle}

"I can't do it Patrick! Kick the door down, I'll stand back!"

"No! For fuck's sake [A] settle down and listen: just push up on the knob, then turn the lock one way then the other!"

{jiggle, jiggle, click!} The door opens.

"Patrick you're my feckin hero! Did I tell you how much we love Americans here!"

"Yes, yes," I said, "let's hurry and make the cab."

...

Walking (stumbling) out to the cab, [A] pushes his phone and a ten euro note into my palm. "Christ, Patrick, do me a favor and text my girl that I love her!"

"Cut the shit, will ya?" Sez me, "I don't want yer money or yer phone!" And yes, I did my best to affect an Irish accent back to him. It seemed to work. He took the phone back but not the ten. I used it for the cab. That's fair, right? Right?

We jumped in the cab; we being me, [A], [B], and [C]. Problem: we forgot that our other roommate [D] was supposed to come with us. This only dawned on us halfway to downtown (or "city centre" as they say here). On the way downtown, two things happened. First being that we realized we had forgotten [D]; second, [A] passed out. So, we ignored [A] and made some frantic calls to convince [D] not to take it personally and to come downtown as soon as possible. We tried to get the cabbie to turn around and get [D], but he wasn't going for it. For whatever reason, he said it was against regulations to take 5 at a time. We offered him an extra 10 euro (where'd that come from?), but to no avail.

...

We arrived out a block away from their favorite club about eleven o'clock. Getting out, we had to deal with problem number 2: on the way down (a five minute ride), [A] passed out. Before you get on your high horse, explain to me how you never passed out before the party was over. That being said, part of the fun is, in my opinion, making fun of those who pass out sooner rather than later. We nudged [A] to get out. He did, but upon standing up he said, "I'm having trouble."

He then proceeded to take two steps which I can only describe as 'sideways' in a game of 'Mother May I,' except the two steps ended with his head taking a nasty bonk on the side of a concrete wall.

Trying my best to ignore the sound that [A]'s head made against the wall, I said to my roommate, "we ought to put him in a cab and send him back home, so long as he can say his address out loud. He's spent."

Suddenly, my roommate [B] grabbed my shoulders and said, louder than necessary, "don't say that! He's not a wasted resource yet!" Aside: the next day, [B] admitted to me this was his Environmental Science brain talking, and moreover, he thought this was the funniest line of the night. Obviously I am still learning my audience for comedy here.

As he did this, I looked up the block (where my eyes were forced, by the turning of my shoulders), and I noticed the bouncers of the club we wished to go in. They were pointing down at us, as if to say, "make note of those drunks, let's not let them in unless our jobs depend on it."

To Be continued...

Check this out

Here are two pictures that I have been trying to upload for a while - they go with the Cliffs of Moher entry. I'll add them there as well but I wanted them to be up top for a bit now that they've loaded.
This is what I meant when I said the clouds were coming down to Earth for us to drive through:



This was actually at the cliffs:



I think they come out more intense if you click on them to make them bigger!