The Angry Piper's Den

The Angry Piper Lives.

2012-01-03T14:55:00.003-05:00

Sort of.

It's been over 3 years since my last post and I'm betting no one is still showing up here. This blog may continue in a new form, over at angrypiper.com. Someday.

However, in the meantime, I have a small blog devoted to wargaming and other geekdom, if anyone's interested. Precious little anger, I'm afraid; but then again I've mellowed in recent years.

Here's the gaming blog.

8/7/07 Day 9: Glin Castle and Home

2008-11-07T16:29:00.015-05:00

In the morning, we decided to take a last look around Galway before leaving. The party weekend was not kind to the city’s streets, and everywhere we looked we saw empty kegs and trash. There weren’t many people out and about so early, early in this case being about nine o’clock in the morning. We walked towards Galway Center. Along the way we passed the bronze statue of Oscar Wilde and Edouard Wilde (no relation; Ed was, in fact, Estonian), the two writers seemingly deep in conversation since at least 1999, when the statue was constructed. (In real life, the two never met.)

Sitting between them was this young lady, playing some jigs and reels on her flute. We listened for a few minutes, and then Dad wandered over to her flute case and dropped a handful of Euro coins inside. He returned to find me and Seth staring at him.
“What?” he asked. “She’s good!”
“She better be,” I said, “because I think you just gave her about twenty-six dollars.”
“I’m surprised she’s even finishing the tune,” Seth said. “If I was her, I’d pack my shit up now and leave before you could change your mind.”
(In the time since we were there, the statue developed a crack in the middle and needed to be fixed. I’m certain it had nothing to do with this woman sitting on it.)

In Galway Center, we hung out at the Galway Hooker Monument, a rust-colored statue/fountain that resembles a Galway Hooker, which, contrary to what you might assume based on its name, is a type of sailboat. (We had no idea what it was, actually; it just looked picture-worthy.) On our way out of town we stopped for about an hour or so at Galway Bay, where we looked out at the water and wished we could stay for one more day.

Instead we left Galway and took the N18 back through County Clare; bound, so Dad thought, for Shannon. We were supposed to stay our last night there and fly out of Shannon airport the next day. What Dad didn’t know (surprise!) is that Seth and I planned our best accommodations for our last night in Ireland. Our destination wasn’t Shannon; it was Glin Castle, about an hour’s drive east (then west) of the airport. We broke the news to Dad over lunch in Limerick (we had to drive through Shannon to get back there), but didn’t tell him where we were going.
Located between the towns of Foynes and Tarbert on the banks of the River Shannon, Glin village is so small, you would think something as large as a castle would be easy to spot. After several trips back and forth between Foynes and Tarbert without so much as a sign pointing the way, we began to suspect Glin Castle didn’t really exist. Dad wasn’t much help, berating us from the back seat.
“You losers got lost, didn’t you? You both have no idea where the hell we are.”
“Sure we do,” I said.
“Yeah,” Seth said. “We’re in Foynes. Or maybe Tarbert.” Seth looked at me. “Where the hell are we?”
“Seems to me we’ve been wherever here is about three times already,” Dad said. “Wake me up when we get wherever we’re supposed to be.”
Eventually, we got directions to the castle at a restaurant in Tarbert. We had driven past it about four times. At last we took the long private drive through the woods up to the castle, passing a tractor along the way.
Glin Castle has been owned by the FitzGerald family, the hereditary Knights of Glin, for over 700 years. The current Knight of Glin is Desmond FitzGerald, an obscenely wealthy guy who is the president of the Georgian Society and who used to work for Christie’s as an antiquities buyer when he wasn’t hanging out on his five-hundred woodland acre estate. He has no male children and he’s in his seventies and married, so it’s likely he’ll be the last Knight of Glin.
The castle has an interesting history. It’s not the original castle; that was destroyed in a battle with Elizabeth’s forces in 1600. The new castle is a Georgian mansion constructed sometime in the eighteenth century and slowly completed over the course of the next two hundred-plus years. In the 1920’s shortly after the Irish War of Independence, the IRA paid the (then) Knight a visit and told him his lands were forfeit, as no one who owed their title to the English Crown could keep their lands. The Knight gave them a document in Latin written by the Duke of Normandy that indicated his title was not granted by the English Monarchy, so the IRA left the Knight alone and let him keep his lands and title, which he holds to this day.
Two servants awaited us in front of the castle. Dad drew the first logical conclusion that entered his mind when faced with a sprawling manor house at the end of a long, private drive, complete with an immaculately-groomed lawn and gardens and a smiling, non-threatening staff. “What the hell is this place, a mental hospital?”

We were greeted by the two servants. The first was an attractive girl of Czech descent, who called herself Michele. The second was a German whose name—I shit you not—was Fritz, although Dad, for reasons known only to him, decided to call him Raoul for the entire time we were guests of the Knight. (This did little to endear him to Fritz.)
Although there were undoubtedly many unseen servants prowling around, these two were the only ones we would see during our stay. (We didn’t actually see the Knight, of course.)
Fritz grabbed our bags while Michele led us inside. She confirmed our reservation and gave us the quick rundown of the castle services. Around this time, Seth and I noticed Dad had disappeared. We called out and looked around, but couldn’t find him.
“Where the hell is Dad?” Seth asked.
I eyed a suit of armor with suspicion. “Do you have any secret passages or trapdoors he could have fallen into?” I asked Michele.
The old man wandered back into the main hall just in time to get his room key. He had been taking a look around.
“Holy shit,” he said.
Fritz led us upstairs and showed us around our suites. Seth and I bunked together and gave Dad his own room, which looked out on the castle’s “back yard”.

We took some time to rest up and explore the castle and the grounds. I could describe everything, but why bother? Here’s some pictures.

As stated previously, the Knight is an antiques dealer, and the rooms he lets his guests hang out in are full of lots of stuff. While in general it’s a bit too cluttered for my refined taste, he castle was still damn cool. We were assured that if we needed anything at all, we should simply ask and the staff would do their best to accommodate us.
Seth, of course, wanted a Guinness. He had to settle for a can of Murphy’s instead. It also cost him €10. I wanted a martini, and Glin Castle actually looked promising in this respect, but when Michele told me it would cost me €16, I said no thanks.

It was fast approaching dinner time and we hadn’t eaten for hours. Breakfast was included with our stay, but dinner was not; in other words if we wanted to eat the Knight’s food, we had to pay for it. Everything at the castle is prepared with the herbs and vegetables grown in an enormous walled garden outside. We had just wandered down the garden paths, dodging bees the size of golf balls, for the past hour or so. Everything out there looked amazing. But then we caught a glimpse of what the Knight charges for dinner, and we decided we’d eat in town.
Unfortunately, there’s no place to eat in Glin. From what we could tell, Glin village contains about three streets, two churches, a couple of bars and a castle. While beautiful, Glin was a pretty boring town. I felt sorry for a pair of teenage girls we ran into. They practically assaulted Seth trying to bum a smoke. Seth, being a responsible adult, didn’t give them any cigarettes. (Of course, he was almost out, too, and American cigarettes are even more expensive in Ireland, so they were shit out of luck any way you look at it.) We drove back to where we asked directions in Tarbert and ate there. Then we decided to visit the pub in Glin and get royally shitfaced on our last night in Ireland.
Ireland’s Blue Book, which is a guide to historic Irish houses and castles I picked up at Glin Castle, states that Glin village “boasts the most traditional pub in Ireland.” I do not believe any of us found the pub in Glin to be any more “traditional” than most of the other pubs we patronized. Aside from the bartenders and one local fellow, the three of us were the only patrons of the pub that night. I chatted with one of the bartenders and casually mentioned we were guests of the Knight. Seeing how Glin Castle is the only place to stay in Glin, this didn’t come as a surprise to him, nor was he impressed. According to him, “the Knight has a bit too much of an English accent for my tastes to be considered Irish nobility.”
Over the next couple of hours, I got wrecked on pear cider and Bushmills. Seth drank lots of Guinness. Dad had a gin and tonic and nursed it all night, and at some point we all had to dodge an enormous mastiff hound on the way to the bathroom. (He—for there was no mistaking it was a he, trust me on this—was friendly. Thank Christ.)
Back at the castle, Dad and I went straight to bed while Seth decided to stay up and drink more of the Knight’s private stock of canned Murphy’s. We all met up for breakfast downstairs in the morning.
We were all so sick of the standard Irish breakfast buffet food by this point that we couldn’t even think about eating it, but there was no standard buffet fare to be found. Like dinner, breakfast is cooked to order. In other words, tell them what you want and they’ll make it for you from all the freshest ingredients available. (Want ham and eggs? The pig was probably killed yesterday and the eggs game from the chickens outside.) Despite this, none of us took advantage of the no-doubt excellent food. We just couldn’t eat anymore.
I ate a few bites of smoked salmon that tasted like a cat’s breath (ok, so not everything was excellent). Then I switched to toast and coffee. Dad and Seth did pretty much the same. Fritz, a.k.a. Raoul, brought our bags and we bid farewell to Glin Castle.
The ride between the castle and the airport seemed a lot shorter than it was the day before, but that’s probably because we didn’t want to leave. We checked our luggage and did some last minute shopping for Mom. Then we had one last Guinness at the airport bar before flying home.

The flight back seemed a lot shorter, too.

8/6/07 Day 8: The Cliffs of Moher and The Burren

2008-09-28T16:19:00.005-04:00

I was up early. I decided to read a little while I waited for Dad to regain consciousness. Seth was across the hall in a room all by himself, so I didn’t know if he was awake or not, and quite frankly I’d seen a lot of Seth lately, so I wasn’t in much of a hurry to find out. After about ten minutes or so I finished my book and stared at Dad. The old man was still asleep.
Throughout my childhood and into my teenage years, my father liked to amuse himself with a game he invented called “Fling the Pig.” The “pig”, dear readers, was me. The game, such as it was, had very simple rules. In order to play, the pig needed to be in a sound sleep, much like the one my father was in now. Then, without warning, Dad would burst into my bedroom, making as much noise as possible, often bellowing “It’s time… to FLING! THE! PIG!!!” Of course, the pig would instantly awaken, startled and confused, only to blink bleary-eyed as Dad proceeded to do a little shuffling dance back and forth, slowly making his way towards the bed. (Think Michael Madsen in Reservoir Dogs, just before he slices off the cop’s ear with a straight razor. That kind of dance.) When he at last got to the bed, he would seize the pig by an arm or an ankle—whatever he could grab that was outside the covers—and drag the pig out of bed, depositing him unceremoniously on the floor. If none of the pig’s limbs were outside the covers, Dad would simply rip the covers off first.
For the pig, you might imagine returning to sleep after such maltreatment was impossible. And you would be correct.
And so it was with malicious intent that I eyed my snoring father, many years later and thousands of miles away from home. Stealthily I crept out of my own bed and began to approach Dad. I had to stop twice to laugh silently. And then, I stood over him and reached for a protruding ankle.
There was a knock at the door. Dad’s eyes opened and he looked up at me. He blinked a few times. “You gonna answer that?” he said.
He has no idea how close he came to being the pig for once. But that’s ok. One day my Dad will be old and frail and will likely sleep a lot.
It was Seth, of course. “You losers awake or what? We have a long trip. I’ve already been outside to smoke a butt.”

After breakfast—the usual buffet fare that we were completely sick of by now—we hit the road, taking the N6 South to the N67 through County Clare, bound for one of Ireland’s most famous scenic locales, the Cliffs of Moher (pronounced "More", not "Mohair", as Seth would say). Less than an hour on the road, we pulled over in Kinvarra when we saw Dunguare (pronounced Dungory) Castle just sitting by the roadside, as castles in Ireland are wont to do. We took a quick look around the outside, snapped some pictures and visited the gift shop upstairs. We could have taken a tour of the castle for an extra €10 or so, but the castle isn’t that big and we found the price a bit steep. Instead we decided to get back on the road, driving along the coast of Galway Bay through Ballyvaughn.

In Lisdoonvarna, we made a pit-stop at The Burren Smokehouse. I went in to use the facilities while Dad and Seth waited in the car. Inside I found all manner of smoked goods: meats, cheeses and fish. I thought about how cool it would be to buy a bunch of food and a bottle of wine or ale, drive a little farther around The Burren, and pull over someplace breathtaking for lunch. Then I remembered I’d have Seth and Dad with me, neither of whom seemed to me to be the type to enjoy smoked anything, which meant we’d be stopping at a pub for lunch. Undaunted, I bought a package of smoked mackerel.
I must have taken longer than I was supposed to, because after a while my brother came looking for me. “Dude, let’s go,” he said. “How long does it take to take a piss?” I looked apologetically at the proprietor and followed my brother out to the car.
“Want to see what I bought?” I asked, waving the bag in front of Seth.
“No.”
“Well, too bad. Look.” I showed him the mackerel. He gave me the now-familiar look that said I was the stupidest man on earth.
“What the hell are you going to do with that?” he said.
“Eat it,” I replied. “I was going to buy some smoked salmon. I tried some in there. It was awesome.”
Seth shook his head, clearly disgusted.
“I decided on the mackerel though. It was cheaper than the salmon.”
“Great,” he said.
“They have wild salmon in there. Not just the farm-raised salmon. Supposedly the wild salmon tastes much better.”
Seth stared straight ahead, willing me to shut up.
“I think I had wild salmon in there, because it was great. It’s way more expensive than farmed salmon, though. And the mackerel was cheaper than both of them.”
The sound of Seth’s clenched teeth was audible.
“I like mackerel, too,” I said.
“Who fucking cares?!!” Seth exploded.
About half an hour more in the car and we arrived at The Cliffs of Moher. The Cliffs are 5 miles of stunning coastline: 200 meters high, covered with wildflowers, and understandably packed with tourists. They are a protected wildlife reserve and home to the largest mainland seabird nesting colonies in Ireland. Puffins, peregrine falcons and, of course, seagulls abound; and the Cliffs are bordered by private farms to the north and south, where we saw sheep and wild goats grazing. A walkway complete with viewing platforms runs south to north from Hag’s Head Path to O’Brien’s Tower. The cliffs are constantly eroding, and every dozen feet or so are signs warning you to stay away from the edge.
We heeded the warnings and took a ton of pictures, including what we all agreed was the best picture ever taken of the three of us. While I’m not showing you that one, here are a few pictures of the Cliffs.
We spent a couple of hours at the Cliffs, just staring. Eventually, we made it back to the car and began our drive back to Galway, through The Burren National Park. The Burren is a hilly expanse of rocky, grey limestone, dotted here and there by ancient ruined tombs and dolmens. Its bleakness is offset by beautiful wildflowers that grow in the cracks and fissures of the rock, and plants that wouldn’t normally grow anywhere near each other thrive side by side in this unique environment. We got out of the car and wandered around for about an hour, each of us taking some time to be alone and just absorb what we saw. It was rough going; Seth and I were convinced Dad was going to break an ankle or a hip (he’s old), but we all avoided any mishap. Nonetheless, I was happy for the heavy walking shoes I bought in preparation for the trip.
By the time we were done we were pretty hungry, so we stopped in Ballyvaughn for lunch at Logue’s Lodge. I had chicken stuffed with salmon and bleu cheese. Not exactly Irish fare, but it was good anyway.

Back in Galway, Dad decided to join Seth and I in seeing the town. We took him to all the places we went the night before, including the best pub in the world, Freeney’s. Dad wasn’t as impressed as we were. (I have no idea who this dude in the picture is.) We had dinner at a family restaurant that made some terrific stew (not as good as Madigan’s, but I wasn’t kidding when I said Madigan's was the best stew I’ve ever had in my life.)

Dad got to see (and hear) some street drummers, but many of the bizarre performers of the night before weren’t around, including my new piper friend, who was hopefully still sleeping it off. Sleep sounded like a good idea. Tomorrow, we would be leaving Galway for Shannon, where we would spend our last night in Ireland.
Or so Dad thought.

8/5/07 Day 7: Killarney to Galway

2008-08-05T15:36:00.005-04:00

One year ago today, this is where I was:

After breakfast, we hit the road, not North towards Galway, as you might expect; but South. We had to make a stop first at Muckross House and Gardens.
Situated in the middle of Killarney National Park, Muckross House is a fairly popular tourist destination because of its renowned gardens full of exotic plants and trees. There are three traditionally-worked farms nearby that recreate what Irish life was like before modern convenience, but we didn’t go to any of them. Muckross House is a full two miles away from the main road, and there are horses and buggies for hire in the parking lot for those who don’t want to walk through the woods to get there. But since that’s why we went there in the first place, we elected to walk on the unpaved road.
Well, Seth did. I complained the entire way.
The first building we came to was the ruined Muckross Abbey. Not much is left now, only a square tower and a skeletal window overlooking a small graveyard. From there we began the long walk to the house.

The pedestrian path and the road the horses use are one and the same, and it soon became apparent that it wasn’t mud we were walking through. Lucky for us, the worst of it was in easily avoidable piles.There’s really not a lot to say about the path to Muckross House that these pictures can’t convey. The road wended its way through pastures and farmland into areas of forest so dense and humid and beautiful that, but for the road, we could have believed we were in something out of a fairy tale.

“Oh, I do so hope I see some fairies! It would make me ever so happy!” I clapped my hands eagerly.

“Fuck you,” Seth said.
“You’ll tell, me, Seth, if you see any, won’t you? Oh, say you will!”
Seth looked at me. “I think I see one now.”
Muckross House is a huge Victorian mansion with lots of chimneys and peaked gables, home to many a murder of ravens. Ravens had been dogging our steps during the entire trip, something a more superstitious person might consider an ill-omen. Whenever we saw one, I would lean in close to Seth and whisper, “Death follows ye, laddie! Death!” Each time I said it, Seth loved it more and more.
Approaching the house, Dad paused to take a picture, unwittingly stepping in front of a woman who was filming her family. And a large family it was. We had been walking behind them for most of the two mile trip to the house.

“Dad,” I said, grabbing his arm and pulling him out of her picture, “watch out. You’re in this woman’s way.”
Dad shuffled off to the side, which would have been fine had it ended right then. But apparently Dad felt a deep sense of shame and remorse for ruining the woman’s shot and felt he needed to say he was sorry. So he walked back into her shot, directly in front of her camera lens, and apologized. Twice.
Seth and I stared at him in disbelief.
“Dad, you just did it again!” Seth said.
“What he hell is wrong with you?” I asked.

The rest of our time at Muckross House was spent admiring the plants and worrying that Dad was going to drop dead. He was laughing so hard about blundering into that woman’s shot (and then doing it again) that he literally had to stop every few feet to catch his breath.
Eventually we left and drove through County Kerry, picking up the N21in Abbeyfeale, driving through Newcastle and Rathkeale before taking a break in Limerick. By this time it was well into late afternoon, so we stopped for a drink. There isn’t much to say about Limerick. We didn’t stay there long, and we didn’t leave the N21. This was the only picture I took in Limerick, but it says volumes.

After a quick pint or two, we hit the road again, leaving by the N18 up to Galway. The trip was fairly uneventful; by this time we were all looking forward to getting off the road and settled in. We had no idea where our hotel was located in Galway. Our reservation said only “Taylor’s Hill”. No number. Our plan was much the same as in Cork—follow the main road and hope it led to the hotel. Only this time it didn’t.
It did, however, drive by the famous and beautiful Galway Bay, subject of many a song and poem. We didn’t have time to stop today, but we would before the trip was over. After asking directions from a local, we managed to find our hotel. It was a nice place with the best parking arrangements we had since Dublin. There was a wedding reception going on in the lobby during our arrival, and between that and the Galway Races, the hotel was solidly booked. We checked in and were given rooms in an older part of the hotel. Dad was bunking with me this time around, Seth had his own room. It was early evening and Seth and I were itching to see Galway, but Dad decided to stay in and get some sleep as we had another big day tomorrow. We left him at the hotel and drove to the center of town.
It was the last day of The Galway Races and the end of Bank Holiday weekend. Galway was one big party, complete with street performers and musicians aplenty. I wish I had pictures of Galway that night, but I left my camera back at the hotel, and Seth’s pictures mysteriously vanished. (Dad has some from tomorrow, they'll be up on the next post.)
The first thing we did was find a pub. Every pub in Galway was packed to the gills with people having a great time. We chose one at random, mainly because we had the good fortune to see two people get up from their stools at the same moment. We appropriated them for ourselves and ordered some pints. I took the opportunity to try Carlsberg beer, which was on draught at nearly every pub we’d been to so far. My opinion is that it sucks.
The festive atmosphere looked promising. The barman gave us our pints. Before he could leave, I spoke up. “Hi there. Do you know where we could go to hear some decent uilleann pipers?”
He gave us the names of two pubs a few blocks down the street. “Those two would be your best bet,” he said. “Try later tonight.”
He turned back to his taps. I took a sip of Carlsberg. Then he was back.
“Although, to tell you the truth,” he said, “I’ve never heard of a decent uilleann piper.”
I accepted this remark with good grace. Seth laughed his ass off.
After my shitty Carlsberg, I was in the mood to walk. Seth and I decided to take a look at some of the street life. A woman dressed as a fairy stood stock-still until I threw a €2 coin into a bowl at her feet, then she looked at me slyly, reached into her long sleeve, and withdrew a gold seashell. She pressed it into my hand and blew me a kiss, then became once again immobile. I looked at the shell in my hand. It was an ordinary scallop shell spray-painted gold. “Money well-spent,” Seth said.
“Maybe it’s magical,” I shrugged. “You don’t know for sure.”
“I know that chick probably spray-painted a hundred of those shells and she’s probably getting rich off morons like you.”
A few dozen yards down the block, another guy had a variation of the same act. He and the chair he occupied were covered in gray texture paint, resembling a statue. A few stuffed birds were perched on his chair. He didn’t move unless someone gave him some money. Then, depending on the amount, he would pull some levers and make the birds flap, or, for the truly generous, he would pull out some plates and spin them on a stick for a few minutes before resuming his statue act.
Not surprisingly, Seth and I wound up at another bar, Freeney’s, chosen by me for the wide variety of gin bottles in the window. Up until now, the only gin I had sampled in Ireland was called Cork Dry Gin, distilled in Cork and ubiquitous in every drinking establishment we’d been to thus far, hanging behind the bar in shot dispensers. It was my considered opinion that Cork Dry Gin was nothing special. In Freeney’s I sampled Crimson Gin (also made by Cork) and Geneva Gin, chosen for its weird bottle shape. Some bar hag three sheets to the wind looked at me like I was a disgusting drunk for drinking gin straight up. Although gin isn’t his drink (he hates it, in fact), I made Seth try some too. We thought the Crimson tasted like cinnamon mouthwash and the Geneva tasted like it was distilled with honeydew melons. Not exactly high praise for either. We stayed in Freeney’s long enough to catch a respectable buzz and then it was out into the crowds again.
Seth started talking about where to go next, but just then I heard a sound above the din of the crowd. I grabbed Seth by the arm and yanked him to a stop.
“Dude, what the hell is your problem?” he asked.
“Shut up!” I yelled. I had to be sure. I strained my ears, and there it was.
It was a piper.
I dragged Seth through the crowd until I found her. At first glance I could tell she was drunker than I had ever been in my life. The pharmacy wall she leaned against was the only thing keeping her semi-upright. She played a half-set of uilleann pipes, something even experienced pipers would prefer to do sitting down, as they are one of the most cumbersome and awkward instruments to hold, never mind play. I listened to her for a while. She wasn’t the best piper I’ve ever heard, but neither was she the worst. When she finished her tune I dropped a few euros in her case and walked over.
“You know,” I said, “you just made my night.”
She grinned at me. “Not a fussy one, are you?”

“I’ve been looking for pipers all over Ireland since I got here a week ago.”
“We’re a secret society,” she said. “Don’t tell anyone you saw me.”
“Do you mind if I take your picture?”
She considered this. “I’ll tell you what,” she said, “If you can name the next tune I play, I’ll let you take my picture.”
“Ok,” I said. “Get ready to say ‘cheese’.”

”I’ll get the camera ready,” Seth said, brimming with confidence in his older brother.
She started playing and I listened closely. Traditional Irish music is the most improvisational form of music next to American Jazz. Often the same tune may be known by different names depending on where or how it is played, and never is a tune played the same way twice. As I stood in that street in Galway listening to my new piper friend play, I felt it was a familiar tune that I should know. Nonetheless, I began to doubt that I could give the correct answer when I was asked to name it.
She finished, holding the last note for effect. Then she looked at me. “Well?”
I was unsure. I knew I should know it, but I couldn’t say definitely what it was. Perhaps I didn’t know as much about Irish music as I thought. Perhaps she was so drunk she butchered the reel. Perhaps it was a trick.
Seth was looking at me, waiting. She smiled.
“Was that How Much is that Doggie in the Window?”
“Correct!” she said. Not really an Irish tune, but whatever. I got my picture.
We talked to the drunken piper-lady and her friend for a while. She and I talked about pipers and piping, while her friend and Seth talked about the uncertain origin of our family name. Before long it was time to go back to the hotel. I asked the piper if she’d be there tomorrow night, as I wanted Dad to meet her, but she just shrugged and said she never planned that far ahead.
Tomorrow we had a big day indeed: The Cliffs of Moher.

Happy Birthday, Dad

2008-06-14T19:16:00.003-04:00

My father, One Filthy Mick, has reached the venerable old age of 79 today.

Happy Birthday, Pops.

Promise I'll finish the Ireland thing soon.

Maybe.

Love ya, you old sonovagun.

8/4/07 Day 6: The Ring of Kerry

2008-04-04T11:59:00.004-04:00

After breakfast, we returned to my room to decide what we were going to do. Dad lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. After a while, Seth came in.
“After you guys left I went to the hotel bar and I met this guy,” Seth said. “He bummed a cigarette off me and asked where I was from, so I told him we were all here from Boston. He told me all about places we should go on the Ring of Kerry and here in Killarney.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah. He said we should definitely check out Muckross House and Gardens. He says it’s beautiful landscaping. I’d like to go there.”
“Sure, we can do that” Dad said.
“You talked to this guy for a while, huh?” I asked.
“So what?”
“So it sounds like he wanted to give you a tour.”
“Whatever.”
“A tour of his pants.”
Seth glared at me. I thought Dad was going to die laughing. “I really don’t give a shit if you go or not. I’ve got the car keys, asshole.”
We took a quick look at the map and decided to proceed counterclockwise around the Ring, starting in Killorglin and circling the Kerry peninsula. We figured it would take all day, and it did. Along the way we hit about fifteen towns, so I’ll just relay the highlights here.

Straight out of Killarney, we had a spectacular view of Lough Leane, Kerry’s largest lake. The first big town we hit was Killorglin, where we saw signs advertising the annual Puck festival, which either just happened or was just about to. Either way, we wouldn’t be around for it, which is too bad, because I since looked it up and it sounds kind of cool. Seems the Puck fair is presided over by a goat, and includes lots of dancing, drinking and general merrymaking over the course of a few days. I’m always down for some drinking and merrymaking, and Seth sure loves goats, so it really is too bad we missed it.

We drove the N70 through Glenbeigh and the surrounding small towns, pausing now and again to pull off the road and take pictures. Let me just get this out of the way: The Ring of Kerry was one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been in my life. For every picture you see here, there were dozens of other pictures you’re not seeing because of bandwidth, or that could not be taken because there was no place to pull off the road. I dearly wished for a wide-angle lens, because even the best picture you see here is only about one-fifth of the view we were seeing when it was taken. It was, for all three of us, our favorite part of the entire trip. (Since we’ve returned, Dad has made it clear that upon his death, he wants to be cremated and scattered somewhere around the Ring. “I don’t think they’ll just let us into the country with human remains, no matter romantic the notion,” I said; to which Dad replied, “Well, that won’t really be my problem, now will it?”)

Driving along the N70, we saw lots of houses that were in various stages of completion. In fact, most were little more than foundations and/or a few skeletal beams put together far off the main road with no visible means of access. We were reminded of our Dublin bus driver, who told us that the average house in Ireland was around €490,000, or roughly $720,000 at the time of our trip (more like €700,000, or $1,036,000 in Dublin), and that many people owned their own homes “in close association with the bank of Ireland”. The reason for so many unfinished houses was simple: the owners didn’t have the money to complete them—yet. It’s a common practice in Ireland to build a home over the course of several years, piece by piece. When you have enough money to start the next step, you proceed; until then your partially-finished home sits there. It’s not like it’s going anywhere.

Somewhere between Lough Leane and Glenbeigh we pulled off the road at this scenic overlook above, and met this guy. Of course he was pandering to the tourists who stop there to take pictures, but that doesn’t make him any less cool.

Of course, Dad and I never let slip an opportunity to harass Seth about his driving, which, in all fairness, was spectacular. There are points on the Ring where the road is so narrow it was tough to keep our Ford Focus from driving onto the embankment (or off a cliff). When you consider the Ring of Kerry is second only to the Cliffs of Moher for scenic Irish tourist attractions, my brother’s driving was praiseworthy indeed. I know I wouldn’t want to try negotiating some of those narrow hairpin turns when an enormous tour bus coming the other way decided to play chicken, but that’s exactly what Seth did —too many times to count—all while driving on the left side of the road and the right side of the car.
Still, this was a typical exchange between the three of us after being awestruck by some amazingly beautiful scenery that Seth couldn’t pay attention to because he was trying not to get us all killed.
“Jesus, Dad, look at that,” I said.
“Wow,” Dad replied. “Holy shit. This is amazing. Look, Seth.”
“I can’t!”
“Oh, well, it’s too late now.”
“Yeah, but that was beautiful, wasn’t it?” I said.
“Sure was.”
“Would have been nice to take some pictures of that, I bet.”
“I didn’t have any place to pull off!” Seth yelled. “You see any place to pull off around here? Because if you see any place to pull off, let me know!”
“That’s OK, son. I’m sure well see some other beautiful scenery. Don’t worry, you’re doing fine.”
“Yeah, good job, bro," I said.
“Still, would have been nice…”
“Yeah…”

"Shut up!!!!" Seth yelled.
We had really good weather for our entire Ireland trip, but our Ring of Kerry day was one of the days it rained. Thankfully, the sun showed up every now and again, mainly when we were taking pictures, so it all worked out in the end.
What had been sporadic showers turned into a massive downpour somewhere near Cahersiveen. We passed a guy standing under an umbrella by a sign that read “Bikes 4 Rent.” “Look at that guy,” I said to Seth. “Who’s he going to rent a bike to in this weather, Aquaman?”
Seth said nothing.
“Actually, come to think of it, that’s kind of silly. Aquaman doesn’t ride a bike.”
Seth clenched his jaw, but remained silent.
“I mean, why would he need to? He swims everywhere. Besides, it’s not like riding a bike underwater is going to get you anywhere in a hurry. And—“
“Shut the fuck up!” Seth exploded.
Waterville was the next town southward on the N70. As you might infer from its name, Waterville is a beach town. There wasn’t a whole lot to see there aside from the rocky beach and a few shops and cafés. (There was, however, a disturbing and significant amount of dried blood on a wall outside one of the beachfront hotels, something that was quite the conversation piece for the next leg of the trip, although we were at a loss to explain it. By “significant amount”, think “arterial spray.”) We stayed in Waterville just long enough to take some pictures and find a bathroom, which we all three sorely needed, and then it was off southward again towards Derrynane, the small beach town that the shopgirl in Macroom had told us was a must-see.
One thing Ireland doesn’t lack is its share of revolutionary heroes, and Daniel O’Connell is high on that list. He was a staunch Catholic and an unwavering opponent of the Union. Dublin’s O’Connell St.—and the bridge upon it—bears his name, as well as his likeness: a huge statue right near the River Liffey, close to the bridge. O’Connell lived in Caherdaniel at Derrynane House, which is now open to the public and contains a museum and gardens.

We did not go there, but we did stop at The Blind Piper —a place with a name close to my heart and thus far the only "piper" I’d seen in Ireland—to stretch our legs and ask directions to Derrynane Beach.
We considered eating there, but decided against it when Seth reported a man in a passing car tried to sell crack to my Dad. We were a few miles down the road when I got the full story.
“So I’m having a cigarette, watching Dad here,” said Seth, “and this guy pulls up in a car and starts talking to him, and Dad all of a sudden jerks back and says, ‘Hell, no,’, and I’m like, what the hell is going on over there? And then the guy drives off. And I go ask Dad what’s wrong and he tells me the guy tried to sell him crack.”
Now, I am 100% certain that Ireland has its share of crack dealers, but the rural and scenic back roads of the Ring of Kerry hardly seem like a profitable place to set up shop if you’re looking to deal drugs. Dad was strangely silent.
“Are you sure that’s what he said?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Dad said. “I just heard crack and was like, No, thanks.”
“You sure he didn’t mean craic? It’s Gaelic. Means a good time, a party. You know, like when we’re at a pub like O’Neill’s, they’ll say the craic’s high. Or the craic’s about ninety.”
“Well, I guess that makes more sense. He asked me where I was from, I told him Boston and he said, good craic there, eh?”
Seth started laughing and did his best Dad impression. “Hell no! No wonder the guy drove off looking all puzzled and shit. He must have thought you were a jerk.”
“Sorry, I don’t speak Gaelic.”

We laughed all the way to Derrynane beach, where it started to rain again. I considered buying some crepes from a vendor in the parking lot, but she told me she wasn’t going to open for another half-hour or so, and we didn’t want to wait. Although the beach was lovely and offered a nice view of some ruins across the water, in the end it was a beach, and there were much more impressive things to see around the Ring.

Like Sneem.

Sneem is a small coast village of brightly painted houses like something out of a fairytale. I love the name: Sneem. My brother, on the other hand, would be happy if he never heard the name “Sneem” again, so often did I find any excuse to say it aloud. “Here we are in Sneem,” I would say, or “Wow, Sneem is really cool.” Or “Don’t you wish there were more towns like Sneem in America?” Or the simple, yet often-repeated “I love Sneem!”
Sneem is a funny-sounding place.
While in Sneem we had a late lunch in a small restaurant, where I discovered the Sneem interpretation on New England Clam Chowder is, in fact, nothing like the New England version at all. Behind the restaurant was a small overlook of the Kenmare River, a cool place to rest up for a while.

My big nose led me into a quaint bakery across the street with the intent of buying bread, but I was charmed by the different kinds of hams, sausages and cheese in the deli counter. (That large fellow in the blue, being charmed, is me.) In the end, I had the lady behind the counter slice me about 2 inches worth of pepper-cured salami. It was delicious, and I figured the three of us could snack on it as we continued our drive around the Ring of Kerry. Dad and Seth were less than enthusiastic about it, however, and in the end I ate it all myself. I guess it didn’t help that I referred to it as my “Sneem salami”; it certainly didn’t endear itself to Seth with a name like that.
When we got back to Killarney I suggested we go out to a very nice restaurant instead of finding another pub. Our first stop was Gaby’s, a local seafood restaurant renowned for its lobster, but we didn’t have a reservation and they weren’t able to seat us. Our backup plan, once again suggested by me, was a place known as The Cooperage, which was listed as a recommended gourmet eatery in our guide book. Here is a direct quote: “A relaxing haven away from all the tourist bustle of Killarney…this is a charming restaurant where [the chef] produces delights such as…wild pheasant cooked in Irish cream liqueur.” Sounds adventurous, and I love fine dining, so why not? It would be a nice change from pub food (not that any of us was sick of pub food).
Turns out the restaurant was a block away from our hotel, down a small side street. It would have been a short walk if we were at the hotel, but of course we were at Gaby’s, across town. When we left it began raining pretty hard, so by the time we arrived at The Cooperage, we were all three of us soaked. Inside, The Cooperage was all subdued lighting and murmured conversation, despite the fact that there was a table of at least a dozen thirtysomething women wearing pink cowboy hats right inside the door. The waitress gave us a look like we had just pissed all over the carpet and acted like seating us was going to be physically painful.
I didn’t see what happened next, but Seth was all too happy to tell me about it once we were seated in the farthest corner of the restaurant. For Christmas last year, I got my father a genuine Donegal Tweed driving cap. He scarcely took it off the entire time we were in Ireland. As stated previously, it was raining and we were quite wet. One inside, Dad removed the cap and proceeded to vigorously shake it out, snapping it in much the same way as you would open a garbage bag, heedlessly soaking the pink cowboy-hat crowd in the process. After Dad made his apologies, the waitress seated us as far away from the remaining customers as possible and hastily cleared the extra place-sitting away from our four-top—a move that convinced my father that she was afraid he was going to steal the silverware. While Seth and I thought Dad was overreacting a tad, we certainly didn’t feel very welcome.
The prices were pretty steep, but we expected that. Dad ordered some andouille sausage, Seth had chicken something-or-other, and I—well, I broke one of the cardinal rules of dining out. I ordered the monkfish medallions, on special.
Never order fish if it’s on special. Anthony Bourdain taught me that in his landmark book, Kitchen Confidential. However, that’s exactly what I did, in part because Seth used to fish for monkfish and was curious to see how it was prepared in Ireland.
Well, I can’t speak for all of Ireland, but The Cooperage did a piss-poor job of it. My dinner arrived: three pieces of roasted monkfish, roughly the size of a silver dollar, on three slightly-larger disks of eggplant, garnished with a dab of some kind of cream with something vaguely herb-like sticking out of it. I took one bite and was, shall we say, unimpressed. “How’s the sausage?” I asked Dad.
“Honestly? It smells like so much like urine, I haven’t been able to eat it yet.”
Seth took a bite of my monkfish. “Frozen,” was all he said.
For €29.00 (about $43.00), I expected more than three bites of frozen, half-assedly prepared fish. At least the olive tapenade was good, but boy, did we leave The Cooperage disappointed.
Back at the hotel bar, I got fully drunk for the first time on the trip. We listened to a hotel band and sat with an older couple from Cork who were up visiting Killarney for the week. The man found the three of us, especially my brother and I, quite amusing, and the woman thought that taking our father to Ireland was the sweetest thing anyone in the world has ever done. They were two of the nicest people I’ve ever met, and that’s not just because I was plastered. Dad has since confirmed it, and he was barely drinking anything at all. After a couple of hours, Dad and I left Seth in the hotel bar and went to bed.

Tomorrow we’d be leaving Killarney, on a long trip north to Galway.

Watch This Space

2008-03-17T19:26:00.003-04:00

OK, assuming I have any readers left at all, this is a message to let you know I'm still alive.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, by the way.

The Ireland trip will continue soon. The Ring of Kerry is next, followed by a couple of days in Galway, and finally finishing up the trip at a special place that is known to a few of you, but that was a well-kept secret from Dad until we ended up there.

Sorry for the delay in writing, for those who care. I have no real excuse, but soon I will let you know what I've been doing in the meantime. That will wait until after the trip is finished.

Really, I just can't stand having Seth bitching at me for not finishing blogging about the trip. Normally I'd ignore him, but this time he's actually entitled to bitch.

I'm off to drink a bottle of Bushmills alone in the dark, listening to the Beatles' Let it Be on repeat.

Slainte.

It's My Birthday

2007-12-18T11:08:00.000-05:00

The big three-five.

I'm a perfectionist, and perfect is a skinned knee.

8/3/07 Day 5 Part 2: Cork to Killarney

2007-12-03T17:14:00.000-05:00

(It's been a while since my last post about Ireland. After catching copious amounts of shit from people who want me to finish what I started (i.e.: Dad and Seth), the new post is finally here. Hopefully I still have readers.)

From Blarney Castle, we drove northwest and stopped for lunch in the first major town we came to, Macroom. Macroom was kind of a cool place, and the lunch portions of roast turkey and lamb were obscene.

This building was in the town square. I’m not really sure what purpose it serves, but it sure looks cool. After lunch we decided to look around a bit. I discovered a small antique shop with its door open and ventured inside, where it looked like someone had ransacked the place. There was all manner of bric-a-brac and junk scattered around the room, mostly on the floor, and no proprietor in sight. I called out a few times and finally a man came out from the back.

“Are you open?” I asked.

“In a manner of speaking, I suppose,” he said. “This used to be my mother’s shop. She’s dead a year now, and we’re just going through, deciding what to keep and what to sell. Is there something you’re interested in?”

I told him I was looking for old straight razors. After a brief look around, he presented me with two. One had a chipped blade, so for all intents and purposes it was useless to me. The other had chipped scales but the blade was in good shape.

“Go on and take them,” he said to me. I told him I couldn’t do that. “You can, if you like,” he assured me. Once again I passed, thanking him. I told him I couldn’t really use either one, as I shave with them and neither one was anything like shave-ready.

Ever do something dumb and obsess about it for months afterwards? I’m a pro at that. The razor with broken scales was a Puma, which probably means fuck-all to most of you reading this blog, but all you need to know is that I should have taken it, broken scales or not. In fact, I probably should have taken it whether I had to pay for it or not. Pumas are sweet razors, and with a little time and determination I probably could have restored it to a first-class shaver.

Believe it or not, Dad and Seth (and I’m guessing most of you) aren’t all that interested in straight razors. I found Seth in a small shop a few streets over. He was looking at a stool made from a single piece of wood, carved, twisted into shape and polished smooth. It wasn’t cheap, but I know if Seth could have found a way to get it home he would have bought it. While we were poking around Seth struck up a conversation with the shopgirl and told her we were on our way to Killarney. Tomorrow we planned on touring the Ring of Kerry. “Make sure you stop in Derrynane,” she said. “It’s beautiful year-round.”

After another brief stop in a small antiques store (and an even briefer conversation with the bitchy owner), we hit the road, bound for Killarney. We arrived there about an hour later, and we found our hotel by following the main road straight into town. Killarney was packed with people visiting for the Summer Festival. This, coupled with the normal party atmosphere of the Bank Holiday Weekend and The Galway Races, made parking in Killarney quite the adventure. Seth dropped us off at the front door so we could check in. We did, and then spent another 45 minutes outside the front door, waiting for Seth to return on foot from a paid parking lot across town.

Dad, being an old man, told us he wanted to take a nap, so Seth and I parted company and explored the city on our own for a while. We didn’t plan on meeting for dinner, because we were still full from our huge lunch in Macroom.

Killarney is a beautiful little town of quaint brick streets and tiny shops, popular with tourists because of its proximity to the scenic Ring of Kerry. I stopped in a music store with a promising display of instruments in the window, thinking I might find some clue to the whereabouts of the elusive uilleann pipers I had so far been unable to locate anywhere in the country. After a quick look around at the piping CDs, I realized I already owned most of them. I chose one by Jimmy Morrison (no, not that Jim Morrison) and struck up a conversation with the owner.

“Do you have any uilleann pipes?” I asked, not seeing a set anywhere among the whistles, bodhráns, mandolins and harps that made up the majority of his merchandise.

“Oh, sure,” he said. “I have one set and it’s €950.00.”

“Oh,” I said. That’s about $1300.00, in case you’re wondering.

“Shall I get it for you then?” he smiled.

“No,” I said.

“The price does tend to put an end to most people’s curiosity.”

I explained to him that I was an amateur highland piper and that thus far I hadn’t been able to locate any uilleann pipers in Ireland. He gave me the name of a few pubs in town where there was an outside chance a piper might show up, but it was unlikely. “Not many pipers in this part of the country,” he said. I was getting used to disappointment.

I made my way across the street to a pub, where I downed a few pints of Guinness North Star and had a bowl of fresh potato-leek soup. I caught up with Dad and Seth later at the hotel, and we decided to hit the town in search of some good local music.

A few pubs down the block we saw a sign advertising live music. Inside, I ordered the first round and asked the bartender about it.

“Live music tonight?”

“Oh, aye,” he said. “Most every night.”

“Any pipers?”

“Hopefully not,” he said with an innocent smile.

I began to understand that uilleann pipers were not widely appreciated, encouraged or even tolerated. After a couple of drinks, we left and went to another place down the street, where the sound of an accordion and bodhrán lured us in. We quickly realized this wasn’t our kind of place, though. It was an obviously college crowd, and after one round the musicians packed up and techno music started blaring over a sound system. Since I’d rather rub shit in my hair than listen to five minutes of techno, we quickly left and after another hour or so of pub-hopping we wound up back at the first place we started, but things were a bit different this time around.

The musicians had arrived.

They numbered about six or seven, mostly men, gathered around a few pushed-together pub tables littered with pint glasses in various stages of consumption. They ranged in age from a whistle player in his early twenties to a fiddler who had to be over sixty. They played a variety of instruments, but to my disappointment, there was no piper to be found. The pub was filling up fast. It was Seth’s round, and I told him so. As I had been drinking Guinness all day, I was a bit full. But the craic was high and I wanted a drink.

“Get me a double shot of Bushmill’s Black Bush,” I said.

“You know what?” Seth asked, “I just realized something. You can go to hell. Your fucking Bushmill’s costs twice what a pint of Guinness costs. So every round I buy, I’m spending twice as much on your ass than you are on me.”

I was hoping Seth wouldn’t notice this, so I pretended not to hear him. “I’ll have a double shot of Black Bush, please,” I repeated. Dad started laughing.

“Fuck you,” Seth said. “Buy your own.”

“It’s your round!”

“And while you’re at it, boy, get me a gin and tonic,” Dad said. “Tonight I’m drinking you losers under the table.”

Seth shook his head and went off to the bar, muttering.

The place was full, standing room only. Dad and I managed to get some wall space next to the musicians. Seth returned with our drinks and handed me my whiskey with a look that spoke volumes. I raised my glass with a smile. Whatever he was going to say would have to wait though, because at that moment, one of the musicians began to sing.

After the first few words, the bar got quiet, even the farthest corners where you wouldn’t think the music was more than background noise. I wish I could remember what song she sang, it was soft and sad and somehow familiar. She sang alone, no music to accompany her. And she sang well. Dad leaned over to me halfway through the song and whispered, “The old man sitting in front of me is crying.”

The song ended to resounding applause. The players ran through a few more tunes, Seth and I ran through a few more rounds, then the old man rose to his feet. He was about sixty, with oiled iron-grey hair and the flush of a pint or two on his cheeks. He was dressed very well for a night at the pub in a blue suit, tie and cufflinks, and his shoes were brightly polished and shiny. After humming a few bars to himself, he began a song of his own, and the noise once again died down so all could hear it.

Seth and I were reminded of the night before in Cork. We both wished Dad were with us when the guy in the Hi-B sang. Now, in Killarney, the same thing was happening, and it looked like Dad couldn’t be happier. The old man did one more song and then quietly resumed his seat. We listened to the seisun for a while longer, then Dad and I decided to go back to the hotel. Seth wanted to hang out for a while, so we left him there.

On the way out the door, Dad and I stopped at the old man’s table. I quietly shook his hand and thanked him for the fine tunes. He seemed embarrassed and a bit shy, but his grip was strong and he looked me in the eye when he smiled.

A block from the hotel, Dad and I heard some singing coming from an alleyway. We wandered down to investigate and found a small group of musicians (no piper there either) playing to an outside crowd. We watched the last ten minutes or so of the seisun, then returned to the hotel and to bed.

Tomorrow: The Ring of Kerry.

Monster's Got Your Back

2007-11-08T16:33:00.000-05:00

I will be unavailable for the next week or so. I know, I know. I wanted to at least update the Ireland trip once more, but that will have to wait a while longer. Hopefully you'll all be patient for just a bit more while I sort some things out.

In the meantime, there's this. Third Option Media, the umbrella company of several websites, including AngryPiper.com, was hired to produce this viral marketing video for Monster.com. Please watch it, as it's quite funny and quite short. We at Third Option are very proud of this video, so please support us and watch it, as the more views it gets, the more likely we are to get a contract.

If you don't give a shit about that, then just do me a personal favor and watch the damn movie. Seth, I'm talking to you.

Please feel free to repost this video, hype it up or link to it. It would really help the Third Option Media Network, which means it would indirectly help me as well. (And no, that's not me in the Monster costume. I had nothing to do with this video at all. It was made by people much more talented than me; people I support, and so should you.)

A Short Intermission

2007-10-29T16:50:00.001-04:00

This post is also currently published on The Wand of Wonder, but is mirrored here for those who only read this blog. My trip to Ireland will resume with the next post (up in a few days), but this is important enough (to me at least) that I felt I should make my readers aware of it.

First: thanks bunches to Sara Sue. You’ll find out why in a minute.

About two years ago, I did a review of Peter Schaffer’s Equus for my site. You can read it here if you like; it’s not long. My motive for writing this review—indeed, my motive for writing all my reviews—was to inform and recommend literary works that I personally find enjoyable, thought-provoking and worthwhile. I did this in the hopes that the reviews would spark interesting conversation. I also did it for free.

I was blog-hopping this weekend, and I swung by Sara Says like I always do on or around Friday. While I was disappointed that I didn’t find what I look for every week (it’s been postponed), I did find a link to this post, all about content theft, copyright infringement, and how to protect yourself from same. So, thanks to Sara for posting the link; and thanks to Mike, whoever he is, for sending it to Sara, so she could pass it on to everyone looking or free boob pictures.

I remember Malach had an issue a year or so ago with someone displaying his artwork without his permission. I decided to take Lorelle’s advice and see if anyone had been ripping me off, so I went to Copyscape and started typing in webpage URLs from Angrypiper.com. I went through about nine or so, until I found what I was looking for. You see, it seems that last year, on the island of St. Thomas, USVI, a production of Equus made the rounds. It fell to the St. Thomas Source to cover the story. Based on what I’ve been able to determine, the “Source staff” who was assigned to do the job lifted a little less than a hundred words from the book review originally posted on Hill TV, word for word, without my permission. You can see for yourself here.

I find it very easy to imagine this job being handed off to someone who doesn’t normally cover entertainment news, perhaps an intern; someone who probably had no idea what the play was about but had to write a review. Hence the generic “Source staff” byline. Rather than read the play himself (something that would probably take the average literate person a whole two hours to do) or even rent the movie (again, two hours max with no reading invlolved), he decides to hit the web for a synopsis. “Source staff” Googles “Equus review” and gets my site. He figures Angrypiper.com for a small vanity site (which it more or less is), and he figures the traffic is probably low (actually, it’s higher than you’d think), so the chances of discovery are minimal. He’s right; I probably never would have noticed it if not for Sara Sue’s link.

It should be noted that I am ignoring Lorelle’s advice right now by posting anything about this before attempting to resolve this issue. But I don’t expect much in the way of resolution. The St. Thomas Source probably has a small circulation (not counting, obviously, the Internet). Besides, the page is full of dead image links and probably isn’t visited very often, and since the production ended a year ago, it hardly seems relevant, does it?

It does to me. Understand: when I first started posting book reviews, I pretty much expected “uncredited excerpts” of them to wind up on term papers and stuff like that. What really bothers me about this is not so much that “Source staff” stole my work without asking and published it as his own. (Although that does bother me a lot; if he had asked, I probably would have given permission, and contacting me is easy. My mailto link is on every page of my website.) What bothers me is “Source staff”, last time I checked, implies a job description, kind of like “staff reporter”. Which means that in all likelihood, he got a paycheck for the review, a significant part of which I wrote. Call me wacky, but I feel that if anyone should get paid for my work, it should be me.

Here’s what I’m going to do. First, I plan on emailing the editor of the St. Thomas Source to inform him that whoever “Source staff” is, they are guilty of plagiarism, as they have falsely misrepresented another’s work as their own and have profited by it. He did mention the “essay” at Hill TV, but said it was written by the playwright, which is not only completely wrong, it displays a level of irresponsibility and amateurism shocking in a newspaper, even a small one (especially a newspaper who calls itself ‘The Source’). Hopefully even small newspapers have a zero-tolerance policy on that.

I don’t expect or even hope for any financial reimbursement. I just want them to be aware of it.

Second, “Source staff” has ensured that I will never, as I had previously planned, publish one word of my fiction online. I refer to my serious writing endeavors. I will still, from time to time, publish various Tales of the WoW on the Wand of Wonder, so don’t fret. But if I put my heart and soul into a story only to have it stolen and posted as someone else’s, I’ll turn into the Hulk, and I’m already angry enough.

One more thing. I only got through about one-third of my web pages before Copyscape wouldn’t let me search anymore. They limit you to ten searches per domain per month, unless you pay for more. I didn’t search for any of my blogposts. I’m not even sure how to do that, since my blog is still hosted by Blogger. I didn’t get through all my Book Reviews, and I didn’t even start searching for my Angry Rants. But I will.

I wonder how much more of my stuff—and yours—is out there.

8/3/07 Day Five Part One: Cork to Killarney

2007-10-20T13:33:00.000-04:00

Over breakfast the next day (the worst breakfast of the trip; the hotel in Cork really sucked), we told Dad all about the Hi-B. He told us he would have liked to have been with us, but that he was unconscious very soon after retiring to his room. Our drive ahead was nowhere near as long as the one yesterday, so that morning we decided to see what we could of Cork before we left for Killarney. After all, although Cork hardly impressed us, it was unlikely we would get back there anytime soon. Not taking the time to at least look around a bit would be really dumb, kind of like not packing enough socks for the trip.

“I need socks,” Dad said. “I only brought three pairs.” He caught the look Seth and I gave each other. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Despite our quest for socks, there still wasn’t a whole lot to see in Cork, at least not first thing in the morning. One cool thing we did find, though, was an indoor market, full of butcher stalls, fresh produce and cheeses. We watched as men butchered the carcasses of sheep and pigs and sides of beef, arranging their cuts in display cases for the patrons. This was fresh stuff. As a guy who loves to cook, I wished I had access to such a wide variety of fresh ingredients on a regular basis rather than making do with the grocery store. I wanted very much to buy some of the cheeses I saw, but I knew we were going to be on the road soon, and I didn’t really have any place to store it. I guessed that a ripe cheese would rapidly lose its charm in a Ford Focus.

Something had been nagging me since that first breakfast buffet. I approached a young butcher. “Hi there,” I said. He nodded in greeting. “I was wondering if you could tell me what black pudding is made of?”

“Pig’s blood,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” I said. I suspected as much. Blood pudding isn’t anything new to me. It’s quite popular in the Portuguese community where I live. I don’t like it. On my first day in Dublin, I tried the Irish buffet variety and it had the look and texture of a small veggie burger. I don’t remember what it tasted like, but it was pretty bland. I figured it for a mass-produced frozen variety. “What about white pudding?” I asked.

“Pig’s blood,” he answered, “but with fat as well.” I resolved not to eat any more pudding on my trip.

We wandered around the shopping area, where we were still unable to locate a silver bangle for Mom, or at least not one that didn’t look like you could buy it at any cheap accessory store in the mall. Dad bought his socks. The antique stores I came across were either closed or didn’t have what I was looking for, namely straight razors and old books. (In fact, it seems that in Ireland, “antique store” is merely another name for “old shitty silverware store.”) Soon enough, we checked out and hit the road, bound northeast on the N22 towards Killarney. But first, we had a stop to make.

Just a few miles up the road directly north of Cork City is the small town of Blarney—home to the flagship location of the Blarney Woolen Mills. This is a huge place filled with both machine-woven and handmade Aran Sweaters, as well as a wide variety of apparel and other merchandise ranging from cheap musical instruments, bookmarks, Guinness stuff, postcards and, of course, all manner of knickknacks and souvenir crap. Aside from the outstanding woolen and tweed clothing, there wasn’t much there that I wanted, and Aran Sweaters aren’t cheap, even in Ireland. I took a while to walk around and browse, but Dad and Seth lost interest quickly. When I caught up to them outside, Dad was eating an ice-cream cone and looking pissed.

“Want an ice-cream?” he asked. I said no. “I’ll buy it,” he offered. Again I said no, thanks. “Try it,” he said, thrusting the cone in my face. “It’s good!”

Until that moment I did not know how deep my father’s passion for ice-cream ran, but I realized that if I didn’t at least pretend to consider getting some, he would physically assault me with the cone until I gave in. I wandered over to the ice-cream counter and went through the motions of deciding on a cone. Dad told me why he was annoyed. It seems while I was inside looking at sweaters, Dad was behind an American couple in the ice-cream line—a very loud, obnoxious American couple who arrived on a tour bus. The wife proceeded to berate the ice-cream counter girl because the counter didn’t offer Reese’s pieces as an ice-cream topping. “You’ve never heard of Reese’s?” she reportedly asked, as if the counter girl had the intelligence of a corn-fed mule. When she was told no, she walked away in a huff, along with her husband. “And we wonder why people think Americans are assholes,” Dad said.

The Blarney Woolen Mills are right next door to Blarney Castle, at the top of which is the world-famous Blarney Stone. You may have heard of it before. But you may not know that the Blarney Stone isn’t actually much of a stone at all. It’s more like a wall. You’re supposed to kiss it, as the stone is rumored to bestow the gift of eloquent speech upon any who do so. I’m not concerned about acquiring eloquent speech, because I know lots of big words already. I was more concerned about kissing a stone that millions of people have kissed with their herpes-spotted lips. Without question, Blarney Castle was the touristiest (yes, that’s really a word) place we visited on the entire trip. However, it’s not like you’d travel all the way to Ireland and then all the way to Blarney Castle, pay your admission fee and then not kiss the stone. Who the hell would do that?

“Jesus Christ—look at that line,” Dad said. “Screw this, I’m not waiting.”

After Seth and I informed Dad that yes, he was going to wait and yes, he was absolutely going to kiss the fucking stone, we wandered around the grounds of Blarney Castle and took in the beautiful landscaping and natural rock formations half-hidden in the surrounding woods.

Seth was amazed at the age of some of the trees, while Dad, for some reason known only to him, was fascinated by the swampy pools that periodically dotted the castle grounds. Finally we made our way to the castle, and began our ascent to the top.

Although we were all keen to kiss the stone, I have to tell you that climbing to the top of Blarney Castle was not an easy thing for me to do. I tend to not do well with tight spaces. The trip up is through one of the original circular towers, on a spiral stair with uneven, hand-cut stone steps and nothing but a rope as thick as my arm for support. There is no room to move, and you’re packed in this space with dozens of people ahead and behind. Every once in a while a corridor will branch off the staircase into a chamber, which means the line stops for a while as people take pictures. I was stuck on the staircase for about five minutes, but it felt like hours. Despite my usually cool exterior, both Seth and Dad could tell I wasn’t having an easy time, and when we finally exited the tower into the fresh air on top, it wasn’t a moment too soon.

The view from the top is, as you can see, quite something. The line to reach the stone stretched along the ramparts, so we had a lot of time to take it in as we waited our turn. Off in the distance, a large structure which I’m sure was a part of the castle grounds could be seen through the trees.

“Dude,” I said to Seth, “look— it’s Dracula’s house!” Seth rolled his eyes.

I considered dazzling my brother with my literary knowledge and telling him that Bram Stoker, the author of Dracula, was, in fact, Irish; but instead I opted for another subject of discourse. “Hey Seth, you remember Count Chocula?”

“What about him?” Seth asked, obviously regretting it instantly.

“I bet if Count Chocula was real, he would live in a house like that. But it would be made of chocolate, of course, because that’s what he eats; not blood. Count Chocula is another one like the Hamburglar. You remember abut ten years ago some genius decided the animated Count Chocula had to go, and they put some fucking dude in Count Chocula make-up instead?”

“No, I don’t remember that,” Seth said. He looked at me, then glanced pointedly over the side of the castle wall, measuring the distance to the ground.

“Well, they did. I’m not surprised you don’t remember. I think he was in one commercial. He was way too creepy, and his big, prosthetic chin looked like a pair of elongated, hairless balls.”

Seth was about to reply (or throw me off the roof—I never did find out which) but at that moment we arrived at the Blarney Stone. Kissing the stone is a bit of a procedure. You must lie on your back and hang backwards, kissing the wall upside-down. You’re supported by one of the castle staff, who is there to make sure you don’t fall off the castle, I suppose, but also to help you line up your lips with the wall. They’re very fast and efficient and keep things moving very quickly. They do, however, take their time helping women with big boobs, but hey, who can blame them? I would, too.

I wish I could show pictures of the fateful kiss, but I can’t. You see, although they allow you to take as many pictures as you want, you don’t really have time to take any. Hardly is one person done with his smooch than another is laying down to slide into his spot. In addition, the best angle for taking a photo (i.e. directly above the subject) is already covered by the Castle’s own camera, which takes two pictures of each person kissing the stone. The operator gives you a ticket, and you’re allowed to purchase these pictures for the low, low price of €10.00 each (about $14.00). We all forked over the dough, of course.

The trip down the castle was much faster, down an obviously newer stairway than the one we ascended. This was a relief as I would have taken a fire-pole rather than go down the same way I went up. After a final walk around the grounds, we left Blarney; once again taking the N22 towards Killarney—where hopefully, at long last, I’d find some pipers.

Or maybe not.

8/2/07 Day Four: From Dublin to Cork

2007-10-04T20:24:00.000-04:00

We got up early, ate our last breakfast in Dublin and hit the road. We were heading south to Cork City, a trip along the east coast of Ireland that would take most of the day. We retrieved the rental car from the underground garage and took up the positions we would keep for the rest of the trip: I rode shotgun (on the left), and Dad was in the back seat, probably because he thought it would be harder for us to toss him out of the moving car if he was back there. Seth drove.

How this decision was reached is a story worth repeating. Seth met Maria, my travel agent, the day we decided to book this trip as a Father’s Day present for the old man. While discussing what we wanted to do on our trip, Seth and I interacted like we usually do. Maria would later confide in me that she thought we really hated each other, and that one of us would not be returning from the trip. She seriously considered asking us to find another travel agent. At one point, Maria asked us about our rental car preferences.

“Automatic or standard transmission?” she asked. All three of us drive stick, so Seth and I agreed on standard, figuring we could take turns driving. “One driver is less expensive than three,” she said. Turns out much less expensive; one driver would save us about thirty bucks a day. We considered it for a moment. Then Seth, with all his customary decorum says to me, in the presence of this woman he has just met: “Well, fuck you. I’m driving, then.” (You see, even though I’m three years and eight days older than Seth, and even though I’ve been driving three years longer than Seth, and even though I have driven a standard for eighteen-plus years, Seth thinks I’m a complete noob who doesn’t know how to drive.) And you wonder why she thought we hated each other?

Driving on the wrong side of the road, on the wrong side of the car, with the shift on the wrong side of your body probably takes some getting used to, but Seth had matters well sorted by the time we reached the southern limits of Dublin. Once out of the city, we took the N11 south along the coast, through the Wicklow Mountains. Although considered a major highway in Ireland, the N11 would be scoffed at by anyone who drives the major highways in the U.S. I drive through Boston almost every day, so the “traffic” on the N11 was a complete joke. It was, however, a much more scenic and easy ride.

One of the coolest things about driving in Ireland is the lack of highway exits. Rather than major roadways being built around towns and cities, roads often lead right through the center of every town, big or small, along the way. One such place was Fern. We rounded a bend in the road and found ourselves in the middle of a small town, which looked to be no more than a gas station; a convenience store that sold, among other things, bundles of peat; a post office; a couple of pubs and a church. It was the church that caught our eyes: old, stone, and home to a few ruined buildings and an old graveyard. It was probably the oldest buing we saw on the entire trip, havin been built in the eighth century! We parked next to a lady selling fresh fish out of the back of a truck and got out to take some pictures.

After a quick stop at the convenience store, we continued on our trip south. We drove through County Wicklow and County Waterford, through towns like Enniscorthy and New Ross (where the N11 turns into the N30), and a few hours later we stopped for lunch in Waterford City, home of the famous Waterford Crystal Factory. None of us gave a shit about crystal, so we didn’t bother stopping at the factory. Instead we went straight to the waterfront shopping district and parked the car next to a very weird guy who was deep in conversation with himself. An hour and a half later we had pretty much seen all Waterford had to offer, which was not much, as you may infer from my lack of Waterford pictures. We ate sandwiches from a local deli, looked at all the closed and empty shops, and left.

As Seth was now quite used to driving—and doing a bang-up job of it, I might add—I figured it was time to have some fun. I’d been quiet long enough.

“Hey, Seth,” I said. “You know who I could never understand?”

“Who?” he said, not really interested at all.

“The Hamburglar. You know, from McDonald’s.” My brother remained silent. “You know, ‘Robble, robble’. That guy.” Seth said nothing. “I mean, what the fuck does ‘robble, robble’ mean, anyway? It’s not even a word! It’s fucking nonsense!”

Seth stared straight ahead, only the slightest involuntary twitch of his cheek indicating he heard me at all. I continued. “A lot of kids were afraid of the Hamburglar when I was a kid; that’s why McDonald’s redesigned his look about twenty years ago. It wouldn’t do to have your Happy Meal spokesman scaring the shit out of the little kids, know what I mean?”

If Seth knew what I meant, he was keeping quiet about it.

“Although I guess you can’t really be called a ‘spokesman’ if all that comes out of your mouth is crap no one can understand, right? Come to think of it, I was never scared of the Hamburglar, I was scared of Grimace. Still am, as a matter of fact. That guy’s a freak. I mean, what the hell’s he supposed to be? He’s a big purple thing, for Christ’s sake—“

“Shut the fuck up!” Seth exploded.

It was our plan to push on to Cork, possibly stopping in Youghal (pronounced ‘Yawl’, not ‘Yoogle’ as Seth would say), a famous seaport town celebrated in many an Irish tune. That was the plan, anyway. But before we could reach Youghal, we went through the small seaside town of Dungarvan. And there we stopped.

We arrived during low tide, which takes on a whole new meaning in Dungarvan. On nearby pylons, we could see the dark line that indicated the water level when it as high tide. It was about fifteen feet off the ground, currently where most of the boats rested. We strolled along the harbor, taking photos of the grounded boats, frankly wondering why anyone would moor their vessels in a place that turned into (semi-)solid ground twice a day. “That can’t possibly be good for the boats,” Dad said, indicating a small craft perched on its keel, sinking slowly into the mud. Next to it were a few boats on their sides.

We made the circuit of the harbor, where were pleasantly surprised to discover that Dungarvan was a castle town that offered a nice view of the surrounding landscape. We took a few pictures in front of Dungarvan Castle before we looked at our watches and realized that if we wanted to get to Cork before dinner, we’d best get a move on. We’d have to skip Youghal.

“I don’t suppose anyone knows where the hotel is?” Seth asked.

I looked at the reservation. “Says ‘Anderson’s Quay, Cork.’”

“Where the hell is that?”

“Well, let’s see,” I said, “the last time I was in Cork City, which was never, I’m pretty sure Anderson’s Quay was near the river. Quays, by their nature, usually are.”

Despite Seth’s predictable reaction to my sarcasm, it turns out I was right. Anderson’s Quay, along the River Lee, is smack in the center of Cork City. Our hotel was on the corner of St. Patrick’s bridge. That ship in the picture was moored right outside my hotel room window. Without getting too much into the particulars, let’s just say our accommodations in Cork were the worst we would have on the entire trip. After parking in an underground lot two blocks away, lugging our stuff to the lobby and checking in, it was early evening and everything in the city was closing. Seth asked the guy at the front desk what there was to do in town. Although we didn’t know it, we were actually close to the city center. Front-desk guy provided Seth with a small map of our side of the river, with shops and bars highlighted. He also told Seth, in no uncertain terms, that there was nothing for him on the other side of the river, and that he “didn’t want to go there.”

For all its claims to being “Ireland’s Second City”, none of us were very impressed with Cork. The locals, while not unfriendly, certainly weren’t very welcoming, and it made us think Cork was a tough town. We walked around the shopping district for a while and got some dinner at an upscale restaurant that seemed to cater to the after-work crowd. I tried to get a martini for the first time and was pretty much told there was no cocktail service. I settled for a pint of Guinness instead. The food was expensive and not particularly memorable (I had to ask Seth where we ate for this post). Soon after dinner, we went back to the hotel. Dad told us he was tired and was going to bed. Seth and I tried to find something cool about Cork before tomorrow, when we were due to leave town.

And find it we did.

The Hi-B (short for Hibernian Bar) is a hole-in-the-wall on Oliver Plunkett Street on the second floor of a hairdressing academy. (Just ignore those two clowns in the picture above, they wouldn’t get out of the way.) We walked into a shabby place about the size of my living room. On one end, a bar surrounded by a dozen or so stools; the rest of the place was taken up by tables and couches. There was no place to sit. The place was packed. We took one look around and left, disgusted.

I made it into the hallway before I realized my brother hadn’t left with me. He was talking to the bartender, a cute brunette of about thirty, who had come out from behind the bar to chase us. Seth beckoned me over.

“You’re not leaving because there’s no place to sit, are you?” the bartender asked. We nodded. “Wait a minute,” she said. She walked over to a group of six or so college-age kids, clustered around a group of small tables. “You’re not ordering anything else, are you? Then take off. We need the table.” The group shuffled out, looking sullen. “These kids come in every night, order one round between the six of them and then order water for the rest of the night. Then they take up space for a few hours. Go, sit down. What can I get you?”

We ordered a couple of rounds and sat down. The exhaustion of the day set in, and by our second drink, we were both pretty tired, and more than a little let down by Cork. Seth started to scold me. “Dude, you’re letting all the little shit get to you. So this place sucks. We’re leaving tomorrow, anyway. Just relax.”

I was about to reply, but all of a sudden this guy at the bar started singing. And I don’t mean singing softly. He began really belting it out, without accompaniment of any kind.

T'was on one bright March morning I bid New Orleans adieu

And I took the rode to Jackson town, me fortune to renew

I cursed all foreign money, no credit could I gain

Which filled me heart with longin' for the Lakes of Pontchartrain.

The rest of the pub quieted down while he sang. He was unquestionably drunk, but had a powerful, gravelly voice. He loved to sing, and the pub loved to hear him. My eyes started to well up. “Christy Moore,” I said to no one in particular. “Lakes of Pontchartrain.”

He finished his song and everyone in the Hi-B, including us, applauded. He was a regular, and soon the other locals began calling on him to sing another song. He obliged, and halfway through the next song Seth turned and looked at me. “Dad should be here,” he said.

We really considered running back to the hotel and waking Dad up, but we both figured by the time we returned, our seats would be gone, and so, possibly, might be the guy singing. We stayed for a while, had a few more pints and listened to him sing a bit more until it was time to leave. We each had a parting glass for the walk home, and I gave the bartender enough for one more. “Whatever that guy wants, it’s on me” I said.

“It’ll be Guinness,” she said, turning toward the tap.

“Then make it a Guinness. And, hey..." She looked at me. "Thanks for coming after us.” She smiled at us both, and we left the Hi-B. “I think this just made Cork worthwhile” Seth said.

8/1/07 Day 3 Part 2: Dublin City

2007-09-27T19:47:00.000-04:00

It should come as no surprise to any who read this that the Guinness Storehouse was something we were looking forward to. It didn’t disappoint. Seven stories tall, including the Gravity Bar high above Dublin with a 360° view of the city, the Storehouse at St. James’ Gate takes up 64 acres and has its own water and electricity. The place is big. And, seeing how it’s filled with Guinness, it’s pretty much a must-see for Seth and me. Arthur Guinness signed a 9000-year lease on the property back in 1759, ensuring a steady supply of the black stuff for a long time to come.

The entrance to the Storehouse showcases the original lease signed by Arthur Guinness, encased in plexiglass and installed in the floor, so you literally walk over it to get to the admission line. To one side is an exhibit featuring the history of the Guinness bottle throughout the centuries.

Inside, we took a self-guided tour through the Storehouse (free pint included with admission!), where we learned the ins and outs of making Guinness Stout. We traveled upwards through the advertising museum (my favorite part) and saw all the great Guinness ads from over the years, like this one, which I bought on a magnet:

Then it was up to an exhibit called The History of Cooperage, where we were shown the finer points of barrel-making by hand. At one point, the Storehouse employed over 7000 full-time coopers. The three of us watched a video wherein one of these highly-skilled men put together barrel using wood planks, iron rings, a steamer, some kind of really sharp-looking hand tool, and lots of hard work. It was a lot more interesting than it sounds.

Up next we went to the tasting lab where Seth and I discovered, much to our surprised delight, that they make more than one kind of Guinness!!!! We had a small glass of “Guinness North-Star”, a limited batch of stout only available in Ireland. (It tasted an awful lot like regular Guinness. )

We ended our tour of the Storehouse in the Gravity Bar, where we could see a grand view of Dublin and get our free pints. Predictably, Dad almost upchucked his after the first sip. Then (this will become important soon) I bought my brother another round. We hung out up there for a while and enjoyed the view and brew. In addition to (and perhaps because of) my massive nose, I inherited something else from Dad: we have a deep loathing for people who smell. One such fellow was wandering around the Gravity Bar stinking the place up, so we finished our drinks and left, stopping at the Guinness Store for some souvenirs on the way out.

Outside, the three of us wanted to line up under the Guinness sign for a nice picture, but we had to wait about 10 minutes for a group of about 20 German high school kids to take their group shot. Normally, this would take a brief moment, but we soon realized that every one of those kids wanted a picture with their own camera, so what should have taken one minute took fifteen as their chaperone, festooned with cameras, fumbled her way through twenty individual shots. As you might imagine, the kids didn’t exactly stand stock-still waiting for the photos, so there was a lot of goofing off between shots. By the end, Dad was thinking unkind thoughts about kids in general, and German high schoolers in particular. I'm being diplomatic here. Dad wanted to murder them, but I held him back. (Now you know where I get it from.)

We were now hungry, and I couldn’t get the delicious stew from Madigan’s out of my mind. I convinced Dad and Seth to go back there for a late lunch. We hopped back on the bus and, unfortunately, decided to pass on the only other place I really wanted to visit in Dublin: the Dublin Zoo. Consulting our map, we found it would be a while before the bus made it back to O’Connell St., so we decided to hop off early and take a shortcut. What could go wrong?

Well, when you get off at the wrong stop because the driver announces the wrong number, plenty. We found ourselves pretty far from where we thought we’d be. Then it started to rain. A lot. And I, for one, had to piss like a racehorse.

We took refuge in a bar, where, once relieved, we decided to wait out the rain. Seth decided a pint would go down well while we waited, and offered to repay the round I bought him at the Gravity Bar. I told him no; although I love Guinness, I simply can’t drink a huge volume of it because I get full. Usually four or five pints are all I can manage before I’m done. Seth, on the other hand, can drink a seemingly unlimited amount. His bladder can expand to the size of a standard beanbag chair and he can piss like a world champion. But I digress.

I told Seth I didn’t want Guinness, but that I’d take two or three fingers’ worth of Jameson’s. After being told “we don’t do fingers here”, I settled for a double shot. And then, gentle readers, the seed of an evil plan began to form in my head. More on that later.

With the rain coming to an end, we made it back to Madigan’s only to be disappointed. The stew, while very good, was not the same as I had eaten the day before, probably the result of different cook. Dad fell madly in love with the barmaid (too skinny and too blond for me) and I bought Seth another Guinness and one for me as well. We returned to the hotel after dinner, where we decided we would check out some Dublin nightlife at one of the many pubs we passed today. We decided on O’Neill’s, a huge pub on Suffolk St. that advertised live music.

A few hours later, we took a cab there from the hotel. Our driver informed us that it had rained 57 days in a row prior to our arrival in Dublin. Guess we had good timing, as the small shower we experienced earlier was the only rain we’d seen thus far.

Inside O’Neill’s—which is a huge place complete with several bars, a kitchen and sandwich counter—we bellied up to the downstairs bar and ordered a round. Guinnesses for me and Seth, gin & tonic for the old man. I looked around but didn’t see any musicians. I didn’t hear any, either—not that we could hear much over the noise.

“Excuse me,” I yelled to the barman, “when does the music start?” He shrugged. I should have known better. In an Irish pub, the music starts when it starts.

I tried again. “Where are they gonna play?” The barman stopped pulling pints just long enough to point upstairs.

“Any pipers?” I asked with a casualness that belied my fervent hope.

"Huh?” the barman asked.

I repeated the question. His face screwed up in confusion and he gestured to another employee to help me. “Any pipers tonight?” I asked as the new guy came over. He nodded and walked away quickly.

I was thrilled. I was in Dublin, in the coolest Irish pub I’d ever been to in my life. Live music was going to start soon. And there would be a piper!

The new guy returned a minute later with a crumpled bundle of racing forms. I was confused, and it must have showed. “Your papers, mate,” he said, and walked away again to take someone’s order.

My brother has a very distinctive laugh, particularly when he finds something very funny. It’s more of a guffaw. He made that noise now.

Upstairs, we had the good fortune to grab a table close to both the musicians—a trio called Rafferty—and the bar. Traditional Irish music is (obviously) nothing new to me. I used to make a habit of attending seisuns in Boston every weekend. But for Dad and Seth it was another matter. Seth doesn’t even like Irish music (he may have changed his mind by now—we can only hope), and although I’d been trying to drag Dad to a seisun for years, he never accepted my invitation. Although we would hear a lot more music before our trip was finished, this was special because it was the first time we were all experiencing it together. Rafferty didn’t disappoint. After a round or two, the music started, traditional Irish tunes, no vocals. The accordion player was a marvel. The fiddler didn’t show up until about an hour into the set; with muttered apologies he took his place, and with little in the way of tuning joined right in.

The jigs and reels came fast and furious. Soon, I could no longer match my brother in Guinness consumption. Dad didn’t even try. Despite his lofty professions of drinking us under the table, after two gin & tonics he was ready for a nap. I, however, remembered my diabolical scheme. When it was Seth’s round, I told him I’d take another double shot of Jameson’s; and so it went, Seth downing Guinness while I slugged Jameson’s for the rest of the night.

Whiskey costs more than stout. Even in Ireland.

By the rest of the night, I mean until eleven or so. After all, we had a long drive ahead of us the next day. When the band took their second break, we decided to leave and walk back to Croke Park. We all knew we hadn’t seen nearly enough of Dublin for our liking, so we wanted to see whatever else we could through a leisurely walk home. It was a longer walk than we thought, but well worth it, and when we got back, we were all exhausted. Alcohol and exercise- the two best sedatives known to man.

On the way back, I reflected that the only thing missing from the night was the fact there was no uilleann piper in the seisun. Oh well. Tomorrow we’d be in Cork. Maybe I’d find one there.

And maybe not.

8/1/07 Day 3 Part 1: Dublin City

2007-09-25T17:19:00.000-04:00

OK, so now that my finger is more-or-less healed up and I can type again, I'm back. Day 3 in Dublin was quite an eventful day for we three intrepid adventurers, so I have decided to break it up into two posts. Quit your whining. I promise I will post part 2 within 2 days. It's already written, see?

So without further delay, here is Day 3 , part 1.

Since it was our last full day in Dublin, we planned on exploring the city as much as we could. We got up early and hit the buffet for the first of many included “Full Irish Breakfasts”. You may wonder what constitutes a “Full Irish Breakfast”. Pretty much every place we would stay would offer the same general fare: eggs, both the watery scrambled kind and the poached-in-copious-amounts-of-oil kind; Irish bacon, which is cured in salt (and lots of it) rather than smoked; rashers, the most disgusting sausages I’ve ever eaten (but not that Dad’s eaten—that would happen soon enough in Killarney); fried tomatoes; fried potatoes; fried mushrooms; and black and white puddings (more on these culinary delights later). If nothing above struck your fancy, there was always Weetabix and/or Irish oatmeal (very soupy wherever we went). Most places also offered a selection of cheeses, fruits and smoked salmon. Nothing really spectacular, but it filled us up until well after noon.

We decided not to use the rental car in Dublin, as it’s a royal pain in the ass to find parking. Rather we opted for the ubiquitous Dublin buses to get us around. We found that several companies offered a “hop-on, hop-off” bus service; it stops at 27 key locations around the city and one pass is good for 24 hours. It’s a circular route and buses hit any given stop about once every ten minutes or so. The beginning of the bus route was on O’Connell St., so once again we hoofed it there from the hotel.

Along the way we stopped at the Garden of Remembrance, a small park in Parnell Square opened by Eamon De Valera himself to commemorate “those who died in the name of Irish freedom”. Within, there’s a somewhat odd-looking statue of people with what appear to be swans rising from their backs. The three of us regarded it in silence.

“What the hell is that supposed to be?” asked Dad.

“People who died for Irish freedom,” I said. “And some big birds.”

“I know what it is,” said Seth, taking a dramatic drag of his cigarette. “I’ll tell you guys what it is, seeing how you’re both ignorant. Those are the people who died, and those swans symbolize their souls rising towards heaven.”

Dad and I exchanged looks. This level of symbolic thinking was uncommon in my brother. Seth grinned smugly.

I had my own theory. “Maybe they’re were-ducks.” Seth looked at me like you’d expect.

(Actually, it turns out we were both wrong. Unlike my brother and my Dad, who obviously couldn't care less, I took the time to look this up. I’ve since discovered the statue is named “The Children of Lir". Lir was the lord of the sea, and his children were cursed by their wicked stepmother to live as swans for 900 years. Lir found out and banished the stepmom, but that didn't stop the next 900 years from sucking out loud for the kids.)

We picked up the bus on O’Connell St. First stop: Temple Bar, where we continued the shopping we barely started yesterday. I had a few things on my shopping list, things I would continue to look for, mostly in vain, throughout the rest of my trip. First and foremost among these was a bangle for my mother; something silver with a stone in it and a “celtic theme.” (Longtime readers of this blog may recall my mother requested something different—a necklace containing the birthstones of my brother and I. Of course, since we were both born in the same month, we both have the same birthstone. Once she remembered this she changed her mind.) I was also looking for old books and straight razors. I found neither. But on Dawson St., a few stops up from Temple Bar, my brother found the Celtic Whiskey Shop and dropped about €60 (roughly $83.00) on a small bottle of handcrafted single malt for a friend of his.

A friend. Not his brother. In other words, not me.

Back outside, we waited patiently or the bus to come pick us up. Soon, a yellow and green bus came around the corner, and my brother moved towards it like a lemming on a fateful course cliffward.

“Hey, boy,” Dad said to Seth. “We don’t want that one. We want the cream bus, not the yellow one.” (Remember: there are several different bus companies that offer hop-on, hop-off service.)

My brother stopped short and took out a cigarette. I walked up to him, making sure Dad was out of earshot.

“You know,” I said, whispering conspiratorially, “‘Cream Bus’ was my nickname in high school.” He looked at me with contempt. Whatever my brother was going to say was lost in the roar of the real cream bus arriving at the stop. We boarded, Dad wondering why I was laughing and Seth was shaking his head in disgust.

(To Dad and Seth: I refuse to tell my faithful readers the sordid tale of how, when I noticed the young lady sitting next to me was wearing a low-cut shirt that very clearly exposed her breasts, I, under the pretense of taking photos of Dublin, casually zoomed my camera lens to encompass her neckline and took not one, but two pictures of her hooters for posterity. My readers may think I’m a dirty pervert, and I have an image to uphold. Good thing I deleted them before Mom saw them.)

We continued our tour of Dublin on the top level of the bus, from which vantage point we could periodically snap some photos of the surrounding sights. Our first stop was Dublin Castle.

We didn’t actually plan on stopping at Dublin Castle. But seeing as how it was on the way, and it was the first castle we would see on the trip, and seeing how it’s the castle in Dublin, we figured a stop was in order. Actually, Dublin Castle was kind of a letdown. It was nowhere near as impressive as other castles we would see on the trip. Nonetheless we walked through the courtyard and snapped a few photos of The Record Tower and the Chapel , neither of which are pictured here, before moving on through.

Once on the other side, we stopped for a quick bite at The Queen of Tarts, the best damn pastry shop in Ireland. While none of us was really hungry after our Full Irish Breakfast, it didn't stop us from enjoying a few tarts. I had something with goat cheese and tomato on it that was fantastic, and because I'm a glutton, I bought a dark chocolate and pear tart for later. It, too, was fantastic.

We traveled through Merrion Square, where the famous statue of a young, not-so-portly Oscar Wilde reclining on a rock (the “queer in the square”, as our driver dubbed it) was just out of our camera range. We drove past Trinity College, where we didn’t stop to see the Book of Kells; past both Christchurch and St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

We got out on Grafton St. to do a bit more shopping. Speaking of tarts, we ended up spending some quality time with the “tart with the cart”, Miss Molly Malone. Molly was a fishmonger by day, “celibate” by night; as one driver said to us: “She’d sell-a-bit here, and she'd sell-a-bit there”.

We didn't find the bangle for Mom. Not for lack of trying. We didn't want to get the typical claddagh crap we could find anywhere in the States, and believe it or not, finding a simple silver bangle with a stone in it is way harder than you would think. One jewelry shop further disappointed me by informing me they didn't carry kilt pins. Soon enough, we abandoned our search and hopped on the bus again with a new destination firmly in mind.

Next stop: The Guinness Storehouse.

7/31/07 Day 2 Dublin City

2007-09-11T18:16:00.000-04:00

7/31/07 Day 2 Dublin City
We slept for several hours, waking up around 3p.m. local time. Our hotel is located in the northern part of the city, across from the Croke Park soccer stadium. It was a short walk south from the hotel to O’Connell St., where the Post Office that was the center of the 1916 Easter Uprising is located. On the way, we passed this cool statue of James Joyce. I took a picture of it for Dr. Murk.We stopped at a pub called Madigan’s, not far from the Millennium Spire, for our first meal and our first pint of Guinness in Ireland. It was my first meal, anyway; Dad and Seth ate the ridiculously overpriced breakfast a few hours earlier and were still full.

Madigan’s is as traditional as Irish pubs get, which is to say as traditional as any we would wander into over the next week and a half. All wood paneling and dark corners filled with sturdy wooden furniture in a mixture of styles and shapes. The atmosphere was friendly and there was no television to be seen. No live music, either; we'd have to wait until tomorrow night for that.

The waitress arrived with our pints, and there ensued the longest five minutes of our lives while we waited patiently for the stout to settle. (For all the non-stout drinkers out there, waiting for a pint to settle is essential to enjoying it. As a bartender in Glin—much later in our trip— would say, “You wouldn’t ask Michelangelo to hurry up and paint the Sistine Chapel, would you?” In other words, it’s worth the wait.) At last the moment arrived. “I’m just letting you know, I’m drinking you losers under the table,” Dad said, for the first (but definitely not the last) time of the trip. We raised and clinked glasses and took our first long bite of the pint. It was pure heaven.

For Seth and I, anyway. Not so much for Dad. “Jesus Christ, guys—this shit’s disgusting. It tastes burnt.” Seth and I shook our heads in bewilderment. “Are you serious?” Seth asked. “You realize we’re in heaven, right?”

Dad tried several more sips, after each making a face like someone had seized his scrotum and tugged violently downwards. “This stuff is disgusting,” he said. “How the hell can you drink it?” That’s my Dad—insulting the national beverage of Ireland in an Irish pub in the center of Dublin on his first day in the country. Way to blend in, Pops. My brother and I practically raced each other to finish our pints so we could drink his.

The waitress brought me my meal next. I started with an appetizer of oak-smoked salmon served with lemon and greens. It was really good (Ireland is renowned for its salmon), but nothing prepared me for my main course—Irish stew.

Let me be clear: I had some really good food in Ireland. This stew was not only the best meal I had on the entire trip, it was the best bowl of stew I’ve had in my life. The beef (not lamb) fell apart with every bite. The thick Guinness-based broth was very salty and seasoned with an abundance of thyme and other herbs. It was served with three generous scoops of mashed potatoes, loaded with butter, plopped right in the middle of the stew.

It was not health food.

After my first orgasmic reaction to the stew, Dad and Seth each tried a bite. “Christ, that’s good,” said Dad, “but if I ate that much salt and butter I’d drop dead of a heart attack.”

After Madigan’s (which we were in no hurry to leave) we walked south and crossed the River Liffey via O”Connell bridge. We didn’t tarry long though, as we found to our dismay that most of the shops along the quays had closed. We took some pictures and wandered around for a while before once again heading north, taking the time to get our bearings and absorb some Dublin street life.

Dubliners, for the most part, live in large buildings partitioned into individual houses, much like many housing projects here in America. These do not have the often shabby appearance of projects, however; Dubliners for the most part take pride in their homes and are careful to maintain and individualize each one. Thus one building may contain several doors, each painted a different color as each tenant’s way of personalizing their home. Many units have small gardens or fenced-in patios in front, and at dusk we saw many of Dublin’s residents outside their homes, sweeping and tidying up.

In August, it doesn’t get dark in Ireland until well after 10 pm. The shops close around 6 p. m., though, so there’s really nothing for us to do but return to the hotel and watch television or go hit the pubs. We opted for the second choice.

While Dad and Seth ate their dinner at a chip shop, I bought some bottled water and ran back to the hotel to drop it off. I passed two women on a park bench deep in conversation, speaking Gaelic. When I returned, I found Dad and Seth with full glasses, sitting at the bar in a working-man’s pub.

The place was a dive. We were in what we would discover later was the “outskirts” of the city. Very soon after sitting down I wanted to leave and find a better place. We had one drink each and left, going across the street to another, more inviting pub.

Dad, ever intent upon drinking his sons under the table, ordered his second gin & tonic in four hours and nursed the hell out of it. Seth ordered Guinness, of course, and I ordered a Bulmer’s cider—known as Magner’s here in the States for some reason known only to advertising executives. We sat down in a comfortable alcove and chatted for while, talking about what we wanted to do tomorrow.

My brother sipped his pint. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Better than the last place.”

“It tastes different from place to place?” Dad asked.

“Sometimes,” Seth said. I nodded.

“Gimme that,” Dad said. “I’m drinking you losers under the table.”

Dad took a sip of Seth’s Guinness and made a noise like a cat expelling a hairball. “Jesus, you guys are disgusting.”

Now it's not just the Guinness that was disgusting. We were disgusting for liking it. I took the pint from Dad and took a sip. “Hmm,” I said, giving Seth my best uncertain look, “can’t be sure. All I got was foam.”

I tried to take another sip, but Dad ruined it by laughing. Seth grabbed the glass away. “Fuck you,” he said. I was kind of hoping I would be able to use that trick more often on the trip, but my brother is wiser than he appears.

After a few more drinks, we left the pub. We were all pretty tired; we had only arrived in Ireland that morning, after all. We resolved to do some shopping and hit the Guinness Storehouse the next day. We went back to our hotel and soon after, to bed.

Things I Learned in Ireland

2007-09-06T18:46:00.000-04:00

As you all know, I'm back from my long-anticipated trip to Ireland. I thought long about how best to describe what was one of the most incredible experiences of my life. Initially, I had planned to record the trip in a journal I brought with me, but after the first day I never seemed to find the time to write anything down. I was too busy experiencing the most beautiful place I've ever been, rebuilding family relationships, and quite frankly having the time of my life. I did, however, keep accurate notes of where we went and what we did, and between myself, Dad and my brother, Seth, we three took about 1200 pictures.

Don't worry. I won't post them all. Just the really good ones.

I decided I would write about the trip day by day. I'll post a new day of the trip every few days or so until I'm done. Hopefully you'll get a few laughs. Feel free to comment.

And Dad: I know you're reading this. I told you I'd get to it eventually, so get off my back. It would be swell if you and the other clown who went with us would register for Blogger so you could comment yourself. You don' t even need to make a blog. I plan on writing insulting things about you both, so either register or suffer in silence.

Without further ado, here are some Things I Learned in Ireland:

1. The Irish love Boston. However, many Irish seem to believe Boston to be a suburb of New York City. I told a lovely old woman I was from Boston and she replied, “Oh, how nice. My daughter lives in Queens.”

2. For all those curious about how we fared driving in Ireland—where the car, the driver, and the shift are all opposite here in the States—I can only say this: the most experienced highway driver in Ireland would flat-out shit his pants driving in Boston.

3. In Massachusetts, you can’t drive 3 miles on any major highway without passing a State Trooper lurking on the side of the road just looking for any excuse to pull your ass over. Over there we went days without seeing a cop. There is very little police presence in Ireland, particularly outside of the cities and towns.

4. In Ireland, when someone holds up two fingers at you, he doesn’t mean “Peace”—especially if you’re driving.

5. No matter what the law technically says, pedestrians do not have the right of way in Ireland, particularly in the cities. If you are a pedestrian, do not test this. You will die.

6. Smile. You’re on camera, pretty much everywhere, from the busiest tourist attraction to the smallest hole-in-the-wall pub.

7. Ireland is the big boob capital of the world, or at least of every part of the world that I have seen so far.

8. Toilets in Ireland flush. Or they don’t. Finding out is a surprise.

9. There are few urinals in Ireland. Mostly there are walls that you piss against.

10. Contrary to popular rumor, Guinness is not served at room temperature in Ireland. At least it was not served warm at any of the many pubs I patronized, nor was it served warm at the Guinness Storehouse. Guinness does taste better in Ireland, but not for any reason I can explain, except for the obvious (i.e. that it’s Ireland).

11. It is impossible to get a martini. It’s like no one ever heard of one before. The Irish drink their gin straight.

12. Irish gin sucks.

13. Irish television is awful. Not that I watched much of it. The Irish don’t watch much of it either. They go to pubs instead.

14. Ireland is the only country in the world where there are more pubs than people.

15. In Ireland, you can bring your kids to a pub. In fact, it’s encouraged.

16. Despite what you may expect, we saw very few drunken people, certainly less than you would see in any bar in Boston on any night of the week.

17. Irish people are incredibly friendly and welcoming. In fact, I only met one Irish person who was a crab, and that was a cranky old woman at an antiques store with a little dog that was even less charming than her. Despite the fact that everyone in Ireland thinks the American President is a complete maroon (and who doesn’t, really), the Irish seem to genuinely like everyone.

18. Everyone except bagpipers (and the English). Pipers get no respect in Ireland, a theme I will touch upon more than once in coming posts.

19. Ireland is the most beautiful place I have ever been in my life, and I have been to many different places. I’m not saying this simply because it’s Ireland and I’m The Angry Piper, nor am I saying it because of #7, above (although that doesn’t hurt, either). It seems everything man-made is made of stone. The scenery is breathtaking pretty much everywhere you go, you can’t avoid scenic castles if you try (they’re everywhere) and the foliage is more beautiful than New Hampshire in autumn. My brother Seth is a landscaper and a certified horticulturalist. He was in awe.

20. Ireland is the first place I have ever been where I really didn’t want to come home.

7/30/07 Day 1: Boston/Dublin

It was one of the hottest days of the year, and I was to meet my father and brother at my childhood home, where my brother now lives. My brother called me while I was en route to complain about my chronic tardiness. “Why am I not surprised?” he said. “Just get your ass over here. The limo’s waiting.” We had decided to take a limousine to the airport, as parking a car for a week there would cost more than a limo would, and one of us would have to drive, to boot.

I arrived at the house to see my father and brother standing next to the limo diver, whose name I would soon learn was Aziz. All three were soaked with sweat, as was I, as my car does not have air conditioning.

"Oh, shit!" I yelled, slapping my forehead. "I forgot the tickets!"

I was kidding, of course. My father laughed. My brother did not.

It wasn’t much cooler in the limo. Aziz drove us to the airport with all due speed, where we discovered that our supposed nonstop flight to Dublin was in fact scheduled to make a brief stopover in Shannon. In other words, ours was not a nonstop flight. How none of us knew this is still a mystery to me, as Seth and I booked (and paid for) a nonstop flight. It certainly cost enough. Once we checked our luggage, Dad and I got in line at the security checkpoint while Seth vanished to smoke a cigarette, telling us he’d find us on the other side. I looked around idly, and that’s when I saw someone instantly recognizable to most Americans.

“Is that Hulk Hogan?” I asked Dad.

Dad looked over. “Yep,” he said.

In retrospect, it was a pretty stupid question. It was undeniably Hulk; he wore his trademark bandana and wraparound shades. It’s not like Hulk Hogan would be very successful traveling incognito, so why try? He was preceded by a small entourage; some PR guy clearing the way and a guy my Dad would later remember was Jimmy “Mouth of the South” Hart. No bodyguards that I could see, not that Hulk Hogan really needs any. Hulk Hogan is a rather large guy. He makes me look tiny, and I am far from tiny. They ushered him through the security line, and he arrived at the checkpoint at roughly the same time I did.

I don’t go crazy for celebrities. I don’t see them very often. Still, I figured what the hell.

“Hi, Hulk,” I said.

“What’s happenin’, brother?” he replied. He sounded tired and looked like he just wanted to get through security as fast as possible. He hadn’t started to draw a crowd—yet.

Nevertheless, he didn’t have an easy time going through security. They made him go through the metal detectors about ten times. I’m sure it was for the public’s benefit: “Look, everyone! Here at Logan Airport we take security seriously! Not even Hulk Hogan gets a free pass!” Never mind that the guy probably has enough metal in his body to make him wary of magnets, or how incredibly ridiculous the idea of Hulk Hogan hijacking a plane is. When he finally got through security, he disappeared into a VIP room somewhere. I don’t know where he was flying to, but it wasn’t Ireland. Turns out he wasn’t the only one who had a hard time with Logan security.

I was beckoned through the metal detector by a guard about my age. It beeped. “Whoa,whoa…stop right there,” he says, all authority, like I’m about to take off in a sprint. As if I could go anywhere flanked by two conveyor belts. “You forget something, buddy?”

“I guess so,” I said.

“You got anything in your pockets?” he asked, far more belligerently than necessary.

“Just my wallet,” I said.

“I didn’t ask what you had in your pockets. I asked if you had anything in your pockets,” he said. I'm not kidding. He actually said that. His not-nice tone made it very clear that I should know he was single-handedly keeping Boston safe from terrorism.

I almost didn’t make it to Ireland. It should come as no surprise to anyone reading this who knows the Angry Piper personally that I was sorely tempted to tell this asshole to go fuck himself. But I realized that the small amount of power he possesses at this pissant job is as good as it gets for him, and asshole or not, how I answered could be instrumental in getting to my plane on time without a cavity search.

I took a deep breath. “Same answer,” I said, taking out my wallet and showing him.

“Put it in a bin and get back in line,” Asshole said. So I did.

I went through the line three more times before I cleared security (turns out it was my belt). I discovered his attitude didn’t get any better, and that it extended to everyone—male or female, old or young— equally. When I finally joined my Dad on the other side, I explained to him what happened. “The guy’s an asshole,” Dad agreed.

Suddenly I realized we had a big problem. My brother would eventually have to come through that line. Seth is not a patient guy at the best of times, and when confronted with obvious assholish behavior, he tends to respond in kind. Dad and I assumed the trip to Ireland was doomed before we even left Boston, and it was with genuine relief that we greeted him when he finally came through. No problems.

“You see Hulk Hogan?” I asked.

“No.”

He was just here,” I said.

“Bullshit.”

“Whatever.”

We had a quick bite to eat at the airport restaurant and sat in the lounge to wait for our flight. My brother leaned over towards me and sniffed.

“Dude, you stink,” he said.

“It’s 98 fucking degrees and humid and I just carried a 60 lb. suitcase for 45 minutes. What do you want?”

“You not to stink,” he replied. I stared at him. He smiled. I sighed.

It was going to be a long trip.

We left Boston at 7:15 pm and arrived in Dublin roughly seven hours later. On the plane, I read 202 pages of Anthony Bourdain’s The Nasty Bits. Although I brought six more books, I would barely touch any of them for the duration of my stay in Ireland, doing most of my reading on the flights. Try as we might (and I, for one, did try mightily), none of us could sleep on the plane. When we reached Shannon airport, Dad and Seth got out of the plane to stretch and look around. I stayed inside; for some reason that doesn’t make sense even to me, I wanted my first steps in Ireland to be in Dublin. And so they were.

Soon, the plane once again took off for the half hour flight from Shannon to Dublin. From the air, Ireland is a mosaic of green and brown, a jigsaw puzzle of fields and bogs partitioned by stone walls, hedgerows and trees, miles of land with no houses to be seen. We flew over the Wicklow Mountains, brown and lumpy like a rumpled old blanket, then out over the Irish Sea before doubling back to land in Dublin. From my window seat, I saw my first glimpse of Ireland’s grass off the runway. It was clover.

We picked up our rental car, a Ford Focus, and arrived at our hotel at 4:30 a.m. Boston time, or 9:30 a.m. local time. Dad and Seth were starving and availed themselves of the breakfast buffet. I passed. Hotel food at €18, or about $27, was a bit too steep for me. I just wanted to shower and sleep for a few hours before looking around Dublin.

I got tagged.

2007-08-09T14:27:00.000-04:00

Tel tagged me. Now, usually I don't go for silly survey thingies like this, but it's Tel we're talking about here, and I have sorely neglected her (and everyone else) for some time. So even though I just got back from Ireland and have tons and tons of shit to write about, I'm taking this moment to make Tel happy.

The Rules:
1. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged write their own blog post about their eight things and include these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged and that they should read your blog.
5. 8 is a magic number. Not three.

OK, here goes. Because Tel kept her list lighthearted, I will do the same and not mention things like how many people I've killed and how I like to cut myself to let out the pain. If you already know the following things about me, pin a big fat rose on you. If not, get ready to be educated.

1. Whenever I eat a peanut-butter sandwich, I flatten it into a pancake shape with the palm of my hand. The bread cannot be fluffy. I have done some soul-searching about this issue, as it is of great importance to me, and I have come up with the following explanation: when I was in grade school, I had several lunchboxes with thermos bottles in them. Throughout the day, the thermos bottle would roll back and forth over my sandwich. At lunchtime, I would open my lunchbox, and there amid the wafting scent of bananas and plastic wrap would find my sandwich in a decidedly flat state. I would eat it anyway.

2. Several years ago I decided I would take up one of the following hobbies: fencing, SCUBA diving or archery. I am too tall for fencing, too poor for SCUBA, and I discovered you need to be able to see a target in order to fire an arrow at it. My long-distance vision sucks, so I decided to play the bagpipes instead.

3. I've got a secret I won't tell, I won't tell, I won't tell...I've got a secret I won't tell... and it's not "Injun Joe's ticklish."

4. When I was a wee lad of two years or so, I was convinced that Grimace from McDonald's was living in my closet and wanted to eat me. To some extent, I still believe that to be the case.

5. I sure do love big boobs, but unlike Tel, I give no bonus points for implants. Implants suck. (Note: this in no way implies Tel has implants; I wouldn't know. Tel just likes boobs.)

6. I shave with a straight razor, therefore that makes me pretty fucking cool.

7. I'm a big tipper. But when dining out, one thing I absolutely hate is when I finish my meal and then the wait staff inexplicably vanishes, so I have to wait forever to get my bill. Or, worse: when they drop off my bill and THEN vanish, so I have to wait forever to pay for my meal. These things get me cranky.

8. I took one of those incredibly accurate Internet "purity tests" about 8 years ago. I discovered I was 68% pure. That was eight years ago. Now plant life withers at my touch.

TAG: I demand the following bloggers write eight things about themselves (I apologize for how queer many of you may find this): Eve, XT(Make sure she gets the message, Tel), Christopher Morris, Malach the Merciless, Dr. Jen, Freya (start a blog, bitch!), CJ Owen, and Just Me.

If I didn't include you, it was because you're rumored to be dead (Dr. Murk), don't have a blog(The Angry Veteran) or because I know you would ridicule me and make me weep (Dr. Mantodea).

Watch this space: next up: Things I Learned in Ireland.

Gearin' Up

2007-07-26T16:49:00.000-04:00

OK, so here’s what’s been going on with me.

I have Internet access, but it sucks, hence my prolonged absence. I’m getting better Internet access on Saturday. I’m heading over to Ireland for a couple of weeks on Monday. It’s a trip I’ve been planning for a while— since last July, in fact, when my brother and I decided to take Angry Pops to Ireland for Father’s Day. Now the time is fast upon us, and in case my plane turns into a submarine or something equally dire, I figured I’d better write something and post it, as my loyal (some would say mentally ill) readership has been jonesing for Piper wit and wisdom for over a month.

Good thing that happened to me over the past few weeks: I went to a book sale put on by the local Elks Club. While I think little of most private clubs and fraternal organizations, I hate the Elks Club, because my grandfather was an Elk, and his club was his excuse to go get plastered and be a jerk. Anyway, I bought a used book, The History of England, vol. II, by Thomas Babington Macaulay, copyright 1880. I have absolutely no interest in this book.

Why, then, did I buy it?

Because while idly leafing through it, I noticed a $100.00 bill folded neatly in the pages.
The book cost me 25 cents. Fuck you, Elks Club.

Bad thing that happened to me: I bought a straight razor at an estate sale that was being held in a dusty old warehouse, which is probably why I didn’t notice the razor stunk like a three-week old corpse in the trunk of a Cadillac in the middle of Death Valley. I don’t mean it was a crappy razor. I mean it literally stinks to high heaven, and no amount of polishing will get the stink off it. Thankfully, the smell seems confined to the handle, or scales, and not the blade. So I’m seriously considering removing the scales and salvaging the blade, for use later on as a restoration project. One thing is certain: I wouldn’t come anywhere near my face with a blade that smelled one-tenth as bad as this one does. Good thing it only cost me two bucks.

People have been asking me the same question for a month or so now: Are you packed yet? At first, I assumed this was their cute and clever way of asking if I was looking forward to the trip, but I soon realized that no, they really wanted to know if I had packed my bags for a trip that was almost a month away. I suppose I should say that all the people who asked me this question are women. Listen up, gals: much like how I fail to understand your collective fascination with shoes, I fail to understand why women feel the need to pack for travel weeks before departure. It doesn’t make sense.

I don’t have an infinite supply of clothes. If they’re all packed, I have nothing to wear.

Speaking of packing, which I’ll be doing this weekend, many of you are probably dying to know what’s going to make it into the Piper’s luggage. I’m only bringing one suitcase and my well-traveled carry-on (which has accompanied me to France, England, Spain, Aruba, Mexico, New York, New Hampshire, and Florida and also doubles as my roleplaying game tote bag), so space is an issue.

What I’m Leaving Behind:

First: the kilt. Sorry to disappoint you all, but both my kilts are staying home. The reason is twofold. First, the kilt, sporran, belt, and hose would take up altogether far too much room in my luggage. Second, the only reason I would bring a kilt is to take Angry Piper pictures for my website, which would necessitate involving my father and brother in taking the pictures. If any of you know my brother, you know immediately that the sheer amount of bullshit I would have to endure for even requesting his complicity in this matter would far outweigh what little amusement “The Angry Piper Tours Ireland” pictures would provide all of you when finally posted. As my brother and I will surely be at each other’s throats by Day Two (it’s a ten day trip), I will do nothing to pour gasoline on the fire. The kilt stays home.

Second: the bagpipes. My bagpipe kit weighs about 20 lbs. It is another thing I would have to check on the airplane. While playing the pipes over the hills and dales of Ireland’s countryside sounds like a blast, see above under “sheer amount of bullshit I would have to endure” and “gasoline on the fire.” Besides, my pipes don’t work all that well. They’re staying home too.

Third: Old Sharpy. While I fully intend to scour the antique and secondhand shops of Ireland’s fair cities for some sweet straight razors, I won’t be bringing one with me. I would need to bring my strop, my brush and my mug as well, and quite frankly I don’t want to have to pack that up between cities. It’s just too much stuff. I’m bringing a Gillette DoubleEdge and some shave gel. It’ll get me through the two weeks for sure, but I already miss Old Sharpy.

What I’m Bringing With Me:

Aside from the obvious toiletries and clothing, here’s what made the list.

First: the books. Although I will be fairly busy enjoying Ireland, I will be reading plenty on this trip. In addition to the two 5-6 hour flights, there will be the time spent secluding myself in the interest of quelling violence ‘twixt Angry Bro and me. I usually blow through 5 books or so on a typical vacation week, but this time I won’t be laying on a beach getting pleasantly drunk all day (I'll be in pubs instead). Nonetheless, I like to be prepared. My reading list for the next two weeks: The Machineries of Joy, by Ray Bradbury; The Snows of Kilimanjaro and other Stories by Ernest Hemingway, The Perfumed Sleeve, by Laura Joh Rowland; The Eyes Still Have It, an anthology of Private Eye stories; The Moon is Down by John Steinbeck; Traitor General by Dan Abnett, and of course my trip would not be complete without The Nasty Bits, by Anthony Bourdain. If I need more reading material, I’ll find it there (see below).

Second: the journal. Two years ago, my good buddy Eve gave me a small, leather-bound journal as a birthday gift. I told her I would hand-scribe my first published short story in it and return it to her along with some sappy dedication: “to my friend of twenty-something years, thanks for all the support, wouldn’t have been able to do it without you, hope you like the story, blah blah blah…” I’ve decided not to do that, because a) I haven’t been published yet and b) because I’m going to Ireland, for fuck’s sake, and I think no better reason to use the journal than to record my impressions and memories of the trip. Maybe I’ll even share them with you all. At the very least, you'll get a "Things I Learned in Ireland" post, like last year's "Things I Learned in Mexico".

Third: the camera. I hate taking pictures. But I’m bringing a digital camera, because I’m going on the trip with my Dad and my brother and the three of us haven’t spent this much time together in decades, nor are we likely to do so again. ’Nuff said.

What I’m Bringing Back:

(Assuming, of course, I make it back; that my plane doesn’t plummet into the ocean where I drown and what remains of my lifeless body is devoured by sharks, or where I crash and miraculously survive on an uncharted island occupied by the remnants of the Dharma Initiative, or something equally as likely.)

First: gifts. Have to look for some green amber, if it’s not prohibitively expensive; and my mother wants a claddagh necklace with the birthstones of her sons in it. Of course, my brother and I were born in the same month, three years apart, so the necklace will contain little in the way of gemstone variety. Also need to find an Aran sweater.

Second: Booze. Pretty self-explanatory. I’m visiting both the Guinness storehouse and the Jameson’s distillery. Also, I plan on sampling as many local beers and gins as possible without inducing alcohol poisoning.

Third: stuff for me. This includes, but is not limited to: used and rare books from Galway, straight razors and shaving paraphernalia, antiques if not prohibitively costly, and of course, music music music. I have decided I will not be limited by the size of my suitcase. If I want something bad enough and it’s too big to haul home with me, I’m shipping it.

Things I Wish I Was Bringing Home With Me:

Pipes: a set of uilleann bagpipes; pipes, bellows, regulators, tenors and all. Of course, since I have no idea how to play them (and they’re crazy expensive), I think I’ll probably pass.

Anyway, just in case I don’t return home for whatever reason (accidental death, going native, or being murdered at my brother’s hands) it’s been swell. Hope to talk to you soon. I’ll have one (at least) for you all.

Slainté!!

Andrew Speaker: You, Sir, Are An Asshole.

2007-06-06T16:22:00.000-04:00

So what do you all think about contracting drug-resistant tuberculosis because some infected fucking shithead is in the coach seat next to you, hacking and spewing all through the in-flight movie? Doesn’t sound too appealing, does it?

TB is treated with a drug cocktail that’s fairly effective. As a result, it was almost eradicated in the USA a few years ago. Rumor has it drug-resistant TB came out of the Russian prison system, where TB is rampant, but where the government only had part of the cocktail at any given time, so they treated the infected prisoners with a half-assed cure. It didn’t work. The TB got resistant to the individual drugs, and now we have a super bug going around. And lest we forget, TB kills people.

So, what does Mr. Speaker do when told by his doctors that he should not, under any circumstances, travel anywhere? He gets on a plane and flies to Paris, then travels to Italy, where he ignores an order to present himself to the authorities. He flees to Prague, Czech Republic, where he gets on a plane to Montreal. Then he drives over the US/Canadian border, where he finally is put in quarantine. And then he starts his bitching.

"I'm a very well-educated, successful, intelligent person," he told [the Atlanta Journal-Constitution]. "This is insane to me that I have an armed guard outside my door when I've cooperated with everything other than the whole solitary-confinement-in-Italy thing.”

I repeat: Mr. Speaker, you are a fucking asshole.

Mr. Speaker is a personal injury attorney, which in all likelihood predisposes him to being an asshole already. Now, I may be wrong about this, but I would assume you can’t generally sue someone for giving you an illness, otherwise the court system would be flooded with common cold litigation. But when you ignore your doctor’s orders and get comfy in a confined, warm place like an airplane cabin while in possession of an airborne contagion in your lungs, and then proceed to traipse through Europe, that seems to me to be more than your usual level of negligence. That seems like deliberate obnoxious disregard for anyone else in the world, and that sounds like Mr. Speaker should pay damages through the ass. Opinion, AV?

Mr. Speaker did not want to cancel his honeymoon. I am of two minds on this. First, if he didn’t want to cancel his honeymoon because he was looking forward to his special week in Europe with his new wife, then he’s a selfish fucking asshole with a grandiose sense of self-importance and entitlement issues. Reschedule, you dumb fuck.

If, on the other hand, he didn’t want to reschedule because his new wife would constantly complain about not going on her honeymoon, then allow me to be the first to inform you, Mr. Speaker, that you have married a complete bitch. If the personal discomfort of tuberculosis and the jeopardizing of public health isn’t an acceptable excuse to reschedule your vacation, nothing will ever be an acceptable excuse for anything. Imagine what she’ll be like when you don’t take out the garbage.

So yeah, I can see the need for an armed guard, since you clearly can’t be relied upon to make responsible decisions. Personally, I believe everyone else on the planes you boarded should get a chance to punch you in your fucking nut-sack. You’re definitely entitled to that.

Well, that’s how I felt two days ago when I wrote this. But then yesterday I came across this article. So maybe you all can disregard the above post; but somehow I doubt it, seeing how the guy’s father-in-law is a fucking CDC scientist who specializes in tuberculosis. I'm thinking Andy probably had a fairly good idea that traveling was a bad idea.

In other news, I was tested for tuberculosis last week, for no other reason than it’s a requirement of my job.

You should all be happy to know that I don’t have it, so I will be able to fly to Ireland next month.

Woo-hoo!

The Bloodening

2007-05-04T15:55:00.000-04:00

Bravo to anyone who gets that title reference.

As many of you know, I have been shaving with my straight razor, Old Sharpy, for about a month now. Some of you have requested updates on my shaving misadventures, and thus I have been keeping a running score between Old Sharpy and myself. Old Sharpy gets a point every time he cuts me. I get a point every time I manage to shave my face without hemorrhaging blood into the sink. Currently, the score is Old Sharpy: 13, Angry Piper: 1.

I think everyone can agree that it’s a pretty one-sided game at this point.

Although it goes without question that I'm a bit more careful than usual when waving a three inch razor around my face, I should say that all cuts inflicted by Old Sharpy are extremely minor nicks that, because of their location (i.e. on my face), bleed like a stuck pig. Like the one I got a week ago just below my lower lip. There was so much blood on my chin it made me look like a vampire with no table manners. The next day, you could barely see it.

Nonetheless, I have discovered that in this time of disposable blades and pivoting, multi-bladed razors, shaving with a straight razor is something of a lost art. There is much to consider when starting down this path, and there is unquestionably an initial investment of money, time and your own blood that is daunting to some. For me, I’m just happy I no longer have to buy replacement razor blades. So, for those who care, here’s a brief account of the past two months: how I, The Angry Piper, have at long last scored my first point against Old Sharpy.

First of all, straight razors are not readily available in the state where I live, as barbers here are no longer allowed to shave people with them. So, I asked an out-of-state pal of mine to look into getting one for me. This she did, and I became the proud owner of a Dovo Solingen 5/8” Ebony straight razor. It’s a beautiful piece of workmanship, and it’s sharp as hell. As soon as I got it out of the box, I lay the blade upon my dry cheek to try and get a feel for the correct angle and it removed three hairs from my face. I immediately christened it “Old Sharpy”. Naturally, I had no illusions about the fact that during the learning process I was going to cut myself, probably often. So I went out and bought a styptic pencil. I also bought some Williams’ Mug Soap to use rather than shaving cream. I already had a shave brush, but I found my grandfather’s old shave brush at my grandmother’s house on Easter Sunday, so I use that now instead, for posterity. I also hit some yard sales in search of a mug with character, something old-looking to hold my suds while I shave. I still haven’t found anything yet (I passed on an old stone English marmalade jar), so for now I’m using a Marvel Comics coffee mug.

I figured Old Sharpy was shave-ready out of the box, so I decided to shave even though I didn’t have a strop or a honing stone yet. Old Sharpy scored three points on our first outing together. This is because I shaved like I normally would, i.e. downwards to my jawline, then upwards, against the grain, when shaving my Wookie-like neck hair. Two of the cuts were barely nicks; the third was more serious, although still very minor. It happened because Old Sharpy pulled a smidge horizontally at the end of one of my shaving arcs. Listen up, kids: you should never drag a straight razor horizontally against your neck.

Shortly after my first shave, while I was still feeling all the stubble I missed, I decided to check YouTube for some shaving videos, and lo and behold, I found an entire online community of straight razor shavers, some of whom actually post videos online! That’s how I found out straight razor shaving takes a bit longer, as you often have to shave several times in different directions to get the closest shave. So that’s what I did my second time, with much better results, although Old Sharpy scored three more points. (Ha Ha! Ooops! I just made a typo. I typed “pints” instead of points”. Old Sharpy hasn’t scored three pints…yet.)

I bought an old strop off eBay, something that’s clearly seen much use, but very cool. While watching stropping videos, I became aware that I had better learn to strop properly, as stropping incorrectly will dull a razor pretty quick. But it’s tough to see and get a feel for something I’ve never done before simply by watching a video (although it does work with porn). I figured I should ask a barber, but my own hairdresser is a fortysomething woman who likes to talk a lot and always tries to get me to use hair gel, so it’s unlikely she knows the fine points of keeping a razor keen. Then the secretary at my job told me her brother-in-law is a barber, and has been one for forty years.

In fact, when I first got the razor (and wouldn’t shut up about it), she asked him if he would teach me how to use it. He flatly refused, and told her to tell me to be extremely careful, as I was likely to cut my own throat with it, and he didn’t want to be responsible for that. Now that I was having stropping woes, she asked him again, and this time, he agreed to show me how to maintain the razor (but not how to shave with it). My meeting with the guy went well; by then I had shaved with Old Sharpy about six times and I still had all my facial features. He seemed surprised by this. He taught me the following things:

First: My mug soap dries out on my face because I’m taking too long to shave. (Of course, I’m taking a long time to shave because I’m trying to avoid disfigurement, but that’s another matter.)

Second: My shaving technique is basically correct. Yay me! The nicks happen because I’m still learning how to manipulate the razor like an expert. Also, he confirmed what I was already experiencing: the chin is the trickiest part of the face, and it takes a lot of practice (and blood loss) before you get it right. I must confess: several times I have cheated and used a disposable on my chin because I couldn’t seem to find a way to hold the razor that felt right, and I knew if I tried I’d cut myself, probably very badly. The most recent instance was the abovementioned chin nick last week, where there was so much blood on my chin I literally couldn’t see to shave it.

Third: He taught me how to strop correctly. He also told me I need a honing stone as soon as possible. Not because Old Sharpy needs it right now, but because the longer I wait to hone, the longer it will take to hone it when I do. The honing part is making me nervous, as I don’t want to fuck it up and ruin my razor. But I’ll get a stone soon.

And last: Apparently, after talking to me for a while and realizing what a cool cat I am, he reconsidered giving me shaving advice. He showed me an easy way to shave my moustache area that works great, as I have a rather large nose that makes it difficult for Old Sharpy to rest against my face at the desired angle.

Shortly thereafter, I joined the online forum www.straightrazorplace.com, where I discovered that Old Sharpy was a wise choice for a first razor (Thanks, Eve!). It’s a great forum, with way more information than I could need about all aspects of straight razor shaving.

And yesterday, my friends, at long last I shaved with Old Sharpy and pitched a no-hitter. Took me about half an hour, but I didn't cheat.

Oh yeah. I also learned that immediately after shaving with a straight razor, it is a very bad (read: excruciatingly painful) idea to apply after-shave.

I didn’t need a barber or an online forum to tell me that. I learned it all by myself.

My Impending Doom

2007-04-20T14:09:00.000-04:00

It seems being angry all the time isn’t such a good thing after all.

A couple of weeks ago, I came back from lunch and noticed I was red as a beet. I don’t usually have a florid complexion; in fact, quite the opposite. Naturally I was concerned. I have the advantage of working with several nurses, so I asked one of them to take my blood pressure. It was 140/109, which I have since learned is ridiculously high for a 34 year-old young fella like myself. I had my blood pressure taken at work each day the following week. 150/103. 138/91. These are not good numbers, as the first should be around 120 and the second should be below 80.

High blood pressure runs in my family. My father is on 3 different medications for it following heart surgery several years ago (on St. Patrick’s Day, of all days). My paternal grandfather had it, and my grandmother has it. This family history, plus with the reality that I drink like a fish, eat what I want, rarely (if ever) exercise and am roughly 30 lbs. overweight, means I have a problem.

I could conceivably fucking die from this.

So, I made an appointment with my doctor, who can’t see me until the end of May (I know, I know…get a new doctor, Piper). When he does, he will most assuredly tell me to stop drinking and to exercise more. He will also, in all likelihood, prescribe blood pressure medication.

In my short but colorful life thus far, I have managed to avoid any form of daily medication. In other words, I am not on allergy pills, diet pills, antidepressants, anti-anxiety medications, antipsychotics, anti-inflammatories, anti-fungals, STD inhibitors, painkillers or mood regulators. I do not consume recreational drugs (aside from alcohol), and never have. I take drugs when I’m sick, and then only grudgingly. Therefore, I'm a little perturbed about the prospect of being on daily medication for the rest of my fucking life. So I talked to my pharmacist, who happens to also be my father, and he gave me the good and bad points of being on blood pressure medication.

The good news is it will regulate my blood pressure so I won’t have a stroke or a heart attack at age 34. Also, it is very unlikely that the pressure in my veins will build until my eyeballs shoot out of my skull on fountains of blood, like a fire hydrant that’s been loosened. The bad news is I’ll have to limit my sodium and alcohol intake (two things I’m fond of), and I’ll have to exercise (something I loathe). Also, according to my father, high blood pressure medication will cause my libido to plummet, which is sort of good news, as anything that makes me jerk off less can only be a positive change.

Of course, if I lose about 20 lbs. or so before my appointment, drink less and watch what I eat, maybe I won’t have to go on medication at all. But that sucks, especially since I’m really into the cooking thing lately, and I want to try all kinds of great-looking recipes that aren’t all that good for you. I don’t mean they’re junk food, they’re just sautéed or braised in butter, oil, or cream; loaded with salt or covered in rich sauces or cheese. Not exactly low-calorie, low-fat fare. Also, although my fervor for gin martinis has cooled somewhat, I’m once again very interested in wine and pairing wine with my culinary endeavors, so I’ve been drinking a lot of wine lately. And did I mention that Sam Adams Summer Ale is officially back in stores?

Anyway, as my latest shaving obsession has proven, I may not live long enough to die from hypertension after all. “Old Sharpy”, my straight razor, might very well make the whole blood pressure concern irrelevant. I’ll be posting more about my shaving misadventures soon, but for now the score is “Old Sharpy”: 6, Angry Piper: 0.

However, for the record, I consider the fact that I still have both my ears and nostrils a minor victory.

The Score

2007-04-15T08:55:00.000-04:00

Straight Razor: 3

Angry Piper: 0

God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut

2007-04-12T15:12:00.000-04:00

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. died yesterday at age 84. He was, without question, my favorite contemporary author.

Vonnegut is most famous for writing his 1969 anti-war novel, Slaughterhouse-5, in which he recounted the WWII Allied firebombing of Dresden, Germany (an event Vonnegut personally witnessed and survived). Like many other students, my high school summer reading list included this novel. At the time, also like many other high school students, I failed to appreciate what I was forced to read. Five years would pass before I would re-read the book on my own.

Slaughterhouse-5 cast a long shadow over everything Vonnegut wrote before or since, and as a result his other novels were perhaps not read as much as they should have been. Although not considered among his best work, Vonnegut’s Bluebeard is the book I have recommended more times and to more people than I can possibly count. I buy several copies to give as Christmas presents each year, and I number it first among the few books that have literally changed the way I think about life. This month at Angrypiper.com I will review Bluebeard and what it means to me, which is a review I have long put off for fear of uncontrollably gushing forth an embarrassing amount of praise.

Vonnegut’s black humor and masterful prose place him firmly in the ranks of the world’s greatest satirists, men like Jonathan Swift, Mark Twain and James Thurber. He is one of only a handful of authors who have literally made me laugh out loud. Although he wrote less and less towards the end of his life, he never lost his sense of humor. In a nineties Discover card commercial, for example, Vonnegut claimed his credit card statement contained purchases of books he himself wrote. The commercial ended with a shot of him silently reading his work, then erupting in laughter.

In 2005’s A Man Without a Country, Vonnegut offered this criticism of the current political administration: “The last thing I ever wanted was to be alive when the three most powerful people on the whole planet would be named Bush, Dick and Colon.”

Rest in peace, Kurt. Even at age 84, you died too soon.

So it goes.

Happy Easter, Everyone

2007-04-07T20:14:00.000-04:00

I Hate Beards.

2007-03-29T19:03:00.000-04:00

The Angry Piper loathes facial hair, although I’m far too lazy to shave everyday. Not only do I despise my own facial hair, I pretty much hate everyone with a beard, like Bob Seger and Barry Gibb. So I own two razors, a Gillette Mach 3 and a Schick Quattro. They both do an adequate job of keeping my face smooth, but a pack of replacement blades for either one costs more than my monthly rent. So I have decided to take action.

Behold my soon-to-be new toy. I intend to shave with it from now on. Dangerous? Maybe. I expect to lose a significant amount of flesh during my learning period, but I’m unconcerned, since the loss of a facial feature or two can only serve to improve my looks. Expensive? Sure. Straight razors aren’t cheap, but with proper maintenance they last forever. No more shelling out 20-30 bucks every couple of months for replacement blades. Besides, it’s manly and cool.

I think it may actually be illegal to own one of these in my home state without a valid barber's license, but I've got connections. Thanks to my expatriate friend Eve for hooking me up. And for the record, that's really the actual razor I'm purchasing: a Dovo Solingen ebony 5/8" straight razor all the way from Germany.

Of course, The Angry Piper needs help with manliness about as much as Dr. Murk needs help attracting smokin’ hot Asian chicks. I’m no Percy Dovetonsils, for Christ’s sake. I wear a kilt, which is the single most manly thing a guy can do other than call Chuck Norris a pussy to his face. Nothing tells the honeys it’s mating season like a nice, close shave (or a wicked cool facial scar), and just about the only thing cooler than shaving with a straight razor is smashing a bottle against a table edge and shaving with that.

The few of you who actually know what I look like may want to fix my visage firmly in mind, as the topography of my face might change once I start waving this thing around.

I should have it in a couple of weeks. Until then, I bought some cheapo triple-blade disposables for 3 bucks at Wal-Mart. Whatever I don't use I'll take with me to Ireland, because something tells me it may be a bad idea to pack a straight razor in my luggage.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

2007-03-16T15:47:00.000-04:00

It’s snowing outside now, and I’m sitting in my office in my kilt. I usually wear my kilt to work on St. Patrick’s Day, as my co-workers and clients alike get a kick out of it, but since St. Patty’s falls on a Saturday this year, I decided to wear it a day early. Ironically, I’m the only one here. All my co-workers have gone home in fear of the storm. (It’s not even accumulating yet, but I guess a mild winter makes people freak out when they finally see some snow.) The result is that I have the place to myself and some quiet time to write, and so I’m taking full advantage of the situation.

The Angry Piper will celebrate the impending holiday in true Irish style. My immediate area suffers mightily from a lack of good Irish pubs (green beer does not an Irish pub make), so I may head up to Boston. The only problem I can see is this late winter storm, some 7-13 possible inches of snow that’s going to bring an end to an almost snowless winter in the Northeast. The shitty weather may even serve to discourage some parades tomorrow. (Playing bagpipes—or any woodwind, really—in cold weather can be a pain in the ass, as anyone who has attempted to play such an instrument with frozen fingers can certainly attest.) That’s why I plan to start my festivities early and find a local fleadh tonight, even if I have to make my own and it’s just me and the moon, a Pogues CD and a bottle of Jameson’s.

Wondering what else I’ve been up to? Well, I posted a new Tale of the WoW over at the Wand of Wonder today, and in case you missed the last one(Sailing the Murk-y Seas), you can find it here, along with all the others I have penned so far. Malach is hosting them over at Stool Sample, and he said he would put them in chronological order. (Of course he’s a complete douche and hasn’t done so yet.) I’ve also resumed The Angry Piper’s Book Reviews as of last month; if you missed it, check out February’s review of World War Z here. I should have one or two new Angry Rants up soon, depending on how soon I can write them. Let’s just say recent events have inspired the hell out of me. If you want to comment on anything you read over there, email me or join Minimum Security; I have my own little section over there.

This time of year naturally brings to mind all things Irish (not that they’re ever far from my mind). I still haven’t seen The Departed, but like everyone else in America I’ve heard it’s a great film. I’ve been watching The Black Donnellys Monday nights on NBC, but after three episodes I’m still somewhat ambivalent. It’s the story of four Irish brothers in New York City, all minor gangsters who suddenly become big players. The show has an annoying tendency to be mostly mediocre, with one or two really good moments per episode. Right now, the only thing that’s keeping me watching is Kate Mulgrew, who is terrific as the mother. I’ll give it another episode or two to see where it goes. And since we’re speaking of the Irish mob, I just finished Boyos, by Richard Marinick; a great crime novel about the Irish mob in Boston. You can check out my review of it this month over at Angrypiper.com.

As some of you may know, Angry Bro and I are taking Angry Pops over to Ireland in late July/early August. None of us has ever been to Ireland, and we’re all looking forward to it. None of us want to be tied to any kind of schedule, i.e. a hosted tour, as none of us have much in the patience department and being stuck on a bus for nine days would certainly grate. So we have decided to rent a car and do it all ourselves, staying here and there as we go.

Here’s our somewhat vague itinerary, kept intentionally so because Dad has some surprises waiting for him that I don’t want him discovering early. (Of course, he never bothers or cares to read this blog, so I’m pretty safe. But you never know.) If anyone out there has been to Ireland and has some suggestions to make about places to visit or things to do, please feel free. Our trip does not include any of the six counties in Northern Ireland, or Scotland (no matter how much I wanted to go there). We’re basically landing in Dublin and making a backwards U around the southern and western coasts, touring much of Ireland’s lower counties. So far, here’s the trip:
We land in Dublin and stay for 2 nights. (You can bet your ass we’ll be hitting Grafton St. and the Guinness brewery.) From Dublin we drive to Cork City, Co. Cork for one night, then it’s off to Killarney for 2 nights, where we’ll take a side trip to Blarney Castle as Dad wants to kiss the stone. Then up to Galway for 2 nights, then finally down to Shannon for one night before flying home. Sounds like a whirlwind tour, but it’s not; Angry Bro and I made sure we have nothing but time to do whatever we all want, or to just take in the country.

I give my brother and I three days at most before one of us is dead at the other’s hand, and a day or two after that there’ll be only one survivor. But hey, that’s family for you.

Let America be America Again

2007-02-28T15:20:00.000-05:00

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!

-----Langston Hughes

Stop the Insanity!

2007-02-11T08:23:00.000-05:00

I have recently made a very painful resolution: I must stop buying books.

I have to get my bibliophilia in check. Although I believe you can never have too many books, I'm faced with a huge backlog of books I haven't read yet. And I keep buying more. I just finished a book I bought over a year ago, and I have still older purchases collecting dust on my shelf as I write. And some of them aren't even books I purchased: they're gifts. Here's a small list of my recent book acquisitions.

It started a couple of months before the Christmas, when Dr. Jen kindly bought me a copy of Neil Gaiman's latest, Fragile Things. I still haven't read it. I still haven't read his Anansi Boys, either, which I bought for myself when it came out in hardcover in 2005.

Dr. Murk lent me three books. I read two of them, but I still haven't read Philip K. Dick's Valis, which he lent me months ago. (Come to think of it, I think I may still have Dr. Mantodea's copy of William Gibson's Neuromancer that he lent me about 16 years ago, but I've read that several times over.) He also gave me, free of charge, Hunters of Dune, by Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson, although he thinks it's crap.

The always-lovely but seldom-seen Freya sent me, among other things, a copy of Paul Auster's New York Trilogy for my birthday. She also sent me a Barnes & Noble gift card for Christmas, which purchased Capacity, by Troy Ballantine; Traitor General and His Last Command, by Dan Abnett, Superman: The Never-Ending Battle, by Roger Stern, and I Am The Law, The Judge Dredd Omnibus. And she doesn't even celebrate Christmas.

Freya wasn't the only person to get me a B & N gift card, though. It's pretty much de rigeur for me to receive them from my family. My brother also gave me a Gamestop gift card, because he loves me. This year's Christmas B & N gift cards hauled in Kitchen Confidential, by Anthony Bourdain; Boyos, by Richard Marinick; Captain Alatriste, by Arturo Perez-Reverte; The Assassin's Touch, by Laura Joh Rowland; Wolves of the Calla, by Stephen King; Farewell, Summer, by Ray Bradbury; The System of the World, by Neil Stephenson, and Kull, Exile of Atlantis, by Robert E. Howard; as well as Heat, by Bill Buford, which I've already read, and World War Z, by Max Brooks, which I'm reading now.

The Science Fiction Book Club just recently sent me, at my request, Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, by Susannah Clarke, and Odyssey, by Jack McDevitt. Recent bargain table finds I couldn't pass up include Cape Breton Road, by D.R. MacDonald; Circuit of Heaven, by Dennis Danvers; and The Collected Mystery Stories of Lawrence Block, to name but a (very) few.

That's 24 books, only about one-third of the books on my unread shelf. I know this because I counted, and I have 92 unread books.

I read fast, so it's my hope that I'll make some headway once I stop replacing books as fast as I read them. If you're ever curious to see what I'm reading, there's an Amazon link to the left. This Amazon link is pretty much the only thing I update faithfully, so it's accurate to within a day or two of me starting something new.

Now, don't even get me started about bookshelf space. I'm officially out.

The Boston Terror Scare

2007-02-02T11:17:00.000-05:00

Unless you’ve been living under a rock the past week, you probably know about the recent “terror scare” in Boston on Wednesday. For those who don’t, you can find the story summarized below, and on countless reputable websites on the Internet. The Wand of Wonder, a blog to which I contribute frequently, has a bunch of posts offering opinions, as does my friend’s blog. Here’s mine.

To summarize, on Wednesday, January 31st, Boston police responded to reports of suspicious packages left in odd places throughout the city. The packages appeared to be blinking, and naturally bombs were one of the first things that came to mind. Police bomb squads investigated the packages. After the city of Boston was brought to a near-standstill for most of Wednesday afternoon as bridges and roads were closed fearing a possible terrorist attack, the packages were found to be advertisments for a popular Cartoon Network show, Aqua Teen Hunger Force. The “ads” were made from a Lite-Brite.

(As an aside, I love ATHF. I think it’s one of the funniest cartoons in a long time, and I recommend it. That being said, I continue with my analysis.)

Eventually, the parent company of Cartoon Network, Turner Broadcasting, Inc., issued a statement explaining what the mysterious packages were: part of a “guerilla marketing” campaign designed to place advertisements in unexpected places. After this announcement, and after upwards of $750,000.00 and God knows how many man-hours were expended, the terrorism threat level in Boston returned to normal.

Here’s the thing. Boston isn’t the only city that has these ads. In fact, they’ve been up in New York City, L.A., San Francisco, Chicago, Atlanta, Philadelphia, Seattle and Portland for a couple of weeks. Apparently, no one in those cities mistook these ads for bombs. Bully for them.

But back to Boston. Two men were arrested and charged with “planting a hoax device,” which may lead to five years in prison for each of them. They’re currently out on bail. The Mayor of Boston and the Attorney General are raising hell about ATHF, saying it should be taken off the air, and about Turner Broadcasting, saying the company’s actions are irresponsible in a post 9/11 world. They claim that at the very least Turner should foot the bill for the cost of the massive police response that shut down parts of Boston on Wednesday. (Turner broadcasting has issued a statement today saying they will reimburse Boston for all costs incurred as a result of their advertising.) Other people think it’s kind of funny. They think that the Boston police are idiots for mistaking a Lite-Brite for a bomb, and that the response was way overblown, and that it’s a cartoon, for fuck’s sake.

As someone who drives to Boston almost every day, and as Boston and the surrounding towns are home to people I care very deeply for, allow me to tell you what I think.

This was a colossally dumb marketing idea. Further, whoever’s idea it was to place these ads where they were placed is a complete moron. One of the packages was placed in Sullivan Square near Interstate 93, which is the central traffic artery through the city. I-93 suffers from gridlock for at least 10 hours a day on a normal day. (Sullivan Square, incidentally, is smack in the middle of where someone I care about works, and had this occurred on the 30th, instead of the 31st, it would have really fucked with my lunch plans.) Reports of these packages suspended from bridges closed the Charles River to all traffic and shut down Storrow Drive for a while, which, for those who don’t know Boston well, is a pretty major street along the waterfront (ditto on the gridlock situation). When these roads get closed or delayed, the result is FUBAR. If either of these ads had been bombs, as was feared, the damage could have been extensive. Oh yeah: one was placed near New England Medical Center, too.

The short version: all are pretty likely locations for terrorists to target.

Turner Broadcasting is doing the right thing. They know their marketing idea was dumb, and although they couldn’t have predicted the level of shit it would stir up, they’ve assumed responsibility and apologized, and are trying to make amends and restitution for the economic damage to the city.

Now listen up, because the Angry Piper is not in the habit of defending the police very often. But thank God for the Boston Police Department and the Massachusetts State Police, who demonstrated a commendable level of readiness to a perceived threat to the city. They acted swiftly and efficiently to contain and assess the situation. Had it actually been a terrorist threat, the B.P.D. seemed ready and able to deal with it. The B.P.D. is not made up of idiots because they can’t recognize a cartoon character ad and dismiss it when it’s, say, hanging from the underside of a bridge on a main artery through the city. It’s not supposed to be there. It’s suspicious. And since the city had no idea about this planned “guerilla marketing” campaign (neither did the other cities, so far as I know), they felt it bore investigation.

I say again, Bravo to the Boston Police Department. They did the right thing.

As this story developed throughout the day yesterday, I considered what should happen as a result of this incident. I thought (and still think) that Turner should foot the bill for the cost of the response effort and publicly apologize. I thought (and still think) that the B.P.D. should be applauded and commended on doing a great job. I thought (and still think) that taking ATHF off the air is a ridiculous and stupid overreaction to an unfortunate event that inconvenienced and frightened a lot of people. And, lastly, I thought that the two fellows in question were likely misguided fans who deserved no more than a stiff fine and/or community service, as clearly there was no terrorist intent to their actions. I figured these two guys were likely shitting in their pants at the thought that something they figured was harmless shut down an entire fucking city for an afternoon, and that they could be going to jail for it.

Notice I didn’t say I still think that. Because now we come to the two people in this entire situation who did the wrong thing, and are still doing the wrong thing: the two clowns who actually hung the ads.

In their arraignment hearing, they appeared “amused” when the prosecutor informed the judge the ads were made from a Lite-Brite. They have been advised by their lawyers not to talk about the case, but, when questioned by reporters, rather than say “No comment”, one said they would only talk about haircuts from the 1970’s. The other asked reporters, “Anyone wanna talk about hair?”

Perhaps their lawyers should have simply told them not to talk, period. These guys are fucking idiots. They’re facing a five-year prison term and have the entire city of Boston pissed at them. The company that hired them has publicly apologized and is paying close to a million bucks to reimburse the city, and they’re cracking wise. Good luck staying out of prison, douchebags. Enjoy your five years of forced anal sex.

Back in 1938, Orson Welles caused a national panic and mass hysteria with his CBS radio broadcast of War of the Worlds. Now, we can and do laugh at the thought. How silly were those gullible folks back then to believe a Martian invasion could be happening! But you know what? I’m betting it wasn’t so funny at the time. At least Welles didn’t think so; he publicly apologized the next day.

Maybe in a few years we can look back on this and smile, but right now it’s not funny. As someone who was in Boston on Wednesday, I can certainly tell you the mood was anything but jovial.

My Hero

2007-01-25T18:16:00.000-05:00

I love Chef Anthony Bourdain. I got myself Kitchen Confidential; Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly for Christmas, and even bought one of his novels, Gone Bamboo. I haven't read either one yet, so I can't comment on his writing. And I've never eaten at Les Halles in New York, so I can't comment on his cooking. But I just caught his show, Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations on the Travel channel, and I just have to say...

It doesn't matter whether you love him or you hate him. Watching Bourdain eat a warthog's anus is sheer entertainment.

Apathy

2007-01-17T16:31:00.000-05:00

Faithful readers of my blog may have noticed something about me lately. I’m not around all that much. My posts these days are few and far between. The pithy, insightful comments I used to disperse liberally upon the blogosphere like scattered crumbs to starving birds are now a rare sight indeed. Angrypiper.com hasn’t had an update in months: no new book reviews, no new rants, no new pictures. Nothing. It’s dying a quiet death, and it seems I can’t find the energy to care.

Why this general melancholy, you ask? I attribute it to several things, most notably a deep and abiding feeling of Indifference that seems to be fully present within me at all times. It’s not depression or a personality disorder; I’m more than passing familiar with both of those. It’s just an overall feeling of…blah. I no longer find as much joy in what I was hoping to accomplish here, online. More on that later. Suffice it to say I should be focusing my efforts towards other areas of my life (not that that’s happening, either), since for the most part, my life’s a mess.

Last year, I did a post all about New Year’s Resolutions. I said then (and still say now) that they’re crap. If you want to make a change, make it. You don’t need to wait for a particular time of the year to do it. (Funny how I never practice what I preach.) Just for shits and giggles, last year I posted my four resolutions for public perusal. I am unsurprised to say I have accomplished none of them.

You see, that’s my problem. One of them, anyway—I have many. No matter how fired-up I am about something, I never follow through with it for very long. I’m hell on wheels out of the gate, but I lose my interest before I really get my second wind. Ask my parents. Or my aikido sensei. Or any number of past sexual partners, for that matter, but that’s another story. The point is I’m rarely in it (whatever "it" may be) for the long haul.

Take my bagpipes, for example. No, I mean it...take them. They’ve been broken for about two years now; a slow leak that can be fixed, but I’ve been told by a couple of pipesmiths that it would be more to my benefit to buy a new set of pipes. Despite the hefty expense, I could certainly have done this in the past two years. Instead, I contented myself with the practice chanter, and slowly but surely I started practicing less and less. I pick it up now and then, play a few uninspired notes or, more often, just stare at it for a few seconds before returning it to its place on the shelf.

Back in August, I quit my diet after dropping 18 lbs. in about 3 weeks. I stopped because I was on vacation and felt that as such I should be able to eat and drink whatever I wanted. I never went back to it and have since put most (if not all) of the weight back on. I could be in great shape if only I had the motivation to exercise, but I don’t and never have. I’m a fairly big guy, and if I worked out I’d be huge. I know this because the Angry Veteran’s pretty jacked and he and I have the same basic body type; only he works out and I don’t; so he looks good, and I don't. (I am way cooler than him, however: AP is to AV as the Fonz is to Richard Simmons.)

I’ve been whining about trying to get published for years now. Last year at this time I even convinced myself I was serious about it. Over the past year I’ve written a bunch of stories; started (and stopped) a novel; been encouraged by the success of one of my writer friends; encouraged my fellow wannabe–writer friends to write; bought and read a bunch of books on the writing process; subscribed to Writer’s Digest and The Writer magazines and bought a copy of the 2006 Writer’s Market. I still haven’t done anything about submitting any of my material. I have a great idea for a book that I am uniquely qualified to write, but I haven’t submitted query letters to any editors. Not because I’m afraid of rejection, mind you. I fully expect to be rejected; anyone who has read as many books about writing as I have learns that lesson early. Instead I’m afraid my idea might be met with enthusiastic approval, and then I’d actually have to write the book.

My boss (my new boss, not my old asshat boss who got fired) happens to be a good friend. He knows about my writing aspirations and has made me an offer so ridiculous in its generosity that I would have to be an asshat myself to pass it up. That being said, I’m ambivalent about the morality of the offer vs. the staggering benefits of it, and I’m considering rejecting it. I’d like to say ambivalence is the real reason I’m considering rejecting it, but I think it may be more truthful to admit it’s because if I take his offer it will destroy any excuse I have to avoid writing, and I find that terrifying.

One of the multitude of things readers may not know about me is that I love to cook. I’m not talking about making sandwiches here, I mean really cook. I enjoy preparing food in new and different ways. I am fascinated with different cooking techniques and flavor pairings. I like making things I have never made before, then honing a recipe over time and adding my own personal touches until it becomes another weapon in my culinary arsenal, which is pretty vast as it is. I love to plan meals for myself and shop for the best and freshest ingredients, and I enjoy my time in the kitchen every bit as much as I enjoy the fruits of my labors.

I have never been a big TV watcher, but lately I find I’m addicted to the Food Network, and I’ve been known to get a little crazy if I miss an episode of Top Chef or Hell’s Kitchen. I love eating in restaurants with exposed kitchens and I can spend hours watching the hustle and bustle of chefs at work. One of the books I got myself for Christmas is Heat, by Bill Buford. Buford is a writer for The New York Times who decided late in life to learn how to be a chef. Of course, Bill Buford is a personal friend of Chef Mario Batali, which no doubt has its advantages when you’re trying to learn from the best culinary artists in the world.

Buford’s book and my own longtime culinary interests have made me consider becoming a chef myself. Lucky for me, I am acquainted with my own failings enough to realize it would be to my advantage to take a few cooking classes before I balls-out enroll in culinary school. The reason is simple: I don’t want to pay my dues.

There’s a famous story about Liberace; I have no idea if it’s true or not, but it doesn’t really matter. After one of his performances, a listener told him: “I would give half my life to be able to play like you.” And Liberace replied: “Well, that’s exactly what I did.”
There’s a lesson there, but it’s lost on me. I have no interest in years of hard work. That sucks. I just want to learn how to be a better cook, not have to deal with stuff like this:

Me: OK, I spent all night sharpening my wicked expensive knives to deadly keenness. I’m ready to cook.

Chef: Good. Go chop those 50 lbs. of carrots.

Me: You’re kidding, right? Don’t we have sous-chefs for that?

Chef: No, the sous-chefs will be busy cooking. Now get to work.

Me: But…But…When do I get to say “BAM!”?

Chef: After several thousand more pounds of carrots, you can say “bam.” Once. But no capitals. And you may as well forget the exclamation point right now.

Which brings us back to me, and my blog and my website. Incidentally, there were supposed to be two (completely unrelated) websites, and I have the domains and space bought and registered to prove it...but nothing happened, because I haven't done anything. Typical.

But regarding the site you're all familiar with, Angrypiper.com, it’s not really working out the way I wanted it to, mainly because it’s not as interactive as I would like it to be. It’s mostly me putting stuff up with little or no feedback. No emails to me about the site. No feedback in the Forums, which have recently re-opened. I was hoping to jumpstart some good literary discussions there. No luck. I can also be honest and say the site itself looks like total butt. My site used to get lots of traffic, and it still does; but now, after so many months of nothing new, most of my visitors are likely Bots waiting for me to delete my domain so they can pounce on it, destroy my hard work and put up “Spam Central.”

Don’t fret. It won’t happen. I’m not giving up on the site, so don’t delete it from your Favorites menu just yet.

I just need to start caring again. I guess it might help if I knew others did, too.

The Piper's Christmas List 2006

2006-12-24T12:44:00.000-05:00

Don’t let anyone tell you different: Christmas is all about getting stuff. Plus, I needed an excuse to post a bunch of links.

I’m easy to shop for. My list to Santa is generally divided into three categories: Books, Games and Other. In fact, Santa usually gets pissed at me because I’m very specific and leave little to Santa’s personal creativity. I list books by title and author. If Santa doesn’t bring them, I’ll buy them myself over the course of the year, anyway. I never want grown-up things like clothes or a GPS, or manly things like power tools and sporting goods.

This year I have decided to put my wish list online, since I know I won’t be getting any of these things this year. Perhaps I’ll get really lucky, but I doubt it. I’ll let you know on the 26th.

Books: A few years ago, Allison and Busby Publishing printed several volumes of The Fu Manchu Omnibus, collecting all of Sax Rohmer’s out-of-print tales of the Devil Doctor in convenient editions. These were generally available in Europe only, but some specialty book dealers in the States had them. They’re tough to come by now. I need the first two volumes to complete my collection (even though I read the stories contained therein years ago). Campy, silly, and as politically incorrect as you can get, these stories are nonetheless classics of the Pulp genre and a guilty pleasure for me.

Night Shade Books is a small press that puts out beautiful (and expensive) books. Each book is a work of art, with leather-bound covers, gilt paint and high-quality paper, and an extremely low print run. They showcase authors of weird fiction; writers like Clark Ashton Smith, H. P. Lovecraft and Manly Wade Wellman. Several years back they did a five-volume compilation of Wellman’s work, including his popular tales of John the Balladeer. I need the first two volumes of these, too.

Games: Although I wouldn’t mind a Playstation 3, I’m not in much of a hurry to get one. First, the price is outrageous. At 600 or 500 bucks retail, depending on whether you want the big (60GB) or small (20GB) hard drive, it’s more than a little steep. Never mind that people are literally getting shot over them. Online they’re selling for upwards of $1500.00. Are people fucking crazy? Second, Game Informer Magazine gave it an unimpressive grade of a B. Looks like there are a lot of problems with the PS3 right out of the gate. Nonetheless, I am serious about my videogames, and I’m a Playstation guy all the way. No X-Box or Wii for me. Although Game Informer gave the Wii an A-, that Wii controller just looks and seems ridiculous, and the commercials with the two Japanese guys in the Smartcar randomly bestowing the joys of Wii gaming on unsuspecting suburbanites are annoying. But I currently have about 15 PS2 games I haven’t even played yet, and dozens more I’d like to play. And with the prices only coming down since the release of the PS3, I’ll have more than enough PS2 gaming entertainment to last me until next Christmas (at least).

On the list this year for PS2 games: Shadow of the Colossus, Rule of Rose, Prince of Persia: Warrior Within and Prince of Persia: The Two Thrones, and Black. Yeah they’re all old, but that means they’re cheap, too.

Other: Here’s where I list anything that doesn’t fall into the categories above. I could list things I have no hope of getting, like a set of Hamish Moore highland pipes, a book deal or laid. Instead I’ll opt for the more realistic stuff.

One DVD set I’d love to see under my tree is Spider-Man: The ‘67 Collection. Made five years before I was born, these cartoons are nonetheless classics for the theme song alone. I once owned the first three seasons of The Shield. I’d like to replace those, and I’d like to get Season 4, too.

Speaking of replacements, my bottle of Hendrick’s Gin is a bit low. Maybe Santa will bring me a new bottle.

And that about covers it. Merry Christmas, everyone.

On this day...

2006-12-18T07:43:00.000-05:00

in 1972, absolutely nothing important happened.

Things I Learned in Mexico

2006-11-20T18:16:00.000-05:00

I'm back.

As some of you may know (very few of you, since I barely share my personal life with my family, never mind the people who read my blog), I just got back from a trip south of the border. No, that’s not code for any sexual act (although, in my case, that would indeed be cause for celebration); I refer to an actual vacation in Mexico, specifically Playa Del Carmen on the Mayan Riviera. While I was there I learned a lot, and I’d like to share the fruits of my education with all of you. And so, in no particular order, here are some of the things I learned last week:

I discovered an American dollar is worth roughly one billion pesos. I gave a waiter a five dollar tip and he swore to name his first-born son after me. (Don’t worry—I told him “’Angry Piper’ Ramirez” would be unnecessarily cruel.)

Speaking of money, Mayans don’t have any. They live in abject poverty. Horrific, scary, third-world Africa-like poverty.

Mexico is the stray dog capital of the world.

There are no fat dogs in Mexico.

Mexicans, in general, are incredibly cruel to dogs.

When attempting to get on a floatation device shaped like a figure 8, the best way to do so and remain afloat is to put one’s ass on the center of the figure eight, NOT put one’s ass in one hole and one’s feet in the other. This only succeeds in capsizing the float. This remains true no matter how many times you try, and no matter how many people are watching.

Unless you’re a competitive swimmer, wearing a Speedo is never a good idea. Despite this, they are the preferred swimwear of odd-shaped men the world over.

Just because you may be certain you got every part of your body with a thick coat of sunscreen doesn’t make it true.

Until last week, Mexicans had never seen a bagpipe.

I never intended to visit Mexico. I am ashamed to say it is because I bought into the stereotype of decades of Hollywood films; namely that Mexico is a dusty, filthy place inhabited by people who want your money and hate you because you are a gringo. I have now visited Mexico. On two separate occasions I left my luxurious resort to “go native”, and I can now say there is some truth in stereotypes.

That being said, I saw no evidence of the “lazy Mexican” stereotype (much like I saw no evidence of the “rude Frenchman” stereotype on either of the two trips I have made to France). Every person I saw down in Mexico was engaged in some form of work, and most were literally busting their asses doing physical labor of some kind, whether it was repairing roads, planting trees or doing construction work.

That being said, there seems to be an awful lot in Mexico that gets started but never finished, at least in the area I visited. It was rampant with half-built construction projects that looked abandoned. The Mayan Rivera is still being developed, so perhaps people are investing and running out of money.

Back to roads: the roads in Mexico suck. It takes forever to get anywhere. This is due to several factors. First, Iraq after the American bombing had roads in better shape. Second, traffic lights change about as often as Halley’s Comet visits Earth. Third, speed bumps are everywhere, and are roughly the height of your average NBA player. They’re also spaced so close together as to be ridiculously superfluous, because there simply isn’t enough room between them for your vehicle to accelerate and generate enough speed to necessitate slowing down again.

Did I mention the roads suck?

Tacky souvenirs are still tacky souvenirs, whether mass-produced in China or made by “authentic Mayan craftsmen”.

Mayan ruins are very, very cool. They're also difficult to climb safely, and home to millions of fire ants.

Fire ant bites hurt. A lot.

The Mayan people have no dental care to speak of. Despite this, they still have better teeth than British tourists.

There are some big fucking cockroaches in Mexico.

In Mexico, only women wear skirts.

Here’s something I find exceedingly annoying: If you’re a Caucasian American on vacation (like me), don’t fucking talk to me in Spanish. Just don’t. First of all, I don’t speak Spanish. In addition, anyone who has ever seen me in person knows there is no possible way I could be mistaken for someone of Latin ancestry without tons of makeup and/or plastic surgery. So don’t feel the need to show off your four years of high school Spanish to me, “Brad”, just because you find yourself in Mexico and happen to be drunk. It doesn't make you look cool. It makes you look like a moron.

Here’s another thing: If you, along with six of your friends, are a giggly college-age girl on your way back from a get drunk/get stoned/ get a lower back tattoo/ get gonorrhea trip to Cancun and you get the urge to get on your cell phone the moment the plane touches down despite repeated requests by the pilot and/or flight crew to not use electronic devices until the plane is at the hangar and the doors are open, then please— resist the urge. Not only does it make me want to punch you in your fucking giggly flapping yap, it makes everyone want to. And when people who don’t wish to die because of a miscommunication between the plane and the airport tower caused by your fucking cell phone ask you to wait, don’t get huffy and inform the rest of the plane that you paid for a ticket just like the rest of us, because that makes us want to throw you off the plane. I don’t mean remove you. I mean literally throw you off the goddamn plane. Keep in mind: even when it’s taxiing down the runway, it’s still a long way down, Britney.

That about covers it. Stay tuned. Next year: Things I Learned in Ireland.

I'm Off

2006-11-10T19:54:00.000-05:00

See you all in a week. Assuming I don't contract malaria and die.

Dear Mr. President...

2006-11-08T09:18:00.000-05:00

Did you get the memo?

Where the Hell You Been, Piper?

2006-10-24T17:49:00.000-04:00

OK, so it's about time I posted something new on this blog. Think of it as a transitional post until I get something better up here.

First, whether y'all know it or not, I'm an aspiring writer. In other words, I like to write, and would love to write for a living, although I realize that even if I was as talented as I think I am, that would be a lofty goal indeed. Most writers have other jobs, and very few can make a living solely by pounding keys.

That being said, if I had a choice between writing purely for profit or writing to inspire, entertain, and be read, I would choose the latter choices. As, I think, would all my friends who also have writing aspirations.

These friends, Dr. Murk and C. J. Owen, have known me a long time. Neither has read any of my stuff. Why? Because I am obsessive about editing myself, and because although I should welcome their input (they're both smart and well-read), I think I would take their criticism harshly, because they're my friends. For these same reasons, I have not offered criticism of my own regarding their work. It's something I need to get over. Perhaps we three should sit down and form our own writing group, but so far it hasn't happened.

I have recently made the painful decision to trash the 50+ pages of my novel I've been working on, because I'm pretty much convinced it's crap (I convinced myself of this). Good concept, wrong voice. Back to the drawing board. On the other hand, I have several short stories in various stages of completion (one has been edited so much it's time for someone else to see it), and I need to stoke up my courage enough to send them out. Like the abovementioned writing group, this too has not happened.

But one of my friends has a sack bigger than Santa. He's got more balls than a bowling alley. He's been published several times, which means at some point, he bit the bullet and sent his work out to editors in the hopes of being published, and it paid off. In fact, the latest example is in the Fall 2006 issue of Apex Digest, the science-fiction and horror quarterly. His name is Jim Reilly, and the story I'm speaking of is entitled "The Tow." The Fall issue of Apex is on newsstands now.

I haven't spoken to Jim in a long time, but we recently reconnected via my MySpace. I used to work for him, if you call hanging out in the comic shop he once owned "work". I once appeared in a commercial for this same comic shop, in which my head (actually a completely unconvincing facsimile thereof) exploded after being unable to deal with a customer's request for Spider-Man comics. Ahh, the good old days.

I just read "The Tow". It was well-written (my boy can write!). It was also disgusting, which I'm sure is exactly the reaction Jim was looking to evoke in his readers. Bravo, dude. You have inspired me, for the time being, anyway. And although I've said it before, I will get serious about this goal of mine; i.e. to become a writer.

So what else have I been doing with myself, when I should be writing? Well, I've been writing. Over at the WoW. In the past month or so I've put up Profiles on all the WoW figureheads. Go here and you can get all of them. Plus, I penned a little yarn I call Just Another Night at Dr. Murk's House. Then, after being called a "poser" by one of my fellow WoWees, I decided to respond with a post in two parts that I entitled "The WoW Family Picnic". Part one is here. Part two is here.

And my friend and hetero-lifemate Malach has been kind enough to begin collecting my scribblings over at Rubbersuit Studios, so in time you will find all of these (and hopefully others) there as well. Hardly what I'd call serious fiction, but hopefully worth a look and a laugh or two.

What I'm listening to: Unfortunately, not Howard Stern on Sirius. My fucking Sirius radio receiver broke, and I haven't been able to replace it yet. Since 85% of my job is driving, I'm going through withdrawal.

What I'm playing: Just finished X-Men Legends on PS2. An oldie but goodie. Now I'm debating whether to dive into X-Men Legends 2, or start something else non-X-related.

What I'm reading: take a look to the right, genius! There's a whole part of the page devoted to just that. Incidentally, my break from book reviewing is coming to an end. Look for a new review over at Angrypiper.com by the end of the month. Also a new Angry Rant, coming soon. Oddly enough, even though I haven't updated the site in forever, it hasn't affected my web traffic in the slightest. Guess you like me.

What I'm watching: Lost, even though 2 out of 3 of this season's episodes have sucked shit through a crazy straw. Let's hope tomorrow is better. I'm also waiting patiently for Family Guy to return, and I'm not giving two shits about the World Series.

Speaking of watching, I want to go see The Prestige, because if it's anything like the book I read a few years back it's going to be great. I almost reviewed it on my site a few months ago. I sure would have if I had any idea they were adapting it for a movie. I just watched a very famous movie for the first time. It's called The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (the original). It's rumored to be a classic, and quite scary.

Even allowing that the movie is over 30 years old, I must disagree. It was anything but scary. In fact, it was quite annoying. Every character in the movie was annoying. The screaming was annoying. The constant chainsaw sound was annoying. The lack of any comprehensible plot was annoying. But what was really annoying was that you CAN'T FUCKING SEE ANYTHING because the movie is filmed almost entirely in the dark.

Wow, I hate that. My West Coast chum Tel recently dropped me an email saying The Descent was scary as hell, and recommended I see it. Well, Tel also liked Jeepers Creepers, so I take her movie reviews with a large chunk of salt. (I fully expect a big F-U from Tel in the comments section of this post. We'll see. :) However, one of my other friends ( I do have several) also heartily endorsed The Descent as being pee-in-your-pants scary. My only concern is: is it filmed in the dark so you can't see what's going on? (Maybe Tel can answer me if she's still talking to me.) Because if so, screw that, man!

I'm also gonna watch the new Thai action film, Tom Yum Goong, which was released here in the US under the title of The Protector. I got an import from my comic shop. It features Tony Jaa, the guy from Ong Bak. I've never seen anyone kick as much ass as this guy.

Except for that time I watched Dr. Mantodea defend his virtue in the prison shower.

Ahh...the good old days.

My Pain in a Dirty Glass

2006-09-29T17:21:00.000-04:00

This is a serious post.

I'm writing the first draft of this blog post at a seminar about the incidence of HIV in the over 50 year old population; something I need to attend for my job. Since many of my clients fall into this category, I should be paying attention. But I'm not, because I'm thinking about my friend.

Today, my friend began to take the long and no-doubt difficult road to sobriety. Although it goes without saying that I wish him the best and will endeavor to help in any way I can, his decision has made me consider my own appetite for drink in a new, and somewhat harsh, light.

Way back in April, I did a post over at the WoW that garnered some attention. It was entitled The Downhill Slide, and it was about my initial (and not altogether genuine) concern over my then new-found love of gin martinis. You can read it if you want; it's not long. Despite the fact that I was joking, it received somewhat serious feedback from my friends. I promised a follow-up post, but I never delivered. I guess this is it.

Although The Angry Piper is often portrayed as a pathetic, drunken Irishman, the reality is quite the opposite. I am rarely drunk. Since The Angry Piper is a fictional character, and is, in truth, only an exaggerated composite of some of my best and worst qualities, I don't mind (and often encourage) this characterization. You know...for laughs. Ha ha.

However, I do like to drink, and lately I have been drinking more than ever before; in quantity, quality and frequency. Recent and not-so-recent events have made this a cause of concern for me. Like my friend, alcoholism runs in my family. Neither of my parents drank, and we never had alcohol in our house. But both my grandfathers were raging alcoholics. Well, one was literally "raging", the other was just severely addicted.

Allow me to tell you about my personality when I drink: it is largely the same as my regular personality. I don't get loud or obnoxious. I don't get mean. Although I have drank many times when I felt sad, drinking has never made me feel sad. Most people (except for those who know me extremely well) can't even tell I've been drinking, unless they've been drinking with me. The only thing I've been told is that I get quiet, and apparently very funny when I'm drunk; even funnier than the clever quipper I usually am. I believe this is true because more than one person has related these qualities to me. (Then again, more than one person has told me I resemble Nicolas Cage. Perhaps they are the ones who drink too much.)

This past weekend, I attended the New Hampshire Highland Games at Loon Mountain (expect a blogpost very soon), a yearly event I look forward to. It is more or less a dry event, as they frown on drunken assholes ruining family fun over at Loon. Therefore, I did very little drinking at the games. New Hampshire, however,is renowned for its cheap liquor, especially at the gigantic State-run liquor stores about 20 miles over the Massachusetts border. So many people from Massachusetts travel to these stores that NH got wise and installed toll booths right before their exit; now you pay $1.50 round-trip in addition to whatever you buy. Most people consider it money well spent.

Now, several concerns make me want to draw rein here and halt my gallop towards alcohol dependence. The first, of course, is what's happening with my friend. More on that later.

Concern #2: I didn't spend much money beyond the admission fee at the games. But boy, was I like a kid in a candy store at the NH packie. Among other things, I spent $30 on a bottle of very expensive gin (Hendrick's) that would have probably cost upwards of $40 elsewhere.

Concern #3: I really like gin. A lot. I used to be a strictly (top-shelf) beer guy, with a budding appreciation for wine, especially with good food. Now, it worries me that I can discern the quality of gin solely by taste, when not long ago the taste of something so alcoholic would have had me sputtering and gagging. (Incidentally, Hendrick's is quite good.)

Concern #4: I recently saw someone so inebriated that he could not speak clearly, nor understand or follow a conversation. This friend-of-a-friend was a stellar eye-opener for me; a "there but for the grace of God go I" kind of example. I hope he arrives at the same place my friend is, and soon.

Here's what I have going for me:

#1 I don't drink every day.

#2 I rarely drink to debilitating excess. I know my limits, and I stick to them. When I feel a buzz, I have one more drink and stop. I haven't been physically sick from drinking since I was in high school.

#3 I never drink and drive.

#4 I honestly feel that I drink because I want to, not because I need to.

In the past year, my personal life (not my drinking-not yet, anyway) has spiraled slowly out of control. The other day I had a reunion with someone I still-and will always-care deeply about, a difficult reunion that can only be called "bittersweet." Did I drink afterwards? You bet. But the next time I see this person-and there will be a next time-I don't intend to drink afterwards at all.

Despite these concerns, I am not yet ready to completely give up alcohol, nor do I think I need to, yet. What I do need is to stop drinking as often as I do. Well, that, and these things:

#1 I need to get back on my diet. In early August I went on vacation, and since then I've gained back 10 of the 18 pounds I'd lost. This means no beer.

#2 I need to get physically active again. I'm hoping my friend, and possibly his brother (also a great friend), will join me in this. I want to go back to my aikido training, as it was an enormously positive experience in my life.

#3 I need to not replace my gin bottle when it's empty; at least not right away, and save my drinking for special meals and occasions.

#4 At the end of the week, I need to have more alcohol-free days than days I indulged in alcohol.

#5 I need, in general, to get my shit together.

Now, as for my friend who has taken this very difficult and courageous step towards sobriety:

I did not know, until recently, that you were concerned about your drinking. I did not know that you had tried previously to quit, and were unsuccessful. I did not know about the effect it was having on your personal life.

For a while there, we fell out of touch. And although we never stopped being friends, there's a lot that happened to both of us in those years that we each don't know. I regret that.

We've known each other for 20 years, give or take a few. You knew me at my most ridiculous, and the good times we've had with the other two musketeers are legendary. I think we both know we don't need to drink to hang out together.

So let's not.

Two YouTube Posts in a Row = LAME

2006-09-25T17:48:00.000-04:00

Yeah, whatever. Look for a real update soon. In the meantime, watch this.

Whenever I lose my motivation to write, this kicks me in the ass. It also brings me to great, big, gushing tears of laughter every time.

I love Family Guy.

Hey Murk & Malach...

2006-09-14T21:54:00.000-04:00

Let me know when you're ready.

I need to do this again.

Five Years Later

2006-09-11T16:08:00.000-04:00

And he's still out there.

Today, there are no doubt thousands of posts going up all over the web having to do with rememberances and thoughts about 9/11. There are several over at the WOW alone. One, written by Murk, has actually been up for a week or so. In it, he implores us to dispense with the political blame game and simply honor those who died. All 2,973 people.

I agree.

It takes a lot to break me. Today, while listening to National Public Radio, I heard some of the phone calls and emergency pleas for help from both people trapped at Ground Zero and from the rescue personnel trying to do their jobs. One was from a woman on one of the planes, who called to tell someone that "there was a problem with the plane, but just know that I love you." I had to pull over, because I found myself crying.

I reached for the CD switch that would fill my car with loud, blaring bagpipes so I wouldn't have to listen to the desperation and tragedy, but then I stopped myself. I listened to it all. It's the least I can do, to understand, and to make sure I never forget what happened that day.

I heard a comentator say that five years ago, she never would have thought we would have returned to "normal" this soon. Americans were killed on American soil. Our world changed forever. Sadly, she's right. Things are mostly back to normal.

Today, in addition to the deep sadness we all should feel at the deaths of so many of our own, I feel particularly upset by what has happened to us as a nation. Understand: I do not mean to take sides politically; that is not my purpose here, nor do I think it appropriate today, of all days. Anyone who reads this blog with any regularity is likely acquainted with my political views, anyway.

What I mean is that the terror attacks of five years ago served immediately to unite us as Americans. Almost everyone had a flag on their car, in a window, on their lawn. For a while, we were together. Now we seem more polarized and divided ideologically as a nation than at any other time in our history except the Civil War.

How do we get our unity back?

Revelations

2006-09-06T17:19:00.000-04:00

In an attempt to placate my legions of fans who want to know more about The Angry Piper, here are some statements about me you may find interesting. They all have two things in common: they're all 100% true, and you'll likely want to learn the story behind each one. But you probably won't. This is blatant titillation. And since I'm fresh out of blog ideas, this is what you get.

Here they are, in no particular order:

In Walt Disney World, I sat on one of my testicles so hard I couldn't walk for almost 45 minutes. No, I don't have huge balls. One just got in the way. It happens.

My brother and I had a pint of Guinness with PJ Harvey's guitarist. Well, we had the Guinness. He had a shot of some cheap whiskey.

I have never met anyone famous. I turned down a chance to meet Sting, and despite being a rabid Sting and Police fan, I don't regret it.

I was an altar boy.

I did 25% of the work sculpting a 4-foot tall penis made of snow.

I made the worst mistake of my life (thus far) about two years ago.

I used to drive a purple Hyundai Accent that wound up under a very heavy tree. It was parked at the time, and had I been in it, I would certainly be dead. Missed me by 45 minutes.

Once, at a teen dance, I lifted a kid onto his tiptoes by his neck and would have likely choked him to death for insulting a friend of mine. The friend lives in Texas now, and she periodically reminds me of this incident. The kid was a punk, and he was breathing when I left him. I've mellowed considerably since then.

I barely know the wives of three of my best male friends. Contrary to popular belief, I do not really lust after any of them.

I once dated a woman who told me the following things on the first date: she was a dominatrix, she was a recovering cocaine addict with 3 weeks of sobriety, and her ex-husband was an active transvestite. First date. No kidding. There was no second date.

I once dated a woman who told me the following things on the first date: that she still lived with her son's father, but that their relationship was over. This was proven by the fact that although she slept naked in the same bed with this man, he never even looked her way. There was no second date.

The above two dates were not with the same woman. They occurred roughly two weeks apart.

I have written over fifty pages of a novel (and dozens of short stories) that I will likely never publish.

I often joke about not wearing anything under my kilt. I often don't.

I have three female friends I miss terribly. One lives in Texas. We talk all the time. One lives in Staten Island, NY. We speak irregularly at best. The last lives in the state I live in. We don't talk anymore, and it's my fault.

I play three musical instruments, but I only play one well.

In the distant past I pointedly ignored several really hot women interested in making my acquaintance because a musician I enjoy was playing at the time. I was a horrible wingman.

I recently discovered the fate of one of my high school girlfriends. She's married and living in San Francisco, home of Amy Tan, The Angry Veteran and Tel-in-the-City. AV: say hi if you see JA. Since I have more than one ex-girlfriend with the initials JA, I'm referring to the one who performed in Godspell with you and Malach.

The scariest movie I ever saw was (and still is) Jaws.

In our college library during finals week, Dr. Mantodea and I made each other laugh so hard we were literally paralyzed and almost suffocated while our friends looked on in bewilderment. Not everyone has our sense of humor.

I once watched The Angry Veteran climb atop one of his neighbor's cars and urinate in the open sun roof. He did not like that neighbor. I suppose I should also say this was a long time ago, when we were both much younger.

I was stopped, along with Dr. Murk, by a police officer for having "tires too big for my vehicle."

I once mistook a huge dildo for a bookend. Yes, it was that big. It was in Malach's glove compartment. (Just kidding about that last part.)

I once asked a very naked stripper how heavy her earrings were. As if I (or she) cared.

Dr. Jen has recently informed me I'm the fifth smartest man she's ever met. We met when we were in 6th grade. She must have met four guys smarter than me since then.

I have been to five different countries, not counting my own, and none of them are Canada or Mexico.

And finally, for Alanis Morissette fans (and Malach), Here's something ironic:

When we were both in college, I loudly berated Malach because he was drunk.

The irony: look at me now.

Hiatus

2006-08-17T19:26:00.000-04:00

As many of you may know, Dog the Bounty Hunter finally married his long-time girlfriend with the award-winning cans, Beth. This means I will likely never fulfill my fantasy of rocking Beth's world with crazy Piper luv. As a result, The Angry Piper's Book of the Week will be going on brief hiatus while I drink myself silly to drown my grief. This is usually bad news; I tend to do stupid things when I'm on the drinkin'. But don't fret. I'll be back soon.

In the meantime, this is a good opportunity to try out an idea that's been kicking around in my head for a while: the guest review.

Got a book you love? Want to recommend it to people? Want to dazzle the Internet world with your insightful brilliance, or just pontificate pretentiously? Do a guest review of a book. I'll host it at Angrypiper.com. You'll be saving me some work for the next couple of weeks, and on top of that, you'll be doing a service to other readers. My book reviews receive about 100-120 unique hits a day. Not to brag, but a lot of folks actually want to read what I have to say about matters literary. Go figure.

Now's your chance to capitalize on my hard work and status as a D-List Internet celebrity. Here are the submission guidelines:

1) Don't review a book I have already reviewed. If you want to post a contrary opinion to one of my reviews, that's what the feedback link is for. I will eventually do a post of all the comments I have received at the end of the year.

2) Please review only books you recommend. Don't use this as an opportunity to tell people how much a book or a writer sucks. That's not what my column is about.

3) Don't send me your 25 page term paper on East of Eden. My book reviews are short for a reason. Try to keep it about 2 pages or less, please.

4) Do not send me a chapter by chapter summary of the book. If you are unclear how to summarize, please look at any of my reviews.

5) If at all possible, do not give away the book's ending. People want to find that out for themselves.

5) I reserve the right to edit for grammar and spelling. I won't change the content of your review, but if you can't spell to save your life and are unfamiliar with the concept of spellcheck, you're gonna have to accept some editing.

6) Submissions should be in Word or Plain Text formats. (.doc or .txt) I use a PC.

7) All submissions will be credited, along with a link to the author's email (if desired) so they can receive feedback. I'll even post amusing and/or factual reviewer bios. If you don't want to be linked to your work, tell me; I'll still make sure you get feedback, it'll just come from me and the rest of the world won't know your email address.

8) SEND ALL SUBMISSIONS TO angrypiper@angrypiper.com

I hope to get some good submissions within the next few weeks. If nothing goes up, it's because none of you wanted to write a review. That's ok; I understand. But it sure would be swell if you did.

OK, I'm off to drink a handle of Gordon's gin straight up while sobbing uncontrollably in the dark. Gordon's: the cheapest gin not made in a bathtub.

Beth...why have you forsaken me?

Vacation's Over

2006-08-06T12:03:00.000-04:00

I've been on vacation for the past week, and I return to work tomorrow. Overall, my vacation was a mixed bag. Three days were basically spent in my bedroom to escape the brutal heat, which is the only room with an AC. My mid-week plans with my goddaughter got scrapped at the last minute and I found out the ferry to Martha's Vinyard got ridiculously expensive since the last time I went about 15 years ago (it's actually more practical now to fly), so I didn't do that either. Oh, and I had to buy a new battery for the car and break into my apartment, having locked myself out. I'm actually kind of freaked out about how easy it is to break in. Good thing I don't have anything worth stealing; who, besides me, really wants to own shitloads of comic books and a set of bagpipes?

Speaking of pipes (as I often do), one of the biggest and coolest bagpiping events in the country is next weekend: The Piper's Gathering. I thought it was this weekend, but I was wrong. It looks like I'm going to miss it anyway because a five-hour drive (one-way) into the wilds of Vermont alone isn't fun, especially when I have no place to stay at the other end. I'm really bummed about this; this event was something I was looking forward to since January.

Vacation certainly wasn't all bad. My comic shop got some new (or rather old) Zatoichi movies in, and I watched them along with The Big Lebowski (again). I reconnected and raised a few pints with with some old friends who reside both far and near. Oh...and I worked on Angrypiper.com. A lot.

A huge update has just occurred. No longer will you see this page. Now there are zero dead links.
I'm working on a new layout for the site but I'm having minor technical problems, meaning I don't like the way it looks so far. Until I do, the old layout stays.

This Blog will be moving very soon. Don't fret; you'll have plenty of warning. In fact, consider this your first one.

In the Book Reviews Section, the current selection is still Mickey Spillane. Look for an update within the next few days or so, I've been busy with all the other stuff lately.

The first of several planned Bagpiping articles has gone up: Bagpipes 101, a primer on the anatomy and physiology of the great highland bagpipe. Everything you probably never cared to know about bagpipes, so you never asked. With pictures.

And at long last, the Anger is back. Submitted for your perusal is not one, not two, but three complete and new Angry Rants, plus one on deck (to be published soon).

If, after that, you still haven't got your fill of anger and if you haven't done so already, check out what Dr. Mantodea has to say over at Hill-TV. The mantis loves to remind you how stupid you are.

I really don't want to go back to work tomorrow.

Here's Something You Don't See Very Often

2006-08-04T10:07:00.000-04:00

I admit it. It's me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EyQLICALjdE

R.I.P. Mickey

2006-07-19T18:52:00.000-04:00

Mickey Spillane died on 7/17/06 at the age of 88. He will be mourned by mystery and noir fans worldwide, including me.

Spillane is best known for creating Mike Hammer, Private Eye. Hammer was as tough as they come; he led with his fists and refused to lay down for anyone. He has been immortalized in a little over a dozen novels since his debut in 1946, when I, the Jury was published, as well as on the big screen, the radio and three classic TV series. He has been portrayed by Armand Assante, Darren McGavin, Ralph Meeker, and most famously by Stacy Keach; he was even portrayed by Spillane himself in 1963's The Girl Hunters.

Spillane inspired many great mystery writers; among them Donald E. Westlake, Lawrence Block, and Max Allan Collins (Road to Perdition). He preferred to consider himself a writer rather than an author; for him, the difference was that "writers sell what they write." He sold a lot of books.

As my own special tribute, this week's Book of the Week column will focus on Mickey Spillane; some of his best-known work and his writing style. It's safe to say that the genre of noir film and fiction as we know it would not exist without three men: Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, and Mickey Spillane. Now the last of the great noir icons has passed away.

Sadly, there will be no more tales of Mike Hammer and Velda.

Rest in Peace, Mickey.

Still Crazy After All These Years

2006-07-15T13:52:00.000-04:00

This past weekend Malach was kind enough to invite me to his place for a small gathering, in which a keg of beer featured prominently. Due to increasingly annoying life circumstances, I was forced to depart early, but not before I left Malach with the impression I was trying to seduce his wife, merely because the music on my MySpace page is currently dedicated to her.

Preposterous. Malach, old bean, I’m not trying to seduce your wife, just because I arrived with a pencil-thin moustache and slicked back hair, wearing a smoking jacket. And relax; I’ve been studying Spanish lately, hence the slight accent and my harmless interest in Spanish fly. I’ll have you know that getup wasn’t for her benefit, it was for Dr. Murk, who was conspicuously absent. The bastard. I will not be used once and then thrown away, like a Swiffer sweeper. I have feelings too.

Funny thing did happen, however. Whilst staring moodily into the fire Malach had built (we are men, after all, and men brood), he and I came to some realizations: first, that he is… how you say… queer as a three-dollar bill. Second, that he and I have known each other for nigh on twenty years.

Twenty years. Jesus. That’s a long time to call someone a friend. I’ve also known Murk for twenty years. Eve too. I’ve known the Angry Veteran for 24 years. And Dr. Mantodea and Fury have been in my elite circle of friends for about 15 years apiece. Seeing how I’m a young 33 years old, that’s a good portion of my life. I think Malach may have been a bit surprised by this, too…but who really knows for sure? He can be somewhat opaque at times.

Also, while at Chez Malach, I partook of some Sam Smith’s oatmeal stout, breaking my 2 month plus beer fast (I’m down 18 lbs., baby). That Sam Smith’s is quite good. I then played a round of plastic bowling with Malach’s two young spawn, and I totally OWNED them. I rule.

I don’t usually review books in this blog, as I have my own freakin’ website for that, but if you cast your eyes to the right, you’ll notice two new additions to the blog template: what I’m currently reading and what I’m currently reviewing over at Angrypiper.com. Rarely will they be the same book. I want to talk a bit about my current reading selection: Rust and Bone by Craig Davidson. It’s the debut collection of short stories by this guy, and Christ, can he write. His stories aren’t pretty, his world is cynical and uncompromising, and yet there’s a subtle humanity evident in even his most jaded characters. Like the maimed boxer who fights out of unrelenting guilt, or the ad executive who raises pit bulls as fighting dogs (definitely not a story for the squeamish), or the killer whale trainer who loses a limb in a freak accident. This is powerful, character-driven fiction at its best. I’m not finished with it yet, but even if the rest of the book sucks (which I strongly doubt) I wholeheartedly recommend it if only for the stories I’ve read. Check it out.

Also, just a quick reminder that it's Memoir Month over at Angrypiper.com, so check out the book of the week columns over there if you need to catch up, or if you want a recommendation for something less edgy. If my amazing and insightful reviews inspire you to purchase any of the books, you can do so by clicking on the handy Amazon.com links provided.

Or you can get off your ass and go to the bookstore. That works too.

Pub Tales, and Finbar Doyle, Where Are You Now?

2006-07-05T19:46:00.000-04:00

There was a time a few years back that I did most of my drinking at The Green Briar in Brighton, Massachusetts. In my opinion, the Briar is one of the best Irish pubs in the Boston area; not a dive, but not a place that caters to the upscale crowd, either. Every other person in the place is fresh off the boat from Paddy’s green shamrock shore, and some of them are probably even here legally. (I was surprised to find that the greatest percentage of illegal immigrants in the Boston area is not Cambodian, Haitian or Guatemalan, but Irish. Really.)

I used to frequent the place with a couple of friends from work. Where I live, Irish pubs are in short supply. In fact, there’s only one that claims to be “Irish”, but just because they hang pictures of Eamon DeValera and Michael Collins on the walls next to a map of Ireland doesn’t necessarily make it so. (Once I went in there and saw a Nelly video on the big screen TV. I rest my case.) The Briar is a cozy, wood-paneled pub with two bars, complete with brass foot rails. When it’s packed, as it often is, you’re lucky to find a seat. One time we brought this girl from work with us that I didn’t particularly like. She screwed me over more than once, and seeing how she was my supervisor, it was pretty easy for her to do so. Eventually, she got targeted by the higher-ups herself, and suddenly (in her mind) she was one of us. My friend Jeff suggested we bring her along to commiserate over some drinks, so we did. In an attempt to mend fences, I offered to buy the first round.

So here I go, up to the bar with my drink order. “Two pints of Guinness and a Mai Tai,” says I. The barman looks at me like I’m retarded, which, after I realize what I just ordered, is an opinion I’m inclined to agree with. See, The Green Briar don’t serve no Mai Tais. It’s an IRISH PUB. Raspberry Stoli is about as fancy as they get. I got her one of those instead.

On another occasion, my good buddy Jeff (who absolutely should have known better) tells me to get the first round, as he had to piss. He tells me what he wants and I belly-up to the bar while he hits the john, and I order a pint for me and a Newcastle Brown Ale for His Dudeness.

The Green Briar does not have a jukebox. Nevertheless, when I uttered these words, the unmistakable sound of a needle tearing a sizable groove in a vinyl record was heard throughout the pub. All conversation came to an abrupt halt and the faces of all the pub’s patrons swiveled towards me, expressions of scorn, horror, disbelief and outright disgust apparent on every one. After a tense few seconds of complete silence, the bartender—who I didn’t realize was so large and intimidating until that very moment—says to me:

“We don’t serve Newcastle. Proudly.”

(For those who are ignorant of the political ramifications of ordering beer, allow me to explain: Newcastle Brown Ale is an English concoction. The English, generally, are not well-liked in Ireland, and certainly not in the Green Briar, even though it’s in Boston. This is likely due to the centuries of oppression, woe and misery the English have visited upon the Irish people. I was lucky to escape with my life.)

Nonetheless, I came to be accepted as a regular at The Briar despite these embarrassing faux pas and despite the fact that I drank Guinness drafts while every true Paddy was drinking Bud Light from a bottle. I couldn’t understand why; after all, Bud Light tastes like warm piss (and YES, I know what warm piss tastes like…don’t ask) and Guinness is the best fucking drink ever invented. Here are the two reasons I was given: 1) bottles of Bud Light are cheaper than pints of Guinness. Much cheaper. Hence, you can drink more for less money. 2) According to my friends at The Briar, the Guinness we are familiar with in the USA is not worthy of the name. (I plan on confirming reason #2 when I head to Ireland next year, and believe me, by the time I return to this country, I’ll have done enough research to be more than certain.)

The Angry Piper has the bladder capacity of a small woodland creature, and so after drinking a few pints, I invariably have to piss like a racehorse. I was usually good for a few trips to the bathroom in the course of a night. On more than one occasion, I would enter The Green Briar’s men’s room, which has two urinals and a stall, and I would always seem to find myself doing my business next to the same guy. After the third time, we started laughing and I said, “Dude, we’ve got to stop meeting like this.” After the fourth time, he looked at me and said “This isn’t about the pissing for you anymore, is it?”

Another memorable Briar bathroom story: I’ve just finished having a piss and I’m zipping up, when the guy next to me (different guy for once) finishes up, shakes himself off and says: “Right. Now I’m ready to stick it in her.”

I have no idea who she was, but for some reason I found (and still find) that extremely funny.

But anyway, on to the real subject of this post. The Green Briar is the kind of pub that features live entertainment almost every night; on nights when major sporting events (including soccer) happen, the music waits until the game is over. When I frequented the place, Mondays were for a traditional Irish seisun where anyone with an instrument and an inkling could show up and make music. The weeknights usually featured local bands which may or may not have been Celtic; Saturday was for big (local) names; and Sunday nights were for Finbar Doyle.

I first saw Finbar open for Seven Nations, one of my favorite bands, when they played the Hard Rock Café in Boston on their Dewar’s sponsored tour. It takes an awful lot to impress me, particularly when 7N is coming out onstage, but he did. Finbar doesn’t have a band. He’s just one guy with an acoustic guitar and a bodhran (Irish drum). He was the only opening act that I could remember wanting to listen to and despite the fact that my favorite band was due to come out any minute, I wasn’t in a hurry for Finbar to get offstage. I remember thinking I had to find out who he was, and see if he played anywhere locally. He was tough to find, but eventually I tracked him down about a year later at The Green Briar.

There, Sunday was Finbar’s night, and despite the fact that most of us had to get up on Monday morning and head to work, for a while we made the fifty mile trip to Brighton faithfully each week. I’ve spent a lot of time in pubs, drinking and listening to pub musicians’ songs and tales. None of them have ever come close to Finbar Doyle.

Finbar knew the sad songs, the rebel songs, and the sing-along songs. It wasn’t just what he sang, it was how he sang. He could belt out The Pogues’ Fairytale of New York in July, and no one would care that it wasn’t anywhere near Christmas. With Finbar on guitar I—along with everyone else—sang along to songs like Back Home in Derry, Fields of Athenry (Oh baby let the freebirds fly!), Dirty Old Town, The Town I Loved So Well, and The Wild Rover. He made us laugh with Many’s the Pint I Had With the Pope John Paul and his own rendition of Useta Lover by The Saw Doctors. Then he’d play the bodhran and have us all stomping and singing Rocky Road to Dublin and Some Say the Devil is Dead, with only the drum as accompaniment. The Wolfe Tones, The Irish Rovers, U2, Van Morrison; Finbar covered them all with a healthy dose of ad-libbing, and even wrote his own stuff; notably a song about Veronica Guerin and, on some of the last few times I saw him, one about 9/11. Finbar genuinely loved the music he played, he played with feeling and passion, and he made us love it too.

He even covered American Pie. Finbar claimed it was for all the Madonna fans out there.

I don’t know why I stopped going. Now that I’m writing this blogpost, I wish I never stopped.

Recently, I found myself at The Green Briar again, but this time it was during the week, and I stopped in for lunch. I was working. The pub was empty, the stage broken down. It was myself and the barmaid—a girl from Carlow who has been pulling pints there since before I ever set foot inside—and some old guy sitting at the end of the bar, getting started early. I asked her if Finbar still played Sunday nights.

“No,” she said. She said it in a way that made me think there was more to the story than that one word.

“Did he go back to Ireland?”

“No,” she said. Obviously, I wasn't getting anywhere. I let it go.

So far, Finbar has no Myspace account that I can find, which is too bad. I’m not even sure if he has a computer, but I hope so, because I confess that one of my purposes in writing this post is the hope that Finbar will one day Google himself and see it. I’d like to know if he’s still playing and where (or even if he’s still alive and in the country). And Finbar, if you read this, know that “that bagpiper guy from down near Rhode Island” still thinks it’s worth the fifty mile drive on a Sunday night and the hangover on Monday morning to raise a glass with you and hear you play.

As long as it’s a glass of Guinness.

Father's Day

2006-06-22T18:06:00.000-04:00

Before I launch into my Father’s Day tale I have some minor housekeeping to address.

First: The new Murk and Malach Radio Show is up, ready to blast your sanity and render you an intellectual vegetable (much like Malach himself). If there is such a thing as the center of the universe, and if in that center of the universe the blind, idiot god Azathoth writhes to the maddening music of blasphemous servitors, then surely those blasphemous servitors can be none other than Murk and Malach. They even said some nice things about me, which proves they got the brick of hash I sent them.

Right now, my Myspace profile features music by Mudmen, a kickass pipe-fusion band from the Great White North. The song: Drink & Fight, which could appropriately be called one of the theme songs to my life (although I don’t do much of either these days). Another is King of Pain, by The Police. Both of these are different from my Anthem, found here.

While I won’t be regularly blogging about my weight loss efforts, I will say that 233 feels and looks a lot better than 250. Go Weight Watchers!

If you’re lamenting your bad luck and dying for another chance to meet The Angry Piper in person, look no further than the Western Massachusetts Highland Games this Saturday. I’ll be there, likely grooving to Prydein—formerly just a band I liked, now some pals of mine from Myspace. Two cool pipers in this band, and M&M even used some of their music in their 3rd podcast (December 2005).

On Father’s Day, my brother and I took the old man out for a late lunch at a fairly nice, formerly Mob-connected Italian restaurant deservedly famous for its steamed clams in wine sauce. My Dad’s birthday is the week before Father’s Day, so at the meal we gave him his birthday gifts. As far as Dad knew, the meal itself was his Father’s Day present. (Because I know some of you out there want to know, my meal consisted of a fried calamari appetizer I split with my brother; scallop, lobster and shrimp alfredo; a half carafe of house wine; and lots of bread. Yeah. I cheated on my diet. Fuck you. Anything for my Dad.)

(I should pause in this story to tell all those who do not know the Angry Piper personally that there was a time in my not-too-distant past that I did not get along well with either my father or my brother—for different reasons, respectively, that have no bearing on this post. But just so you know, family dinners ‘twixt us three weren’t always the norm.)

Anyway, while waiting for our dessert (a generous slice of strawberry cheesecake and some kickass coffee for yours truly), we gave our Dad his real Father’s Day present: my brother and I are taking him to Ireland next year.

Freeze.

Now, before we continue, you must understand something about The Angry Piper’s father. He’s the kind of guy who tells his sons never to buy him anything for Christmas, because he feels it’s a waste of money better spent elsewhere, and he doesn’t need anything. He jokingly demands we pay him tribute in the form of toys every birthday and Father’s Day (“And I better get TWO, one for each day, even though they’re in the same week”). “Toys” are defined as anything that’s not a necktie. (Naturally, I get him at least one—often several—ties each year.) The thing is: he’s joking. I could get him a brown paper bag filled with dogshit, and he would likely say I spent too much money. Thus, my brother and I naturally assumed that any attempt at bringing the old man to Ireland on our dime was doomed to failure, as he would no doubt find many (and any) excuses not to go, despite the fact that none of us have ever been to Ireland.

Which is why we didn’t give him an option. We booked and paid for the trip in advance, with enough time to prepare so that he would find it impossible to realistically say no. Still, we’re not dumb enough to think he wouldn’t protest. In short, we expected an argument.

But Dad did not argue. In fact, it’s safe to say he reacted in the exact opposite manner than what both of his sons expected.

My father’s father never made it to Ireland in his lifetime, something my Dad is saddened by. Despite what my Dad thinks, I don’t really think my Grandpa would have been all that interested in going; he was more of a Vegas or Atlantic City kind of guy. Like my Grandpa, I don’t think my Dad would have gone to Ireland on his own. Neither would my brother, for that matter—I’m definitely the most Celtic-oriented dude in my family.

Anyway, it seems the objections we expected re: going on the trip in the first place have now been replaced by this one (so far): “Listen, my sons: when we get there I’m paying for everything.” As the Irish would say, not feckin’ likely.

My Dad is financially comfortable. Aside from the fact that he’s our Dad and we love him, he has done a lot for his two sons, both of whom made some dumb mistakes in the past and are in a better place now because of him. That being said, my brother and I didn’t plan and purchase this trip to Ireland to sit back and have the old man pay for everything. We did it because we want to experience our family history and culture together, as a family. We did it because we wanted to do something nice for our father. And because at some point, we want the satisfaction of watching our lightweight Dad get shitfaced on some Bushmill’s and Guinness. In the unlikely but not impossible event that my Dad is reading this: Dad, feel free to cut and paste this paragraph wherever you can best see it, and refer to it regularly as needed, so as to be reminded that this is a FATHER’S DAY PRESENT FROM YOUR SONS, WHO BOTH LOVE YOU. Stop trying to do for us; you’ve done enough.

Of course, on this trip, I have my own room. I may love my father and brother, but that doesn’t mean I want to bunk with either of them for two weeks.

As the Irish would say, not feckin’ likely.

Did you know...

2006-06-06T19:09:00.000-04:00

that twenty people subscribe to my RSS feed? That's twenty more people than I would have thought would ever give a shit about my ramblings. They were even subscribing when it was broken! I don't know who you all are, but thanks. I'm flattered. For the rest of you, it's fixed now...so subscribe!

This month I have decided on a theme for my Book of the Week columns. Each week I'll be reviewing something in the realm of "cult fiction"; some of the weirdest, coolest, most bizarre works I've ever had the pleasure to read. This theme was inspired by Freya, my good buddy who sometimes sends me books from her island home, manymiles away(thanks for the latest batch, dear-you rock). She sent me a book once upon a time called The Rough Guide to Cult Fiction. I really enjoyed it. (She sent me the Rough Guide to Cult Movies too. She's swell.)

Anyway, the reviews this month will focus on books that could have easily made the Rough Guide. In fact, some of them did. Case in point: this week's review; a little number entitled A Clockwork Orange. Should be worth a malenky bit of a viddy, O my brothers.

Been to the Hill lately? A lot of commotion over there. Last time I dropped by I saw Dr. Murk overturning tables and screaming "Leave my Father's HOUSE!" Leave my Father's HOUSE!!" (He can get a bit Biblically theatrical, can the good doc.) He's taken over Hill-TV, killed the Generalissimo, cleaned out all the dead wood and banished the moneylenders from the Temple. A clean sweep; the best of the old and space for the new. It's all his show now; a veritable Murktopia. Check it out.

Speaking of dead wood, Deadwood starts its third season on HBO next week. Best. Show. Ever.

Several weeks back I hinted at a big announcement. I know it hasn't happened yet. Be patient; bureaucracy is slow.

Here's a completely unrelated teaser:

Hurst is coming, and he's bringing sharp stuff.

Oh...and Malach sux.

250

2006-05-25T16:37:00.000-04:00

First up, I know I promised anger and I have yet to deliver. It shall be done just as soon as I decide on the format for my angry rants at Angrypiper.com. Ideally, I'd like to set it up like another blog, where y'all can comment on the things I bitch about rather than just read my pretentious blather. Still trying to work out the technical aspects of that.

For now, get your heapin' helpin' of vituperation from Dr. Mantodea over at the WOW. Pretty much everything he posts is mean-spirited. Having his head changed into that of a giant bug has made him quite the crankypants. I say serves you right for messin' with science, Doc, instead of puttin' your faith in Jesus.

Oh yeah-I did a post over there tonight too.

Second, for those who wrote in complaining my RSS feed was broken, thanks for the heads-up. Turns out it was a syntax error (fucking syntax errors!) that was making all my links point to nowhere. Thanks especially to my hetero-lifemate Malach, without whose godlike wisdom I never could have untangled the intricacies of Icerocket. It's fixed now, so click any headlines you missed and feel free to subscribe if you haven't already.

I'm gonna try like hell to get the new Book of the Week up for Friday, but it may go up a day late. Think of it as an extra day to peruse my review of Stephen King's Cell, currently up now.

As planned, I went to the 8th annual Rhode Island Highland Games last Saturday. It was a small affair, with only four or so pipe bands, maybe a dozen vendors (mostly selling jewelry) and slim pickings in the entertainment department. I returned home with a sunburn, a couple of CDs and a book on mythical piper tales.

The CDs I bought were from the band Rathkeltair, piper Neil Anderson's current project. Neil was one of the founding members of Seven Nations and I had the good fortune to meet him at the Western Mass. Highland games a few years back. I knew Neil wouldn't be at the games last Saturday because he's been called to Iraq in the middle of his tour with the band. (I'm sure the Angry Veteran can sympathize with this, i.e. being yanked into deployment unexpectedly.) Anyway, I was wondering who the band was going to have as a fill-in piper, but it turns out they didn't have anyone. Just a fiddler. I left early.

Speaking of pipers (as I often do), one of my MySpace "friends" is the Cleveland Celtic Podcast. It's done by a cool lady who clearly loves Celtic music. She just did her 11th show, now available for download. I recommend the 10th show, as it deals with-you guessed it-bagpipers! If you're curious and want a sampling of The Angry Piper's CD collection, including some solo stuff by Neil Anderson, download it and give a listen.

If you are wondering about the title of this post, it's the number that greeted my disbelieving eyes when I stepped foot on the digital scale four days ago. So long did I stare that the LED display has burned the numerals forever into my retinas. Standing there on the scale, peering over my protruding gut, I came to a conclusion: I'm a fat fuck.

Now, I have no problem with fat on other people, particularly women, but on me it's a different story. Six years ago I weighed 215 lbs. Four years ago I was 220 lbs. Now I have a spare tire and a half and I'm developing man-boobs. (Well, okay, maybe that's a bit extreme.)

I attribute this drastic weight gain to three major factors: 1) I eat too much (duh). 2) I drink too much beer. 3) I lead a sedentary, slothful existence in which I sit on my ass 90% of the time.

Suffice it to say I'm nipping this in the fucking bud, before I have a rack like Anna-Nicole Smith. Inspired by my virtual friend Tel's weight loss, I have decided to diet and exercise. What I really should do is start practicing aikido again, as that would have dropping kilt sizes in no time. Of course, I'd have to learn to fall all over again.

Aside from the health and personal vanity issues, I have two major motivations to drop the weight. First: if my kilt no longer fits me, I'll be beyond pissed off, as it cost me enough so that I won't dream of altering it. Second, I don't want to endure the taunts of Dr. Mantodea ("Hey there, tubby!") or the Angry Veteran's brother ("You look like you're getting fat there, ya fat fuck. Look at you, you fat fucking fatty fatass! Eat much, you fat bastard?")

FYI: Those quotes are pretty much verbatim, and yeah, I can do without that.

Meet the Piper in Person!!!

2006-05-19T15:38:00.000-04:00

Here's where I'll be tomorrow, rain or shine:

http://www.riscot.org/index.htm

Look for me-I should be easy to spot. I'll be wearing a kilt.

Also, there's a new Book of the Week up at Angrypiper.com.

Job Insecurity, Part Deux

2006-05-15T18:51:00.000-04:00

Longtime readers of this blog may recall my rant on my job from months past. If you haven’t read it you should do so now, as you’ll be better informed regarding the rest of this post. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

I’d like to say things have changed at my job, but they haven’t. There are a lot of shady dealings going on—enough to amount to a word that starts with F and rhymes with “broad”. For example (and this is only one example of many), on March 28th, 2005 I, along with all my co-workers who have health insurance through work, received a letter from our health insurance company. It was my fourth such letter since I began work at my current place of employment almost three years ago. This one was delivered via certified mail. It said my health benefits “may” be terminated due to non-payment of insurance premiums by my employer.

Ahem. Allow me to explain:

What this basically means is that my employer has been taking MY portion of the insurance premiums that I have automatically deducted each pay period from MY check, hasn’t been kicking in his portion, and hasn’t been paying the provider. So, if he’s taking my money, why the fuck isn’t it getting to where it should be on time? More important, WHERE THE FUCK IS IT GOING?

So, I called my insurance company for some answers. They were remarkably un-helpful. They couldn’t (or wouldn’t) give me any more than the bare minimum amount of information, despite the fact that this is MY FUCKING MONEY we’re talking about. Why? Because technically, even though I’m a policyholder, their client is my place of employment, and they need to protect their confidentiality. What they did tell me was this: on March 31st, my policy “might” be cancelled retroactively from March 1st. That’s because on March 1st, my premium was due, and my boss didn’t pay it on time. In fact, as of the 28th, which is when I got the certified letter and when I made the call, he still hadn’t paid it. So, if I had gone to the doctor’s office, or got into an accident and required immediate medical attention, or had an X-ray or MRI or something on, say, March 15th, when I thought I was covered, I might possibly NOT be covered because this assclown I work for didn’t pay my insurance on time, despite the fact that he’s been taking MY FUCKING MONEY all along. The insurance company also told me that they sent this letter certified because the fourth time’s the charm. This time if they didn’t get their money by the end of the month I was officially without insurance. They let it slide the first three times, but I guess enough’s enough.

One of my co-workers didn’t take this news well. Rather than call the insurance company as I did later, she flipped out immediately. The Big Boss—the one who’s ultimately responsible for the insurance and who likes to play grabass with all the girls 25 years younger than him—wasn’t around. My boss, the asshat, is the toady who makes excuses for the Big Boss. He was on vacation in Texas that week. So my co-worker—who for the purposes of this blogpost I’ll call “The Bulldog”—calls the Big Boss’s second-in-command: his secretary, who I’ll call “No. 2”, for no particular reason. Honest.

The Bulldog calls No. 2 and screams at her on the phone; when she doesn’t get the answers she wants she hangs up on her. No. 2 comes downstairs, pissed off, and a shouting match ensues ‘twixt she and the Bulldog. Everyone in the office (except me, see below) gets involved. The threat of “calling the Labor Board” is made. Then the word “douchebag” is used.

(For the record, I’m out of the office on a home visit, doing my job, when this occurs. I don’t know anything about the letter yet, and I won’t hear about the chaos at the office until hours later.)

Predictably, when one handles an administrative issue such as the non-payment of insurance premiums by calling to the person who can get it fixed a “douchebag”, the result is less than satisfactory. Also, the original issue, i.e. the fact that the Big Boss is TAKING OUR FUCKING MONEY AND NOT PAYING OUR PREMIUMS WITH IT, gets lost, and it becomes all about unprofessional behavior in the office.

Not that I disagree with The Bulldog’s righteous indignation. In fact, when I got the letter I was ready to disjoint the Big Boss like a rotisserie chicken. But there’s a way to handle things.

Here’s how it all hashed out, a month ago: The premiums were paid at the last possible minute. I still have insurance. So far I haven’t got letter #5 (and I’d better not—fucking ever). Two of my co-workers, including The Bulldog, who referred to No. 2 as a “douchebag” and another who was also apparently too loud and/or antagonistic, were suspended for two days without pay. If everything I’ve heard is accurate, The Bulldog should have been fired, but then again, the Big Boss should be in jail for embezzlement, so I guess it works out evenly.

However, as of today, my agency’s uppance has come.

The State has come back for a follow-up, just to make sure we’re doing everything we said we would. Are we? The short answer is no.

My boss the asshat didn’t, as a rule, promote anyone to any kind of supervisory level, because he wants to be the King. That is, until he found out The State likes supervisors, because their work hours count for more with regards to financial reimbursement. So he relented and selected a nurse and a social worker and made them “coordinators” for their respective paradigms. (No, he didn’t ask me, but that’s ok. I take it as a sure sign he recognizes my competence.) “Coordinators” don’t make any more money and have no power at all, as being a supervisor under my boss is pretty much like playing the triangle in an orchestra. They get the title, and that’s it.

They’re an inspiration to the rest of us. We should aspire to be more like them in word and deed. Who is the social work coordinator, you ask? Why, The Bulldog, of course!

As I said many months back, my boss the asshat let go the one person who had a handle on The State and their fickle whims. He felt threatened by her competence. He was (correctly) afraid she’d make him look superfluous. The unfortunate side effect of not hiring competent people and not keeping people who are competent is that it’s completely against the best interests of the agency. As a result, no one has trained any new staff. Technically, training staff is the Program Director’s (i.e. Asshat’s) job, but he doesn’t do it. He doesn’t want anyone else to do it either, because he thinks that whoever’s doing the training will be seen as a supervisor. And he kinda always felt that what The State mandated was pretty much optional (especially if he felt it got in the way of making money), despite the fact it’s definitely NOT optional, that they can shut us down anytime, and they’re just looking for an excuse.

They won’t have to look hard this week. Several of the nurses I work with couldn’t find their asses with both hands, and the social workers, myself included, have been told so much contradictory information over the past few months that NO ONE is doing the same thing in the same way. Patient charts look like total butt; a result of the crazy amount of staff turnover my agency experiences as a matter of course. No one gets fired, especially the people who should be, but all the good ones leave because of the shenanigans that are routine. Who wants to put their license on the line committing fraud for a jackoff (i.e. The Big Boss) who has an assload of money to begin with?

I’ve been looking for a job for a long time, but haven’t found one yet. That’s ok with me, because I’ve come to some peaceful realizations: 1) I can, if necessary, collect unemployment if the agency closes, though I’ve never done so in my life and I‘d much rather have a job. 2) If my insurance is cancelled, I will sue the living Christ out of the Big Boss. I called the labor board already. With the stuff I know, he really, really, REALLY shouldn’t fuck with me on this, or anything else. 3) I don’t want to do this job or any kind of social work any longer. I’m done with it. I know what I want to do. I just need to find a way to do it.

In other words, all those who care about The Angry Piper and fear for his financial status should rest easy. I appreciate the support, but I’ve got this one handled perfectly. I am not in the least bit concerned, and neither should you be. I’ll post an update at the end of the week and let y’all know if I’m still employed.

Or maybe sooner, depending on The State. :)

More WOW, and More Anger (I Promise)

2006-05-08T19:03:00.000-04:00

Lately, I have been lax in my anger. It’s true. I know it, and you know it.

I'm supposed to be The Angry Piper, for fuck's sake. I have all but handed over my rage to Dr.Mantodea, The Angry Veteran, and now Angryman. But you all know who was angry first.

Of course, that doesn’t count for shit; no one stays on top forever. To that end I have turned my attention to recalling my hatred, bile and rage from wherever they’ve been on vacation. Expect the first of many Angry Rants within the week at Angrypiper.com.

There’s a new Book of the Week up as of yesterday. Friday updates resume this week on the 12th.

My MySpace profile currently features music by The Tossers, a Chicago-based Irish/punk band. Check them out. No piper, but I like them a lot. Hey Malach, they sound like The Pogues to you, too? (By the way, I’m still in need of friends. I can't bear feeling less liked than Malach.)

In other news: Man, The WOW is getting huge.

It’s been officially up on Wikipedia for almost two weeks, and the blog itself has only existed since the 20th of April. I’m very happy to be a part of it, and that alone should be enough to get your lazy arses over there to check out what's doin'. But just in case it’s not, in addition to yours truly you can also find Lovable Crackpot and Elderly Widow-Chaser Hobbs von Wackamole; Resident Mental Health Specialist Dr. Robert J.Murk; Athiest, Physical Freak and Misfit of Science Dr. Mantodea; Escaped Mental Patient Malach the Merciless, Extraterrestrial Secretary of Agriculture Spacefarmer, Disgruntled Secret Agent The Angry Veteran, and Crystal-Polishing, Friend to Faeries Tree-hugger Just Me. Plus a lot of other people I don’t know (yet), but who seem pretty cool and intelligent. You never know who will post when; we’re averaging several posts a day and we already have 82 posts! That’s more posts in less than three weeks than I had on my blog in over a year!

It’s our hope that the WOW will become a huge online community, with lots of people sharing ideas and information. We want lots of input. So far we’re off to a great start; our posts generate lots of comments and debate. You don't have to be a contributor to comment on anything you read on the WOW. There’s something for everyone, a wide range of topics both serious and funny; but if you feel we left something out, you could always contribute something yourself. Thus far we have 19 contributors and counting. It’s wicked easy to be a contributor: just send an email to rubbersuitman@rubbersuitstudios.com and ask to be one. We’re not a clique and we turn down almost nobody, so long as you can express yourself intelligently. (Actually, that’s more of a guideline; we’ve got Malach, after all, and we’d even take Joey Polanski.)

(Just kidding, Joey.)

Announcement

2006-04-28T15:05:00.000-04:00

The new Angry Piper's Book of the Week is now up, but you knew that already if you subscribed to my RSS feed. Sorry for the lateness, but real life got in the way. Besides, it's not like I'm getting paid. Yet.

I now have my own theme song, thanks to some devoted fans who left Dr.Murk a wake-up call; namely that I rule and he doesn't. Go to his blog, check it out and get the anthem. If you listened to the St. Patrick's Day Podcast, you heard a sampling of my melodious singing voice as I paid tribute to Sir William Wallace. You'll note a musical similarity between my anthem and his. If you haven't listened to the podcast, shame, shame on you.

Check out the WOW; we're up to 19 contributors and counting. Comment on what's there or become a contributor yourself. I'll be posting a follow-up to my post on my rampant alcoholism; it seems many concerned folks took me a little too seriously.

Nice to have friends, though.

The WOW!

2006-04-25T18:23:00.000-04:00

The WOW is open. What is it? Well, you could be pro-active and follow the link and see. But if you want the short version: the WOW is a blog, with lots of contributors--17 and counting as of this post. I just posted there mere moments ago. Check it out-it's all about my descent into alcoholism. Cheery stuff.

What's it about? You mean you still haven't followed that link? Fine, here's another. The WOW is so cool it deserves two links. It's about anything. Anything you want to post, barring hardcore porn. (Incidentally, that wasn't my idea; I'm all for porn. But I guess it's a good thing since my 12 year old goddaughter sometimes reads this blog. Thank God she's smart enough to realize that The Angry Piper and her godfather aren't necessarily the same person.)

Why should you at least check out the WOW? Because if you're lazy, it's for you. You get Malach, Dr. Murk, Hobbs von Wackamole, The Angry Veteran, Spacefarmer, Dr. Mantodea, and ME all in one place! Plus many other contributors! Got somethin' to say? YOU can be a contributor too--it's easy. Or you could just reply to whatever's on there now or shows up in the future.

Why are we all hanging out together so much? That's to be announced-but let's just say I'm giddy with anticipation. Expect a big announcement soon. Meanwhile, check out the WOW!

Now The Angry Piper is a member of three--THREE sites! Ah-ah-ah!!!!!

Cracking the Code

2006-04-21T15:26:00.000-04:00

Those of you who have read the Preface to my Book of the Week column (which should be all of you) are familiar with one of my basic rules: I do not review books I do not like, as the purpose of my column is to recommend and discuss books I think have value rather than belittle books I think have none.

This week I break this rule in a giant-sized article at Hill-TV.

You may have heard of the book up for review this week: it's called The Da Vinci Code. I expect my review to spark much comment and discussion and for that reason have included my email and links to the forum. Make no mistake: I think this book is a colossal bucket of suck.

Why Hill-TV? Because I owe them an article, and because they're cool. And because Dr. Murk is much easier to work for than The Generalissimo ever was, so all y'all who want to contribute should go right ahead. Thanks to chAng and Ben Byrd and anyone else I missed who has contributed lately.

Next week The Angry Piper's Book of the Week returns to its regular format with one of my favorite books of all time. Meanwhile, check this out (warning: nudity). That Dr. Murk is one hell of a ladies' man. I'm thinking about asking Beth, Dog's wife, to do the same for Angrypiper.com; then my ad could be seen from orbit.

Not surprisingly, I'm still in need of friends. Despite the fact that I hate Myspace, I find it irksome that Malach has way more friends than me. Between the two of us, I think we all know who's the Fonz and who's Ralph Malph. Vote Fonzie. (Fonzie is me.)

I'm currently reading Demonology, by Rick Moody. Moody is a writer whose skill with language I truly covet. Eve: you're gonna want to read this one, too.

Cartoon Network's Justice League Season One came out on DVD, and I just got paid. At this point, what I do next should surprise no one.

PS: The inspiration for the title of this post has nothing to do with Da Vinci and everything to do with The Angry Veteran, who cracks codes for fun. We assume he learned in the military, but everything he did there was top secret and he never talks about it. Some say he never left...

Gotta go. Some guys in suits and dark glasses are knocking on my door.

Pssst.....

2006-04-18T21:07:00.000-04:00

See that new thingie on the right, underneath that handsome profile picture of yours truly? That's my new RSS feed. Thanks to Malach for the help in getting it up and running the way I want it. Here's the deal...click on it, subscribe to my feed, and you'll be made aware of every update on this blog and on Angrypiper.com. Then you can visit either one your leisure.

Now that I have a RSS feed, coming to my sites randomly in hopes of an update is for Melvins. It's kinda pointless with the feed and all, but if you still do it that way it'll drive up my webtraffic, so whatever; it's win-win for me.

There will be a special edition of The Angry Piper's Book of the Week this Friday. Stay tuned for details (or subscribe to my RSS feed).

I'm addicted to Deadliest Catch on the Discovery Channel. The soundtrack features a lot of uilleann pipe music. In the cold winter months when he's not planting trees, my brother is a commercial fisherman. He's told me stories of nightmare weather conditions and waves that dwarf the boat, not to mention some of the nasty things he drags out of the nets-things that would make a billygoat puke. But nothing he's ever told me compares to one episode of Deadliest Catch. I worry about my brother when he's out fishing, but I thank Christ he's not crabbing on the Bering Sea. I'm fascinated by this show; any time I think my job sucks I think about what these guys do for a living. Anyone who thinks Alaskan King Crab fishermen are overpaid should watch one episode of Deadliest Catch.

Started a new PS2 game-The Bard's Tale. So far I'm loving it; I'm only twenty minutes into the game and I'm already hearing bagpipe music. I have a feeling I'm gonna like this game.

Personal message to Auntie Sassy: Sass, I don't know if you even read this blog anymore, but I just figured I'd let you know that your boyfriend Nathan Fillion is in Slither. I don't know if he's worth watching a movie about space slugs; it looks kinda gross. But I just figured I'd tell you (I'm sure you knew already).

And re: your comment on my Myspace page: Don't hate me 'cuz I'm beautiful.

Piper Newsflash

2006-04-13T16:47:00.000-04:00

Hello all. Some newsy bits for you:

Item: First off, Malach still hasn't helped me set up that damn RSS feed. He tells me he will, tells me to call him, and then when I do he doesn't pick up the phone. For toying with my emotions in such a cruel manner, I implore all of you who read this to go to his blog and unleash a stream of vituperation and abuse upon him. Not that it will work, but it will make me feel better.

Item: Those of you who listened to the St. Patrick's Day Podcast should know this: it seems I will soon get my longtime wish; namely to punt Dr. Murk squarely in the applebag. While this will no doubt be unpleasant for the good doc (you see the boots I wear?), most of you appear to want this, since we got few responses despite the staggering number of downloads of said podcast. Those of you who have no idea what this means should go and download the podcast maintenant!

Item: It seems the asshats over at the Wikipedia Liberation Organization have done an article on yours truly. I'm flattered. It's all true, too...except it's angrypiper.com, not The Angry Piper.com. Douche-nozzles. (I've been waiting to use that. Thanks, Tel) Think you can do better? Post your own article.

Item: Thanks to all who have applied to be my friend so far...I turn down no one (although most of you were already my friends). Nevertheless, you meet some interesting folks on Myspace...check out this guy. A bit theatrical (look who's talking), but he's playing a kind of bagpipe I've only ever seen before in pictures. Wulf, dude- if you by any chance read this blog, drop me a message and explain that instrument. It looks to me like either a droneless bagpipe (a chorus), or one with a bass drone only. I'm really digging the sound, too; eerily haunting and quite good. Too bad you're out West because I'd love to see you guys play.

Item: Tomorrow is Friday, and so you should all make plans to stop by The Angry Piper's Book of the Week for the update. Unless, of course, you're an asshole like this guy. While you're there, checkout any weeks you may have missed. This week: Pigs in Heaven by Barbara Kingsolver, not to be confused with Pigs in Space, the Muppet soap opera featuring Link Hogthrob, Dr. Julius Strangepork and Miss Piggy. Two very different things.

Item: I've been playing Fantastic Four on Playstation 2. I bought it because I'm a huge fan of the FF, but I have to say that much like the movie, the game is far from Fantastic. In fact, it's so disappointing it could (and should) be called the Mediocre Four. I let Dr. Murk borrow Silent Hill 2 and Fatal Frame (for my thoughts on those go here) it's my hope he shits his pants in terror, and that Mrs. Doctor Murk rubs his nose in it like an errant dog. That would rule.

Item: So how about this whole Gospel of Judas thing?

Usually, I leave all the religious discourse to The Symbol, but this is just too weird: about a year ago I read a book entitled The Gospel of Judas, by Simon Mawer. This fictional work basically dealt with the discovery of a manuscript pre-dating the Gospels, allegedly written by Judas himself, that refutes the divinity of Christ. It falls into the hands of a Catholic priest who has to decide whether to release it, thereby undermining centuries of Catholic doctrine, or whether to keep it secret for the good of a Church he's not certain he believes in any longer. The book was ok- as in I didn't have a strong opinion about it one way or the other-but it coulda been better considering its premise. I passed it on to Dr. Murk about a month ago, because he likes that kinda thing. But now all of a sudden there's a real Gospel of Judas that's supposedly surfaced...and while it doesn't call the divinity of Christ into question, it does paint Judas in a somewhat better light. You see, according to this text, it appears Judas betrayed Christ at Jesus's request, which means that by doing so, he was fulfilling the wishes of Jesus and not throwing him to the wolves. If it's authentic, it certainly calls into question the "suicide" of Judas afterwards, as outlined in two of the four Gospels (don't ask me which ones; I'm so lapsed I don't even care), as well as...well, centuries of Catholic doctrine. Maybe we should wait and see what The Pope has to say about it.

Item: United 93. Too fucking soon. Way too fucking soon.

I'm off to work on the website (and drink beer). TTFN.

Will You Be My Friend?

2006-04-09T14:07:00.000-04:00

So, you want to be friends with The Angry Piper? Good luck. To be honest, the Piper is an antisocial creature, and he'd probably rather rub shit in his hair than hang out with the likes of you. He's too angry, too mean-and hey, let's face it-too cool to be your friend. Unless you happen to be a Norwegian chick living in San Francisco, or Dog the Bounty Hunter's wife, or Paddy Keenan, Mickey Spillane, or Dr. Murk. Then you might have a chance.

Besides, even though you think you want to be my friend, you wouldn't want to hang out with me in person. I smell like bagipe wax and spilled beer. And that's AFTER my shower.

But dont fret, Gilligan. You can still call yourself my friend, through the magic of Myspace. My therapist, Dr. Murk, thought it would be constructive for me to form lots more insipid and superficial relationships with no real time committment or emotional investiture, so I signed up.

I can't promise to be a good friend. Don't look to me to be the shoulder to cry on or the guy who remembers birthdays, because it won't happen. At best-and I mean absolute best-I can be an indifferent friend. In other words, one who will add you to my friend list if you request it, and who will expose you to good music by occasionally updating his Myspace profile (in fact, go there now and see what's playing); but who ultimately doesn't give a flaming shit about you (much like everyone else on Myspace).

In other news, angrypiper.com is being updated in small ways daily. Right now I'm working on my RSS Feed, so that you can subscribe to it and get notifications of updates delivered right to your waiting desktop. Having problems with the feed, though; I need Malach to help me out (slapping forehead).

Of course, there was a new Angry Piper's Book of the Week posted on Friday, so swing on by if you haven't yet, and feel free to comment on it at the Forums.

I live for your approval. Be my friend.

Announcements and Thanks

2006-04-03T19:08:00.000-04:00

OK, so Angrypiper.com has officially been up for less than a week, and it's time to pay some debts.

First, thanks to my therapist, Dr. Robert J. Murk, and my hetero-lifemate, Malach, for all the help with the technical shit. Thanks especially to Malach for the graphics and for making the wicked cool Angry Piper banner that graces my site. Murk also wrote a fine sendoff for yours truly on his blog. Visit it.

Thanks to Spacefarmer, who tirelessly scours the Internet daily for stuff like Dancin' Van Damme, and then conveniently posts it on his blog.

I had dinner (and drinks) last night with Dr. Mantodea. I had a goat cheese and artichoke pizza. He ate some live locusts. We pretty much had the place to ourselves in short order, as you might imagine. During the meal, he informed me it's Man-TOE-dea, not Manto-DAY-uh, which is how I pronounced it in the St. Patrick's Day podcast. I hate when I sound like an uneducated jackass. Guess I need to brush up on my French.

My site's been up for less than a week, and already it's attracted a great deal of interest. More people read this blog than I would ever have guessed. I'm flattered and amazed by this, but not as surprised as I was when I saw the stats on the Book of the Week; who knew there were so many readers out there, and that they actually give a shit about MY opinion?

A LOT of people have visited Angrypiper.com already; more people than I can personally account for by far. I know the rest of you are out there, and it would be swell if you would join the forums. We hope to get some good topics going. Drop by and browse. Join if you've got something to say and want to be heard.

So what can you expect from the website? Well, for one thing, a return to the Angry Piper of old (i.e. the anger will return) in a section entitled "Angry Rants". It's also the new home of The Angry Piper's Book of the Week (formerly at Hill-TV, and still accessible from there). I've been holding to my weekly schedule for almost two months now, so yay me. Updates will usually be on Fridays. There will be articles on bagpiping, podcasts, and a heap of links to great music and cool shit all over the web. Keep in mind it's under construction;not everything's there yet, but it will be soon enough. There's even a way to contact me directly, something I didn't think I'd ever consent to, until I realized chicks might want to send me naked pictures. (Yeah. This is me, holding my breath.)

I will still be involved with Hill-TV (especially now, since I've killed the Generalissimo under contract from Dr. Murk, and I don't have to keep looking over my shoulder). Look there for something from me soon.

This blog will continue to be hosted by Blogger for the time being, but soon I will be moving the whole kit 'n caboodle over to Angrypiper.com. You'll have plenty of advance notice, so quitcher bitchin' before you start.

There's also been some interest from an unexpected source. I can't say much about it now, but some of you know who I'm talking about. Let's all keep our fingers crossed; it could be exciting news indeed.

Man-TOE-dea. Got it.

Listen Up, Ya Wee Jessies!

2006-03-30T20:52:00.000-05:00

Angrypiper.com is UP!

Get your arses over there and check it out, or I'll be kickin' your hairless pink ba-hookies!

www.angrypiper.com

New Angry Piper's Book of the Week on 3/31!!!

Here's how Van Damme reacted to the news!

Big News!!!

2006-03-18T08:33:00.000-05:00

New St. Patrick's Day Podcast is up!!! New Book of the Week today!!! And then, of course...there's this!!!

Hill-TV!!! I wanna dip my balls in it!!!!!

50th Post!

2006-03-14T20:14:00.000-05:00

I like black and white -dream in black and white
You like black and white
Run Run away
See chameleon lying there in the sun
All things to everyone
Run Run away

If you're in the swing -money ain't everything
If you're in the swing
Run Run away
See chameleon lying there in the sun
All things to everyone
Run Run away

If you got it sussed-don't beat around the bush
If you got it sussed
Run Run away
See chameleon lying there in the sun
All things to everyone
Run Run away

Run Run away

Shoveling Snow in a Kilt

2006-03-08T13:18:00.000-05:00

Sounds like a hip title for my first book, like Amy Tan's Saving Fish From Drowning or Peter Pouncey's Rules For Old Men Waiting. Too bad you can't copyright a title.

Speaking of books, check out the new Angry Piper's Book of the Week if you haven't already. I'm actually kept to the weekly schedule for two whole weeks in a row, and new one is already written for Friday!

Photos courtesy of Malach the Merciless, taken last week at his evil Himalayan fortress while inside his kids watched Ben 10. Chez Malach also boasts the latest in evil ergonomics...note the crazy-handled shovel embedded in the snow. The Son of Malach drew me a picture of a "robot circle"; obvious evidence that the evil continues unto the next generation.

After shoveling, Malach bet me I couldn't sled down this hill without hitting any trees. I showed his ass.

He promised he'd turn off his electric fence.

He fucking lied.

PiperFAQ 2006

2006-03-01T16:29:00.000-05:00

Questions. Seems lots of you have them. About this blog. About friends of this blog. About me.

Q: What’s going on with Hill-TV?
A: Heads are rolling over at Hill TV. Dramatic upheavals in management. Out with the old, in with the new. Major overhauls in the works. Check this out. Despite this, Hill TV’s mission has not changed, nor will it change. We’re hoping what does change will be positive, starting with a new site design. We welcome feedback, so let us know.
We also welcome help. Get inspired and do something.

Q: Waaaaah….I’m a nancy and change is threatening to me…waaaaah. If Hill TV is changing, how do I know I will still want to go there?
A: There will be new and better updates frequently. The Pope is sticking around. More fiction is forthcoming, plus a whole slew of exciting new things. We plan on pushing the envelope, and we’re hoping you will, too. So if you’ve been dropping by, we’re hoping you’ll continue. If you haven’t been, we hope you give it a shot.

Q: What about The Angry Piper’s Book of the Week? Will you still be doing that?
A: To my surprise, people actually read it, so yeah, I will continue doing it. I hope to be involved with Hill TV in other ways as well—stay tuned.

Q: What’s the deal with this “of the week” bullshit? You think we’re morons? You only had one selection in February and one in January. Before that, it was biweekly at best. In fact, it’s NEVER been weekly! You suck, Piper! You’re nothing but a great big phony! Eat shit and die!
A: Um…yeah. I guess I deserve that.
I suppose I could say “it’s not the quantity, it’s the quality” or some shit like that, but I won’t. Because when it comes down to it, “of the week” means one a week. That’s what I promised, so that’s what I should deliver, right?
My agent had a talk with the new management at Hill TV and they ironed it out. I have decided to look at my column as a job (albeit one I don’t get paid for), meaning I have a deadline: every Friday there should be a new post up, assuming the crack team of web designers on the Hill remember to post it. I’m not involved in that technical stuff…I just write the words. As proof of my continued commitment, the first of the new posts is up now. The next will be posted on Friday (web designers permitting).
In fact, the next 3 installments are already written. Booyah.

Q: Why are your reviews so short?
A: Because, snapperhead, I’m not writing a thesis on each book. I’m merely reviewing them. As I don’t review books I don’t like, reviewing is defined as stating what I like or admire about the book and/or author in question, and the reason why I recommend it. While I don’t have a firm word count limit, I find a page or two is plenty. Anything else is pontification.

Q: What if I want to comment on your reviews? You know, wax philosophical about books and shit? Agree or disagree? Recommend books to review? Put MY two cents in about YOUR two cents?
A: Well, lucky you. There’s a forum for exactly that. It’s called Minimum Security, and it’s a forum for Rubbersuit Studios, Stool Sample Webcomics, Dr. Murk’s World, Hill TV and a host of other stuff. The Angry Piper has his very own section on there, and boy would I love it if someone other than Malach posted to it every once in a while.

Q: What else do you have planned?
A: Well, I have been asked to take part in the Murk and Malach Show’s first annual St. Patrick’s Day podcast, so look for that around the 17th or so. This blog will continue more or less in its present form. As for other stuff, stay tuned.

Q: Is there any way to contact The Angry Piper directly?
A: Let me tell y’all a story. It’s an allegory. Gather ‘round.
Once upon a time there was a very famous Mexican luchador, El Santo. El Santo always wore a mask over his face so his true identity was never revealed to his legions of fans. He wrestled for decades, even wrestling such illustrious competition as Dracula and the Wolfman.
I am not a fan of wrestling, especially Mexican wrestling since I don’t speak Spanish. I know of El Santo because I once went to Dr. Mantodea’s house (before his unfortunate accident, of course) and he opened the door dressed as El Santo, right down to the silver boots. He will tell you it was because of a Halloween party, but it was May. Cue awkward moment.
Anyway, after a while, El Santo began to grow old. He was not as flashy or as quick as he once was. He decided to retire while he was still the greatest luchador of all time. Know what he did?
He took off his mask, and presto! Adios, El Santo. True story.
The Angry Piper is not real, he is the alter-ego of someone far less interesting. If you know who the Piper is in real life, bully for you. If not, understand this: only some of the things he writes are true. Some are exaggerations, fabrications, or outright lies. When reading this blog, a good rule of thumb is the following: If the Piper seems pissed, he probably is. Examples are found here and here. If he’s trying to be funny or exaggerate, like here and here, chances are you should take what he’s saying with a grain of salt. Bottom line: don’t take everything literally.
Like El Santo, The Angry Piper values his anonymity, and there may be a day when he wishes to quietly vanish into the vastness of the Interweb. Until that day you can contact him via two methods: post to this blog or post to Minimum Security. It costs nothing to join, you won’t get spam, you’re probably smarter than everyone else on the site (except for Dr. Murk, of course) and you don’t even have to post regularly (but it would be cool if you did). If you absolutely MUST send the Piper some email, send it to rubbersuitman@rubbersuitstudios.com and Mr. Rubbersuitman will ensure I get it, but keep in mind anything you send to me will likely be read by him first. You hear that, Mantis? Stop sending me pictures of your dangly unmentionables!

Q: Is the Angry Piper the same person as the Angry Veteran?
A: Who? Oh, him. Sorry, I almost forgot about him, seeing how he’s dropped off the face of the earth. No. The AV is much more successful than the AP and has his shit together. The Piper is not a veteran and would never willingly enter the Armed Forces, as he has a problem with authoritaah. Another key difference is that the AP updates his blog, whereas the AV hasn’t since December 1st of last year. Also, the AV doesn’t share the Piper’s annoying habit of referring to himself in the third person.

Q: Is Malach gay?
A: Is the Pope Catholic? Is Bill O’Reilly an asshole? Is Dr. Phil a fat, bald jackass who owes his every success to Oprah's fickle whim? Is Kevin Federline the person most unworthy of your attention in the entire fucking world? In other words, you betcha.

On the Run

2006-02-23T17:16:00.000-05:00

Three A.M. The night still and silent. Doorway stinks of the street. Breath comes in plumes of white smoke. It’s cold enough.

No activity in the apartment—my apartment. Looks clear. No lights. No movement. Empty as when I left it. Maybe.

Pain in my legs. Pins and needles. Waiting too long here in the cold. Here in the dark. Time to move.

Hands in my pockets. Shoulders down. Avoid the light. Put on my street face. Blend in with the neighborhood, blend in with the dark. Move quickly (but don’t hurry) across the street to my door. Fish the keys out of my pocket on the way up the steps.

Car engine coughs. Don’t panic (ohshitohshitohshit). Stay calm. Black limousine: no headlights, dark windows. Glides down the street like oil down a stripper’s ass crack. Didn’t want to be seen before, but wants to now. Hum of the back window descending. All dark inside but for the glow of a cigar.

Keys are a dead weight in my hands—useless. Like trying to unlock my door with a marshmallow. From the car comes the stare. The presence. And then…

The cigar. Just enough for me to see it. Tap tap. Ash like falling snow.

Eight beats of my heart. The car window closes. Headlights ignite and the car slides away, quiet as if it were floating. I’ve been given a warning.

Two taps. Two days.

I know better than to try and run. The Generalissimo seldom gives warnings, and never twice.

The new Angry Piper’s Book of the Week will be up soon. Watch for it at Hill-TV.

Remember me?

2006-02-22T19:35:00.000-05:00

Hi there. Been a while.

After my last post I vowed I would not return until my shitty Internet access issues were resolved.

They’re resolved. I’m back.

What have I been doing in the meantime, you ask? I don’t have to tell you. You’re not the boss of me.

I’ll tell you anyway.

What I’m reading: The Apothecary Rose, by Candace Robb. What I’m playing: Incredible Hulk: Ultimate Destruction on PS2. What I’m watching: American Gothic on DVD, and The Shield every Tuesday night at 10. What I’m listening to: Howard Stern on Sirius satellite radio.

The Apothecary Rose is a historical mystery, the first featuring Robb’s Owen Archer, a one-eyed spy in medieval England. I have a thing for historical mysteries, particularly good ones. Many are instantly forgettable. This one is good.

Incredible Hulk: Ultimate Destruction kicks ass. You get to be the Hulk. The Angry Piper loves his comic books, and has been collecting them since 7th grade. Despite having a full run of Marvel’s Incredible Hulk from roughly 1989 to present, I was never much of a Hulk fan (although his unofficial blog is hysterical, despite not being updated in almost a year). He’s a classic archetype of the Beast Within, but he was rarely portrayed that way; instead he was often just a big strong monster who kicks the ass of another monster every month. Bo-ring. The Ang Lee film took the Hulk in a different direction (following closely the influential Peter David work on the comic), but it too was pretty boring, topped with an incomprehensible ending (the scenes with the Hulk in them were the best, and they took up less than a third of the film). The game based on the movie sucked even worse.

Well, Ultimate Destruction redeems the gaming license, although I won’t pretend there’s much in the way of tortured psyches or the theme of id vs. superego in the game. No. You’re the fucking Hulk. And what does the Hulk do? All together now: HULK SMASH!!!!!!

Did I say this game kicks ass? Oh yeah. Smash cars. Toss trucks. Hurl soldiers. Obliterate tanks. Swat ‘copters. Level buildings. Splinter trees. Swing telephone poles like clubs. The controller even has a button that serves only one purpose: make the Hulk roar.

Nothing like flattening an entire city block and then having a good roar. Quite cathartic. I’ll have to let Dr. Murk borrow this one after I finish it.

I loved American Gothic, despite the fact that Dr. Mantodea clued me in to one important and annoying fact: on the DVD set, all the episodes are out of chronological order. Instead, they’re in the order they aired on television, with 4 unaired episodes rounding out the set. This makes the story somewhat difficult to follow, as there’s little in the way of continuity. It’s now easier to see why the show didn’t make it…die-hard fans can overlook shit like this, but the run-of-the-mill viewer isn’t going to continue tuning into something that makes no sense (unless it’s Twin Peaks, I guess). And, if I may address one of my loyal readers directly:

Tel, as I’m fond of repeating, I love you in the way only two people who have never met (and probably will never meet) can love. Don’t be a silly goose. I don’t fault you for not appreciating American Gothic, and I agree with you that if it was remade today, especially on HBO, which produces shows like Carnivale, Rome, and of course, Deadwood, it would be an exponentially better show. Despite this, I like it…although I realize it’s no Jeepers Creepers 2 (ZING!). :)

Five seasons in, The Shield is still the best fucking cop show ever. Better, in my opinion, than NYPD Blue, and that’s some high praise from me.

My Sirius subscription is the best money I’ve spent in a while. Of course, I spend an assload of time in my car and I’m a Howard Stern fan. But even if you’re not, there are so many other cool stations that it’s worth trying it out for a couple of months. Commercial and censorship-free radio is wotrth the 12 bucks a month, take my word for it.

My biggest pet peeve with Sirius is that there’s no Celtic music station (not a pet peeve most people are likely to share). There are 4 Latin music stations, and while I understand Celtic tunes are not as popular, I was hoping they would at least play some on The Globe, Sirius’s “World Music” station. Well, since I got my radio installed 3 weeks ago, The Globe has played ONLY Rolling Stones songs. I appreciate the Stones, but not enough to justify devoting an entire channel to them, particularly when said channel is billed as “World Music”. Oh well. Howard’s channels alone are worth the subscription; he didn’t take the freedom of uncensored radio and turn it into non-stop lesbians and strippers (not that I have anything against either, but I really don’t find listening to them arousing or entertaining). Instead, he has lots of comic bits he could never have done on terrestrial radio. And believe me, they’re funny as hell.

Well, that’s about it for now. This was just to alleviate the fears of those who may have felt I was either dead or in prison these past few weeks. Look for more posts in a couple of days, as I have lots to say about a great many things. Changes are a’comin’ folks.

And thanks to Malach for his milk carton crusade. I was touched. Really.

Scots Wha’ Ha’e!

2006-01-25T17:56:00.000-05:00

Despite the persistent and stubborn belief of Dr. Murk and Malach, The Angry Piper is NOT Scottish; I just sometimes look the part by wearing the plaid and playing the pipes. However, if I was Scottish, then today I’d be celebrating Robert Burns Day in Scotland. Robert Burns was a poet, responsible for many a powerful song and poem (like Address to a Haggis-no kidding) reminding Scots they were Scots; not British, and certainly nae English! In the US, he’s most remembered for penning the words to Auld Lang Syne, better known as the New Year’s song that no one knows the words to (most people “sing” it in one continuous, drunken slur as the ball drops. It’s also at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life.)

Anyway, Robbie Burns Day is a day of national pride in Scotland. It’s also an excuse to get drunk while pretending to venerate a historical figure (not like we Irish have any days like that). So, to my large Scottish friend, and for all Scots braw and wee, take pride in your lineage and have a Belhaven Ale or a can of Irn Bru in celebration!

I was gonna stop there, but since I’m online I might as well make the best of my time. Long ago, before his um…unfortunate accident, the Mantis told me of a show I should have been watching. Soon afterwards it went off the air before I had a chance to watch it, and it has only recently become available on DVD. The show I am speaking of is called American Gothic, and I am now about 10 episodes into the 22 that were made before the show met its untimely demise, due to typical network stupidity.

Normally I’d rather rub shit in my hair than tell the Mantis he was right about anything, partly because I’d hate to make his head any bigger than it already is (look at his picture, for Chrissakes!), but also out of pure spite. After watching the show, however, I must confess that Dr. Mantodea was right. This show was great. I always thought Gary Cole would forever be Lumbergh from Office Space to me, but I was wrong. Although they’re two very different characters, Lumbergh has got nothing on Sheriff Lucas Buck (“That’s Buck, with a B”). How this show got ignored is beyond me, especially as it came out in 1995, shortly after the Twin Peaks phenomenon. It’s another example of a great show (like Firefly) that got no support from its parent network.

Rent it. Netflix it. Buy it. Just see it.

And if you have seen it, let’s talk about it. That Sheriff Buck is one evil son-of-a-bitch.

I have to go. “Someone’s at the door…”

Things I Learned Since I Turned 18.

2006-01-23T10:28:00.001-05:00

At age 18, I learned that girlfriends and best friends can be fleeting. Especially when they have sex with each other behind your back and then lie about it to your face.

At age 19, I learned that as a male, my sexual peak was the year before. So much for that.

At 20, I learned that some divorces are good things.

At age 21, I discovered what it felt like to be lusted after by a woman 17 years my senior.

A l’age vingt-deux, j’ai m’apprendu j’adore les grandes bonnes femmes. I think I may have forgotten my French since then.

At 23, I learned what it felt like to almost lose a brother.

At age 24, I learned not to trust academic advisors.

At age 25, I realized that if I was lucky and lived to age 75, I was 33% dead.

At 26, I learned it’s not smart to have a relationship with your best friend’s sister. It’s also weird.

At 27, I learned there’s a lot of porn on the Internet. And it’s free.

At age 28, I learned it’s never a good idea to ask a friend you haven’t seen in a few years how his wife is doing. Especially when the answer is: “I wouldn’t know. After the death of our infant son, she left me and our daughter for another woman. She can burn in hell.” Unless, of course, you like awkward silences. Then ask away.

At age 29, I learned it’s never worth it to work for an asshole who is much dumber than you.

At age 30 I learned that just because you play the saxophone doesn’t mean you can play the bagpipes. Despite the fact they both have reeds and are woodwinds, they’re almost nothing alike. They are alike in that they’re both dumb things to buy off the Internet without playing them (and seeing if they work) first.

At 31, I didn’t learn a goddamn thing. I also forgot what I learned when I was 29.

At age 32, I had a bitch of a headache, so I drilled a hole in my skull. The Angry Piper sprang forth, fully-formed, and I learned that contrary to popular wisdom, some people do like a smartass.

At age 33, I came across this bit of wisdom from author Allegra Goodman: “If you want to write, or really create anything, you have to risk falling on your face. How much easier to sit back and snipe at the efforts of yourself and others. How sophisticated you can become, your own contribution unimpeachable, because it doesn’t exist.”

Or, in the words of Pat Walsh, “The number one reason why your book will never be published is that you haven’t written it.”

At age 33, consider the kick in the pants received.

Don't Panic!

2006-01-16T18:57:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Douglas Adams for the title inspiration.

Due to circumstances beyond the Angry Piper's control, this blog is on temporary hiatus while it gets its shit together re: the shitty Internet access of its owner. Dial-up sucks ass, folks.

I stress the word temporary. I'll have real Internet access again soon enough, so rest assured all the hate and bile I've been saving up will burst forth like Old Faithful. Don't panic, all those who fret and worry over the Piper's absence (meaning you, Tel): I'll be back.

Soon.

With a new Piper's Book of the Week at Hill TV (and some Ben-Gay, if you're lucky).

The Piper on Paper

2006-01-01T10:43:00.000-05:00

UPDATE: The new Angry Piper's Book of the Week is up at Hill-TV. Rush on over and get some book learnin'.

I love roleplaying games. They're fun. My thoughts on gaming-one of my favorite hobbies- can be found here, and you should read them to rid yourself of any prejudices you may have towards gamers in general (Tel, I'm looking in your direction). While we are all geeks to some extent, they say you have reached the pinnacle of gaming geekdom if you create a character based on yourself. (Personally, I believe you have surpassed the pinnacle of geekdom and are shooting for the geek stars if you do any form of live-action roleplaying(LARP-ing), particularly with costumes.)

Anyway, consider the pinnacle reached. All you gamers out there (and all you NGs who just want a chuckle) here are the stats for....

THE ANGRY PIPER

Strength: 11
Dexterity: 11
Constitution: 14
Intelligence: 16
Wisdom: 12
Charisma: 5

For all you non-gamers, typical scores range from 3-18, with a 10 being average. As you can see, the AP is above average in almost every area, with the exception of Charisma. This is due to his general hatred of humanity, angry outlook, and the fact that he smells of bagpipe wax, which stinks to high heaven. The high Constitution may surprise some people who know the AP personally, as it is known that he suffers from many colds, and is, in fact, nursing one now; but I have taken into consideration the vast quantities of alcohol the AP can ingest without ill effect to arrive at this number. The comparitively lower Strength and Dexterity scores are due to the AP's inactivity and slothfulness (they used to be somewhat higher), and his Wisdom remains at 12, despite the fact he's 33 years old, because the Piper fails to learn from even his most obvious mistakes. The Angry Piper's highest Attribute is Intelligence, but it should be noted that his Intelligence score is halved for anything requiring math.

Skills follow. Higher is better. Some of these skills (the Angry Piper's skill at bagpiping, for example) may be somewhat of an overstatement, but that's what roleplaying is all about.

Alienate Close Friend/Relative: 14
Appraise (Comic Books): 16
Brood: 16
Craft: Writing: 15
Fume: 16
Heap Abuse/Vituperation: 14
Insult: 14
Intimidate: 12
Knowledge: Literature: 15
Performance: Bagpipes: 16
Performance: Saxophone: 15
Pretentious Snobbery: 15
Research: 16
Repair (Bagpipes): 10
Seclude Self: 18
Sulk: 15
Swear: 15
Unintentional Insult: 16

The Angry Piper Alienates Friends and Relatives by not returning phone calls, forgetting important occasions (such as birthdays) and discouraging drop-by visits, but it is important to note he can also do this through use of his Unintentional Insult and Seclude Self skills. (Positive social skills are not the Piper's forte-watch him eat sunflower seeds someday and you'll understand why.) Noticeably absent are any fighting skills, which may come as a shock to those who remember the Angry Piper's bloody past. He walks the path of peace now, but it has made him no less angry. If provoked(especially by ignorant use of cell phones), he could easily revert to the whirling pinwheel of violence he once was. Although he retains his saxophone knowledge, it would take a great deal to persuade him to pick up the horn again (flashing him a nice set of cans or a case of Guinness might do the trick; probably not, but you're encouraged to try either one). Notice the Piper's skill at Unintentionally Insulting someone is higher than his skill at Deliberate Insults; this is because he often is most clever when he isn't trying to be. Also, while Brooding and Sulking are similar, they are not the same; any aquaintance of the Angry Piper who has experienced both can surely confirm this. The Piper is most proud of his lowest skill, Bagpipe Repair, as anyone who has ever tried to fix a bagpipe knows a 10 is a pretty respectable skill in that arena (damn pipes).

Physical Description: The Angry Piper stands 6 feet, 1 inch tall, when he does not slouch (which is usually only in response to people who question his height). Polite people would call the Angry Piper's nose "aquiline", but most people, including the AP himself, are impolite; to them his nose is simply big. Despite this, he's a ruggedly handsome specimen of masculinity that can rarely leave his home for fear of attracting hordes of screaming girls, much like the Beatles' appearance on the Ed Sullivan show. When appearing in his official capacity he dresses in one of his kilts, but most of his days are spent in jeans and a sweatshirt or T shirt of some kind (likely black). Recently he has discovered he has a very deep voice. He has little patience with people in general, and often comunicates in the fewest words possible so as to end any conversation before it really begins, unless it happens to be about bagpiping or literature. Those wishing to converse with the Piper regarding other matters (why one would wish to do so is frankly baffling) are advised to ply him with liquor, specifically Guinness, or risk being ignored and/or rudely dismissed. Those wishing to be on the receiving end of his Heap Abuse, Swear, Insult and Pretentious Snobbery skills need only offer to buy him a Budweiser or bottle of Arbor Mist.

Well, there I am. Have fun killing me in your games. Perhaps in a year I'll update my character with all the experience points I'll earn over the next year.

Nah. That would be geeky.

Another Year of Trying to Get my Shit Together

2005-12-30T16:04:00.000-05:00

2005 is almost gone. I’ve never been one to make New Year’s resolutions. I figure if one wants to change something about one’s life, one doesn’t need a formal declaration of intent before one starts. However, in the interest of good blogging, I will list my resolutions for 2006 as though I had some, and as though you care what they are.

Get published.
Get a new job.
Move.
Buy a home.

The first three could possibly happen. The fourth is more of a dream than a resolution, but I suppose it could happen if I win Powerball (which I don’t play).

In the words of W.S.: If we shadows have offended/ Think but this, and all is mended… The Angry Piper is a character; comprised of equal parts fiction and truth. Apologies to those whose feelings were hurt by my rantings. Most of my barbs point inward, and if one stung you it was likely unintentional.

Unless, of course, you’re an Evangelical Christian or a Bush supporter. Or Dr. Murk. Or an ignorant cell phone user. God help you if you’re an ignorant cell phone user. The frothy venom of outrage from my screaming lips cannot soak thee enough.

Happy New Year to all who read this blog. I’d say it won’t be more of the same next year, but I’d be lying.

Hopefully you’ll come back anyway.

The Piper's Christmas List

2005-12-20T15:31:00.000-05:00

Bought myself most of my presents this year. I said I wasn’t going to do it, but I did anyway.

Here’s what I would unwrap this year if I was dumb enough to wrap presents to myself in the first place:

My eh-eh-eh satellite radio. Bought it so I could listen to Howard Stern. Keeping my fingers crossed that his uncensored show doesn’t turn into endless fart jokes and lesbian interviews, as I think he’s pretty damn funny when he focuses on other stuff. (I was never one to find farts funny, and I am relatively indifferent regarding lesbians.)

My book list is somewhat extensive, but that’s true whether I buy them myself or request them from Santa. One of the very bestest gifts anyone can get me for Christmas is a Barnes & Noble gift card in any denomination, as I take all of them and go on an orgiastic book-buying spree soon after Christmas. Here’s what I got myself this year:

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, by Michael Chabon
The Perfumed Sleeve, by Laura Joh Rowland
Demonology, by Rick Moody
Anansi Boys, by Neil Gaiman
Adrift on the Haunted Seas: The Best Short Stories of William Hope Hodgson
Gormenghast, by Mervyn Peake
Rules for Old Men Waiting, by Peter Pouncey

My video game list is smaller, but was a tough one to narrow down. I got myself:

The Incredible Hulk: Ultimate Destruction
X-Men Legends 2: Rise of Apocalypse
Fatal Frame 3: The Tormented

That last one was tough; it was a toss-up between Resident Evil 4 and Fatal Frame 3. In the end I went with the series that has made me change my shorts more (Fatal Frame games are scary). I really want The Warriors (Caaaan Youuuu Diiiig IT?), but I’m thinking seriously about going back and getting Fantastic Four, to make it a superhero hat trick. Or maybe Dragon Quest VIII. Because I need another 80+ hour role playing time sink since there was no Final Fantasy game this year.

My last gift to myself was my calendar, or in this case, calendars. Last year I got a Frank Frazetta wall calendar and a really lame desk calendar entitled “Well, Duh!” about dumb(and supposedly funny) things people have done. It turned out to be remarkably un-funny. This year I went with a Marvel Superheroes wall calendar and the Daily Show America desk calendar.

I’m proud of myself. No comics and no toys this year (not counting my PS2 games). After all, I’m trying to get rid of that stuff.

Happy Birthday, Keith!!!

2005-12-18T00:38:00.000-05:00

On this day in 1943, Keith Richards, guitarist and founding member of the Rolling Stones, was born.

If you wish to leave Keith Richards (or anyone who happens to share the same first name as him) some fond birthday wishes, please feel free to do so in the comments section.

The Fugitive

2005-12-16T15:48:00.000-05:00

The night was black as death and colder than a gun. I awoke with the certainty that something had just made a sound—something that didn’t want to be heard. As silently as possible I slid from beneath my covers and climbed the wall to the ceiling where I clung, legs splayed to afford purchase— and waited.

After a time I was rewarded with a whispered snatch of conversation in a foreign language. Soviet bloc, certainly. Serbian, most likely. The fall of the U.S.S.R. in the mid-nineties disgorged hundreds of unemployed mercenaries upon the West. They were well-trained, efficient and merciless. I was not surprised my nemesis had decided to use them. The fact that they were in my apartment—in the next room, in fact—was unsettling to say the least and cause for immediate concern.

I knew why they were here. I had been followed for weeks. So far I had managed to elude them but it appeared my luck had finally run its course. I was alone, weaponless and at their mercy, with only my wits to ensure I would see the dawn.

A light scuffle outside my bedroom door betrayed the location of one of the intruders. He was careless. Swiftly he entered the room, couching low. I expected to hear the muffled sound of a silenced pistol and watch my down comforter erupt in quick blasts of feathers, but the mercenary did not shoot. He took the scene in quickly, somehow managing to overlook me as I clung tenaciously to the ceiling above his head. I held my breath and prayed.

The soldier moved to my bed, a muffled curse on his lips. He laid a hand upon the depression in the mattress I had recently occupied, finding it still warm. A whispered question from the room beyond my bedroom door—his companion wondering why I was not captured yet. Although my Serbian was a bit rusty, I distinctly heard the word “captured”. I knew then that they wanted to torture me. A cold sweat broke out on my body, threatening to make me lose my grip and plummet into the midst of these brutes. Better to die than to fall into their hands.

The soldier took his time, thinking correctly that I could not be far. He looked under my bed and in my closet. He did not look up.

Fatigue was making my arms and legs shake. I had not taken a breath in several minutes. Thankfully, I play the bagpipes and can breathe through my ears if needed ( a skill that comes in handy in other endeavors as well). A single drop of perspiration rolled down my forehead, coming to a bead upon my nose. I stared at it and used every ounce of willpower I possessed to keep my head steady so it would not fall on the mercenary below and betray my position.

At last, with another grunted curse, the soldier took a final look around my room and vanished through the door without so much as a silken whisper to betray his passage. It was a long time before I breathed again.

I knew their leader, The Generalissimo, was relentless and would not rest until he got what he wanted. These men or others like them would certainly be back. I could only resist them for so long. So I came to a decision.

I would give The Generalissimo what he sought. I would give to him that towards which he bent all thought and will rather than face such ruthless errand-boys again. As Dog the Bounty Hunter says, a life on the run ain’t no life at all.

An hour later I called my enemies to let them know they could find what they wanted in an unmarked locker in a nearby train station. I hung up before they could reply.

The new Angry Piper’s Book of the Week is now in their hands. Enjoy.

Angry Once Again

2005-12-09T15:22:00.000-05:00

My computer is in the coldest room of my apartment, so I haven't been spending much time in here lately. This will be longer than normal, as I don't know when I'll be posting again. I could write of a million things that piss me off on a daily basis, like the fact that my new office mate apparently waits until she comes in in the morning to take her first stinking dump of the day rather than simply doing it before she leaves the house, and then sprays a disgusting cinnamon-smelling air freshener to cover it up which only succeeds in making my entire office smell like shit and cinnamon, and then proceeds to do it at least twice more during the course of the day. I could bitch about that, but for now these will have to do.

First off: what's with this latest trend of chicks going out in public in their pajamas? Every time I go to the grocery store there's at least a dozen women of all ages parading around in their pajama pants. I've seen them at the bank, at the mall, pretty much anywhere. Is it that much of a fucking chore to get your ass dressed in the morning? Or in the afternoon? Or whenever you roll your ass out of bed and go out to a public place? If I walked around in public in what I normally slept in, I'd be walking around in boxer shorts, which, while I've no doubt it would drive the women insane with lust, would just look damn trashy. Put some goddamn pants on, for Christ's sake.

As I write this, it is currently snowing outside. Actually, I should say it's white-out conditions beyond my window. I wouldn't be surprised if it's all gone by tomorrow, but for now it looks like Antarctica out there. It's a heavy, wet snow that was a driving hail a few hours ago, and last night it was a powdery yet steady shower. In other words, it's not the best driving conditions outside. Glad I'm home.

Not because of the snow, mind you. I usually have no problem driving in the snow. I drive a standard transmission, which, as anyone who drives one knows, is exponentially better than driving an automatic in the snow. No, I don't fear the weather at all.

Instead, I fear the fucking idiots who suffer from what I like to call "SUV syndrome". Picture it: you can barely see out your windshield. The middle lane is the only lane on the highway that is not covered with snow. Traffic is slowed to a crawl. These are the fucking dickheads who, while you're trying very hard to simply follow the tail lights of the car in front of you, screw past you in the high speed lane doing ninety. They splatter your windshield with the crap from their lane, and usually have their high-beams on, reducing your visibility further. Most of them are soccer moms yapping on their cell phones drunk on the power of their new Hummer (they just HAVE to call someone and tell them how bad the driving is- WHILE THEY'RE DRIVING) or Bubbas in pickups with stickers that say witty things like "I still miss my ex-wife, but my aim is improving" or "Good girls get fat, bad girls get eaten" or "Bush/Cheney '04".

One of these shitheads caused a 15 car accident the other day. I woke up early to set up at a comic show in Providence, RI. It was snowing, but nowhere near as badly as it is now. On my way to the show, I passed 15 cars- including two Mass. State Police cars- in various stages of destruction on the same highway. I don't drive a SUV. Anyone out there who does can perhaps answer this question for me: when you buy one, do you suddenly become a complete moron and forget that snow and ice are slippery? Do you, be you male or female, suddenly grow enormous, elephantine testicles proportionate to the size of your ride? Do you become firmly convinced that the laws of physics (i.e.friction) do not apply to your vehicle? Get a fucking clue, shithead, before you kill someone other than yourself.

And speaking of cell phones: I fucking hate cell phones. I hate them with the white-hot intensity of 1000 suns. I hate them like Ahab hates the white whale. Like Gollum hates the Baggins. Like slugs hate salt. Like I hate humanity in general. I fucking despise cell phones. However, before I go any further, I feel I should own up to the fact that I, the Angry Piper, hater extraordinaire of cell phones and people who use them, do, in fact, own a cell phone myself. After much deliberation, I got one two years ago because I got a job that requires me to be on the road much of the time, travelling far away from my home. I didn't want to break down in Boston traffic in weather like what's currently raging outside and not have any way to call for assistance. So I bought one. 98% of all my cell phone calls (with a 2% margin of error) are work-related. Aside from my co-workers, there are only a handful of people ( I can think of 5) who have my cell phone number, and most of them (3) have the same last name as me. They all have instructions not to call me on it unless SOMEONE IS DEAD. One person who feels he is an exception to this, of course, is the Angry Veteran, who I once gave my cell number to. I forget why, but there was a definite purpose, like he was coming to town and I was going to be out or something. Rest assured he got the same instructions as everyone else, i.e. aside from that one time, he was only to call me on my cell phone in time of direst emergency. Despite this, he and my brother continue to call me on my cell phone when they can't get in touch with me normally, which annoys me. A lot. So fucking stop it.

People who use cell phones in public places are generally rude and ignorant. A while back, my West Coast chum Tel did a blogpost all her own about some asshole using a cell phone in a movie theater, to which I responded with typical Angry Piper sympathy (i.e. anger). Nothing pisses me off more than browsing in a bookstore and hearing some assclown's cell phone an aisle over ringing with some personalized Nelly ringtone and then having to listen to some vapid ditz chat about her day while she searches frantically for the latest Oprah book club selection. Or getting into an elevator and riding 15 floors with a guy who acts like he's psychotic because he's having a conversation with HIMSELF, until I notice the headset he's chatting away on wrapped around his jaws like a pair of ants' mandibles. Or being behind someone who's driving like they just quaffed an entire box o'wine and washed it down with a few shots of Dewar's, cautiously passing them in hopes of getting out of their crazed, maniacally swerving path, only to look over and see the reason they can't drive is because they're blabbing away, holding a cell phone in one hand and clutching a fucking MAPQUEST in the other.

Once upon a time, not so long ago (thanks JBJ), I was eating dinner in a crowded restaurant. At the next table was an older couple. No sooner had they ordered their meal then the woman takes out her cell phone and calls, of all people, her mother. How do I know it was her mother? Because apparently, the reception inside the restaurant where dozens of people(including myself) were eating their dinner was not the best. So I got to hear the entire one-sided conversation, which, I shit you not, went like this:

Old Lady: Hi Mom. I said HI MOM. Yeah. We're at the HILLTOP. YEAH. THE HILLTOP. WE'RE HAVING DINNAH. WALTAH ORDERED THE PORTAH-HOUSE. YEAH. I'M HAVING THE STEAK TIPS. WITH MASHED POTADAHS. YEAH. HE'S HAVING THE SALAD. THE DOCTAH SAID HE SHOULD WATCH HIS CHOLESTEROL, SO HE'S NOT GONNA EAT THE POTADAHS. WHY? CUZ THEY HAVE A LOT OF BUTTAH...

I'm sure you get the point. This went on for about five minutes, during which time Walter expressionlessly ate the dinner rolls like he was chewing ashes. Walter was a broken, beaten and hollow man. It seemed as though he was resigned to the shrill voice of this cackling harpy he called a wife. He said nothing during her phone call and I'm pretty sure he said nothing for the rest of his meal. At least I didn't see them talk to each other at all. I'm pretty sure that had the lady choked to death in mid-phone call, Walter would have had no reaction but for a small, slow smile spreading across his face as she hacked out her last feeble, wheezing breath. I am certain that would have been my reaction, had I been Walter.

Was this phone call really necessary? Fuck no. Couldn't this hag with the fingernails-on-the-chalkboard-of-my-soul voice have waited until she was in the fucking car with a belly full o'beef to call Mom? Fuck yes. Does her mother need to know what she eats every night? Sweet merciful crap, lady...have some fucking consideration for people around you, who maybe want to eat a quiet meal and enjoy the company of the person they're with without having to hear about your husband's cholesterol level and your choice of entrees!

Here's a newsflash to all the people reading this who may find in themselves a bit of the folks described above: You are not that fucking important. Get off your goddamn phone. Turn it off in stores, restaurants, churches and movie theaters. (As I told Tel, I firmly believe anyone who uses a cell phone in a theater should be caned to within an inch of their life. I'm not kidding.) If you feel you are Mr. Important and can't be out of touch with anyone for the time it takes to drive somewhere, see a movie or go into a retail store, then take a cab, wait for the fucking rental and shop online. Don't be a fucking ignorant asshole.

Speaking of assholes, I was listening to NPR today and I heard one of these Evangelical Christians talking about the latest stupid fucking debate in our country, the "Hijacking of Christmas." For those who don't know, the ECs are particularly distressed by the fact that retail stores like Target (among others), refer to their sales as "Holiday sales" and not "Christmas sales." According to them, this, and saying "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas" is an attempt to deliberately exclude their beliefs from the season.

Sigh. Where do I begin?

Saying "Happy Holidays" to someone is inclusive. See, my Jewish friends (one of whom needs to post to this blog more often and submit some poetry to Hill-TV-you know who you are) celebrate Hannukah. My Muslim friends (if I had any) celebrate Ramadan. My Buddhist friends...well, they don't celebrate anything this time of year that I know of. My athiest friend, Dr. Mantodea, celebrates Christmas not out of any religious observation, but because he enjoys gift-giving and receiving and is just brimming with goodwill for his fellow man. I assume Just Me celebrates Yule, but I don't know her personally and I could be wrong. I don't know anyone who celebrates Kwanzaa, but I hear some people do. Jehovah's Witnesses don't celebrate anything, so if you know one don't offer holiday salutations, although I'm fairly certain they've come to terms with the fact that other folks celebrate stuff and wouldn't be too shocked to see a "holiday sale" this time of year. Also, a week after Christmas, there's a holiday you may have heard of called New Year's Day.

So you see, saying "Happy Holidays" means different things to different people. It's an attempt to be inclusive, not divisive-kind of like how Barnes & Noble plays Jewish music like the Hannukah song (not the Adam Sandler version-the actual light the menorah-dance around the Torah-explanation of the holiday song) in addition to incessant Christmas music. I'm willing to bet that since Hannukah also falls on the 25th this year, some Jewish folks may do some gift shopping at Target. So that company's "Holiday Sale" could be an attempt to appeal to people who observe this holiday as well. Just a guess.

Of course, there is a limit to this kind of political correctness. Calling a big fir tree with lights, garland and ornaments on it a "Holiday Tree" is fucking stupid, because as any kindergartener knows, it's obviously a Christmas tree. In other words, if you don't celebrate Christmas, you likely won't have a big decorated tree in your living room. You wouldn't call a menorah a "holiday candelabra" unless you had the intelligence of a corn-fed mule. It's obviously an object associated with Jewish tradition, and someone who isn't Jewish (like me) wouldn't have one in their home, so just call it what it is. There's a point of political correctness that's just ridiculous and it's a point people don't need to go beyond, but it seems we as a society go beyond it all the time.

The EC's (at least the one I heard today, a Mr. Robert Schenk (sp?) believe that by not specifically naming Christmas as the reason for the season, we are somehow belittling their beliefs. While I agree with him (holy shit-I never thought I'd say that) about the fact that Christmas trees should be called what they are, I don't agree with him that Holiday sales should be called "Christmas sales", because that excludes everyone else.

Mr. Schenk expressed irritation that being labeled as an "Evangelical Christian" often carries with it a kind of perjorative connotation, unless the people doing the labelling happen to be EC's themselves. Again, I agree (holy crap on toast-twice in one day!) Know why?

Because arguments like this are stupid, and I REALLY DON'T FUCKING CARE ABOUT THIS SHIT AT ALL. Nor should you. Hey Mr. Schenk...how about devoting your Christian concern (and money) to things that fucking MATTER, like Hurricane relief and combating poverty, instead of wasting everyone's time with bullshit like this that should be common sense to anyone with half a fucking brain? And if the EC's didn't constantly try to make their religious beliefs NATIONAL POLICY, maybe the rest of us who don't happen to share them wouldn't think that in general, EC's are narrow-minded, exclusive, gay-hating, bible-thumping, science-restricting, morality-touting, political power-hungry holier-than-thou assholes.

Just a thought.

It's fun to find out what your voice really sounds like.

2005-12-02T19:04:00.000-05:00

Anyone from New England should hopefully get the title reference. Turns out I have a really deep voice. So either I have a really deep voice normally and it doesn't sound that way to me, or perhaps alcohol makes my voice deeper.

See, I just listened to the December podcast of The Murk and Malach Radio Show, where yours truly was the guest. Well, Tom Cruise stopped by too, but come on...who's the bigger celebrity, him or me? Yeah. Thought so.

Needless to say, it was pretty funny. I was drunk enough that night so that listening to it tonight made it all new to me. Some notable quotes:

"God has manna and he gives us manna and blessings from heaven." -Dr. Robert J. Murk.

"I don't give a crap about the Japanese." -Malach

"We were in the outhouse...smokin' doobies." -Dr. Robert J. Murk.

And last but not least:

"I am so looking forward to that movie (Narnia), my dick is hard." -The Angry Piper.

Yes. To my eternal shame, I actually said that. Sorry, C. S. That's what happens when you've had three pints of Guinness and then you switch over to Yellowtail Cabernet Sauvignon. I started the podcast drunk, and by the end of it I was downright faced.

That's not even the funny stuff. The interview with Tom Cruise is hysterical. The Fatbug Commercial is funk-tastic. Malach does an impression of Everlast (which pretty much sounds accurate) and Dr. Murk does the worst Scottish impression ever. We even (ok, it's mostly me) get into a discussion about Mimi Rogers's award-winning rack. Hey...don't blame me; it IS pretty stellar.

The Murk and Malach Show. It's one hour of your life you'll never get back, but it's pretty funny. Feedback welcome at Minimum Security.

In other news, my Book of the Week update at Hill-TV should be posted as soon as I write it. Which will be by the beginning of next week. Honest.

And on a personal note: Eve, it's December 2nd. The clock is ticking.

No pressure.