Legendary Stratus

July 16, 2012

“I conquered Croagh Patrick”. This was the saying on the shirts in the gift shop. My soaked shorts and muddied socks were all the proof I needed to gain the claim. Ten others including myself climbed Crough Patrick Mountain’s 2,500 ft. incline to the summit yesterday during a day trip to County Mayo.

The climb itself was physically demanding, scaling most of the way on loose gravel and jagged rock. The weather alone made the trek mentally demanding; as one gained elevation up the mountain storm clouds, heavy rain and 15mph+ wind gusts came out of nowhere. This differed dramatically from the bottom of the mountain, which was clear and sunny at the onset of the hike. Like any other place in Ireland, weather in one area couldn't predict weather in another, especially on a mountain. 

By the time we reached the summit, a small white church blurred on every side by a hazy white fog was there to greet us. Unable to see any view at all, we settled for the satisfaction of conquering this beast of a mountain. There were several notable look outs on the way up though, including a natural lake lined with rock-writing, a steep abyss with wild sheep along the edges and a mesmerizing view half way up of the surrounding islands.
           What locals told us would be a five-hour hike up and back took most of us just under three and a half hours. Some wore ponchos, some brought walking sticks, and one went shoeless (congrats Curtis). Popular legend behind the mountain tells the tale of St. Patrick, who once climbed the mountain barefoot in the 5th century. Once he reached the summit, St. Patrick fasted for 40 days, after which he threw a silver bell down the side of the mountain knocking the she-demon Corra from the sky and banishing all the snakes from Ireland. Although most say the snakes are a metaphor for early pagan faiths in Ireland, I still haven’t seen one slithering amphibian. It's a nice change from dodging rattlers on Hawk Mountain in Pennsylvania.

Bringin' Only Good Vibes

July 14, 2012

     Last night my mates and I went to watch “Good Vibrations”, an Irish made movie at the Galway Film Fladh (festival). The man I’m pictured with here is Terri Hooley, a record store owner and God father of the Belfast punk scene. The biopic movie chronicled the life of Terri while he was living in Belfast during Northern Ireland’s civil war in the 1970s & 80s. “Some people called it a revolution, others called it the “troubles”, an equally useless word” as Terri would say. The civil war essentially pitted Catholics against Protestants, and violence ensued from differences in religious and political outlooks.
           Terri’s father was a socialist politician, a man who sought “alternatives”, yet after twelve campaigns he never won one election. Terri however, was more of a pacifist and sought escape from Northern Ireland's political cruelties through music. His self-given title and day job as “Belfast’s #1 DJ” never lasted, but it did lead him to his future wife one night in a bar.

           Soon after he married, the pressure to join a side in the civil war had put his own life in jeopardy. Many tried to push his family and friends out of Belfast, and in a bold attempt to stay permanently he started a record shop in one of Belfast’s most dangerous areas. Terri’s shop, “Good Vibrations”, experienced the hardships most new businesses see. It wasn't until the youths of Belfast pulled him in with their progressive punk-rock scene and brought him a new wave of clientele that his business began to boom.

          Terri began supporting local bands, which gained national recognition under his self-made label, “Good Vibrations”. Through these bands he became a prosperous label owner and the community came to treat his shop with unprecedented respect and love. The last dialogue in the movie takes place during an epic concert at the Ulster Hall venue. During the bands final song, Terri gets on stage and exclaims, “New York has their haircuts, London has their treasures, but Belfast has the reason!” Terri had succeeded in helping a generation escape their countries hard ships through a new way of life fueled by rock music.

          After the movie, the actual Terri came on the Galway stage to say a few words to congratulate the director and actors of the movie, during which he spilled half his beer trying to grab the microphone. He said there were times he had to get up and leave, “to cry me eyes out”. He also commented on getting up, “I also grabbed a pint, I’m not that fucking stupid”.

          After his short speech we began walking out of the theater and once we got to the main lobby I noticed the man of the hour was standing right next to me. I patted his shoulder and said I wanted to come to the record shop and check out his collection. He replied, “Ah, you gotta make an appointment these days, but if you have your phone I’ll give you my number”. I told him I had no phone, but that I’d still try and stop by. I asked if he would take a picture with me and he slurred, “Sure, anything but a blowjob!” 
           From only  the briefest of conversations I could tell the film got his character spot on. I never got to visit Belfast or Terri’s shop, but I’ll be the first in line when “Good Vibrations” hits the states. 


"Victory doesn't always look the way other people imagine it"

-Terri's Father

Running on Fumes

July 9, 2012

     Today I walked from my apartment along the canal to a pizza shop about three streets down. Just before I got to the last street, I ran into a man with a can in an alley way. This was no ordinary man, or can. He was tagging some original artwork on the back wall of the Roisin Dobh, the same bar/club where we got yammered at two nights ago. This is the alley way, his process and finished product. A big shout out to Mahjoubs for teaching me the art of the pan shot.

  

Street Walkin'

July 8, 2012

           Not even two days wandering the cobble stone streets of Galway and already I’ve managed to run into the same group of buskers I stumbled upon at the Aran Islands. 

           This group of musicians, which I later found out go by the name of Mikey & the Scallywags, lives in Galway and plays shows around the surrounding counties on the regular. The guy on the far left (below) is named Alan and is from County Sligo.  After this song I asked him if they frequented the Aran Islands much and he told me it was his first time there too. 
           Apparently they happened to run into a man with a luxury cruise liner earlier who asked if they wanted to hop a ride to the islands. Alan went on to say he enjoyed the Aran Islands, but that Galway was a craic'n little town. Couldn’t agree more.

One More Saturday Night

July 7, 2012

           The first day here in Galway was a wild one, mostly because this sailing town on Ireland's west coast was made the final destination for this years World Volvo boating race. The nine-month race held every three years ended here just four days ago when Groupama (French boat..) arrived on Tuesday to win the race. To drop the cliché, this weekend was the final fuckin’ hurrah; the best excuse to party this town has ever had.

           On the pier where the boats arrived, businesses and individuals had set up to sell anything and everything, from the sea shepherds and their save the whales t-shirts, to actual Vikings selling metal helmets, animal skin ponchos, and wooden spoons. In the backdrop of these stands were the typical rides you’d see at fair: a ferris wheel, the orbiter, and a gravitron. I got into the festivities and made a drawing of a JMU sailboat in an art exhibition tent. Afterwards, I ate a burger from one of the food stands, walked back to the house to change clothes and collected money from the girls to buy some rum. The streets were so crowded I ended up waiting fifteen minutes outside a liquor store for a bottle of Captain Morgan and a six pack of Bavaria. It took us just about the same amount of time to drink it and we were on our way to Galway’s downtown strip.

           We ended up at the three story“Kings Head” where we had a few more drinks and I made friends with an Irish girl who gave me all the local pubs and grubs to hit. She also told me to listen to “The Coronas” (don’t do it), I think I told her to listen to some Phish or Dr. Dog. A live band came on and covered some Pink Floyd before we rolled back down the main strip. The group had to lock hands in crack the whip fashion because now the streets were more crowded then.. china? It was really fucking crowded. The original fifteen or so in the group got split up after this and half of us ended up at the Roisin Dubh, a bar with a club sized dance floor about a block from our apartment.

           At this point it gets a bit hazy but what I remember starts with some kind of Hispanic jive. I remember buying more then one drink for a few friends and busting my ass more then a few times on the dance floor. At some point I strayed from the remaining group and ended up at the entrance of a casino across the street. The bouncer at the front asked for my ID, gazed at it for a few seconds, and as he handed it back to me remarked, “here you go, mister pen-syl-vania”. I stared back at him for a few seconds Clint Eastwood  style and drifted inside.  
           Now inside, I stood next to one of two black jack tables and for 10 or so minutes began studying the hands players were dealt in an attempt to intimidate the dealer. Once I stepped up to the plate I put down 20 euro, was dealt a 17, asked for a hit, and busted hard. Afterwards I decide to head back on the streets and bummed some loose tobacco and a rolling paper from a gang of teens tripping Mushrooms on the corner. I knew they were tripping because, well they told me. I remember one of the kids saying, “I feel weird, but I don’t feel like I’m coming up”. All I can say is that lad was in for a helluva surprise.

           After I got back to our apartment, which was situated on the canal, I grabbed the six pack of Bazaria and hit the streets again in hopes a selling a couple to make back the euro I had just lost at the casino (At least I think that was my logic). I ended up this time on the other side of town and paid a bike trolley three of the pounders to bring me back to the canal. 
           When I got back for the second time I began jamming on the front steps with my ipod and the Djemebe I purchased at the Cliffs of Moher earlier that day. I don’t remember exactly how many people came up to me but it was a lot. Some asked if I had any weed (goddamnit no!), some asked if they could try out some beats, and others just came by to shout and dance. I kept playing what I thought was good music until my neighbor asked if I was deaf. I apologized, notified him I was not deaf and went inside to skype a beautiful girl who told me everything would be ok. Overall it was a craic’n first night in Galway.

This House Ain't Got No Roof

July 6, 2012

We took a day trip to one of the three Aran Islands (Ishmine) about thirty minutes off the West coast of Doolin this day. We Biked through a stone valley, found a rocky beach covered with mussels,  and explored a shipwrecked boat from the 1950s.

The day came to an end when I strayed (got lost) from the group and sat down to have a rest along the pier. After five minutes of sketching a bit of the coastline I began to hear the voice of a cynical Irishman screaming in the distance. 

After walking towards the sound I stumbled upon a killer pub with some outdoor seating and discovered the man wasn’t cynical, he was just throwin’ down on the geetar and singing about the devil.

Side Note- I thought the lady in the foreground of the video was annoying too, until I sat next to her and her two sons on the ferry back to Doolin. They’re from Eindhoven and her boy with the black jacket is an Ajax (Amsterdam) fan. Cool in my book. 

The Bad Man

July 3, 2012

Setting: Boozing at a bar lounge in London with my three friends Colin, Carlin and Colleen. I walk over and stand next to a girl in a white dress. Guy she is with just left her for  an extended period.

Me, “Hey! I saw you guys dancing and pointing at us during that last song!”

       (Girl nods her head with a big smile.)

Me, “Are you from London?”

Girl, “No.”

Me, “Where are you from?”

Girl, “France.”

Me, “Oh, sweet! Je parle petite Francais…Qu’est qu tu elle dans le matin?”


(Girl with confused look, but still smiling, nods head. Boyfriend then walks back, glares at his girlfriend, and back at me.)

Me, “Hey man. I was just saying whatsup."

(Boyfriend continues to stare at me, then back at his girlfriend.)

Boyfriend in a quipping French accent, “What is this?”

Me, “I was just telling your girl I speak a little French."

(Girl nods head.)

Boyfriend, “No, I say what are you doing?”

Me, “Um, I’m being friendly?”

Boyfriend, “Uhh huh.”

           (Boyfriend awkwardly rubs by me as I get up to sit back down with my three friends. He continues to stare at me so I put my arm around Carlin, a girl who also happens to be my friend. I point to her as if to say, this is my girlfriend. He grabs his girlfriend, his jacket and storms out.)

---

Setting: Fifteen minutes later on the street outside of the bar. With perfect timing, Frenchie is on the other side of the street walking towards us.

Frenchie, “So. Are we ok?”

Me, “Yeah, I’m ok”

Frenchie, “You like my girlfriend?”

Me, “No, this is my girlfriend" 


(I point again to Carlin.)

Frenchie, “You ever touch my girlfriend, I kill you.”

Me, “Woah man. I just saw you guys dancing, having a good time. You seemed like a good man.”

Frenchie, “I, am not a good man.”

Me, “Ok…”

(We begin walking away.)

Colin, “Are you fucking kidding me? You think your tough!?”

(Frenchie turns around as if disturbed. I keep walking.)

Colin, “What is that!? Has anyone ever gone blind from all that fucking gel in your hair!?”

        (With force I push Colin down the street and Frenchie makes a universal hand signal at us. For a few seconds I regret not trying harder in French class.)

London Sketchy

June 30, 2012

       

           Earlier in the day I sat across from a hipster girl on the tube and on her left shoulder a pretty vivid tattoo caught my eye. I needed something to occupy my mind so I sketched it sketchily as I stretched my legs. This was what happened when I colored in the lines:

Hope You Like Jammin' too

July 2, 2012

            Pictures from London are uploading as I write this, and I’m trying not to think about how my camera died just before the last leg of our trip. For one, I wasn’t able to take pictures on “the eye”, a ferris wheel lookin’ contraption that tourists max their cards out in order to ride and see a panoramic view of the entire city. I also missed recording a few buskers and some pretty incredible street music. One busker in particular however was able to inspire a relieving revelation as to why it wasn’t such a bad thing I missed capturing these last few images & sounds.

            Late in the evening we were riding the tube (London’s underground train system) from St. Paul’s cathedral to Waterloo Station where we could walk to the eye. At the second to last stop, I began to hear the faint sound of vibrating guitar strings coming from outside the rail car. I looked back toward the door to see a black man with lengthy dreads, swell biceps and an acoustic guitar slung across his chest.

            My first thought (out loud) was “Oh, hell yeah”, and just as I said this the man snuck a quick glance at me and gave a nod. Another series of notes flowed from his guitar followed by the first  two words of the song, “Can’t stop”. I thought to myself how weird it was that I had just witnessed the Chili Peppers live in Dublin just four days ago and now out of everything this rasta-gypsy could have played, he plays a Red Hot Chili Peppers cover.
           The Busta Rhymes look alike kept jamming and I slid to the seat across from him and whipped out my video camera. The only thing that showed up on the screen was the text, "Battery Empty". I made a throwing motion with the camera towards the ground and Busta just smiled and said, “No memory?” I nodded back and the jam continued.

           A few seconds later our stop came and as I hopped onto the platform I said something to the effect of, “Stay jammin’ man”. He nodded back and with a calm smile said, “Enjoy your stay in London”. As the train pulled away into the dark tunnel he was still looking at me and bobbing his head up and down. 
           I couldn’t help but think of the lyrics he’d just sung, “The world I love, the trains I hop, to be part of the wave, can’t stop” and how maybe this wasn’t just a weird coincidence. I didn’t realize until now that such a minor interaction could never be understood on camera. I’ve continued to film a few buskers, but I don’t get upset anymore when my camera dies, because you realize the best memories are the ones stored in your head. Although it may not be the most reliable, if you use it right you'll never run out of memory.

   

“Support live music, it puts power in the people. It’s the great communication, it's god speaking”  
- Michael “Flea” Balzary

Update- documentation from this encounter was in fact captured:

"Tunes"

June 24, 2012

     The first week we stayed in Cork City their annual midsummer festival was a happenin'. It included live theatre, dance, music and visual arts. With all our wandering I only got to witness one live act, and from it I learned about a girl named Kate Ellis who shreds the cello. The following is a video of her performance titled “Resound”. She’s accompanied by an accordion, violin, acoustic guitar, and yes, that is a girl on the far left playing a hack saw with a bow. To top off the creative absurdity, it may also make you a little sleepy. Enjoy.

Crammed in Cork

June 24, 2012

           Without insurance or a reason why a reddish rash was spreading around my right forearm, I knew it would be a shitty day. After a cab ride to a walk in medical facility in Cork City it got worse. The following poem describes what ensued in the waiting room. (What the doctor thought was a spider bite is almost healed two weeks later.)

Bitten

A square room with fluorescent lights

reflects off the tiled stripes.
Locals slouched in plastic chairs,

sink below the musty air.

Slamming doors, a child humming,

distracts my mind from what is coming.
Just above, static sings
from pin-sized holes spilling broken rings.

A plastic cup drops, a baby screams for safety,

the mothers mumbled words are far too hasty.

Almost an hour and surely time,

for these minutes to reverse their crime.

“Kevin O’Sullivan! Jared Kelly!”

Names that mark Irish Delis.

A diagnosis, a mystery cause,

anything to escape these walls.

I've lost the road, found dark rock bottom,

loss of all happiness I’ve found so common.

There's nothing more that I can say

If only I could end this rhyme.

O'Connell Street Stream of Conscious

June 22, 2012

Walking out of Eason’s book store on O'Connell Street was the second time since my time in Ireland I’ve walked into a shop off a dry street and walked back out to a soaked street, the wet sidewalk being the only indication it had actually rained. I had thought Grafton Street was the busiest street in Dublin, but its turns out O’Connell street is both the largest, and busiest. Currently I’m jamming to The New Deal with my iPod at the base of the spire, a pin-like monument that upon completion in 2003 was deemed the world's tallest "sculpture". I’m slouched with my back against the metallic structure, knees bent over a ring of cement grooves filled with the following discarded items from most prevalent to least; gum, cigarette butts, leaves, black olive slices, more gum. Still, I could sit here forever and watch the people who stream up both sides so close in proximity you'd think the Phillies had just won the pennant. This pigeon by my toes thinks I’m gonna give him some food, fuck that. Just as I focus on the bright orange lifesaver thats his eye, he flys away. Two girls walk in front of me, one with blond, the other with dirty blond hair, each sucking cigarettes behind a weathered old man in a leather trench coat selling lilies “5£ a bunch”. Who the hell is this mans clientele? These girls? One has dyed red bangs that contrast sharply with the others light blue yoga pants. They are the epitome of 21st century Irish youth. I feel like they could be performers in cirque du soliel. Maybe they are? Who am I to judge anyway. I’ve now situated myself in a mostly dry spot, back against the platinum spire, butt on the grooves seeing the world from the perspective of a delirious vagabond. The bobbing of my head must concern some people, but not my people. I forgot my iPod was switched to shuffle and The New Deal jam comes to an unforgiving halt. It makes room for a Notorious B.I.G. song (Who Shot Ya). Very fucking coincidental, because this song is reminding me of a pretty vivid dream I had last night where I erected an odd, sculptural interpretation of Biggie above a Walmart store that was missing its sign. I did not inform Laurie this was the reason I had been late to class this morning. An almost normal looking lad with a Patagonia jacket and some busted teeth just came up to me. He acknowledged my pen and paper, kindly excused himself of any interruption and explained his need for coin in order to pay for a hostel tonight. I replied I had spent my last Euro on letters sent home to America (true story). I immediately regret not inviting him to sit down next to me in order to reflect upon this transforming city and hear what kind of crazy shit he’s been through. A little ironic I had just described the feeling of being homeless, now being asked by a homeless man to help find a home. Goddamn I could sit here all day and write about the shit I see, hear, think. However, the florist just wheeled his cart away and the lasses smoking heaters have left as well. The middle section of O'Connell Street is now eerily vacated. Live Dave Matthew's just came on, some "Dancing Nancies". Relevant lyrics; "Could I have been anyone other then me?"