All You Need is Love. And Cocaine Apparently.

Hunter S. Thompson is one badass mofo.

I love the guy. He’s a favorite of mine. He does things with words I can only dream about. I recently finished Hell’s Angels and every chapter, every sentence, left me slack-jawed. Hunter S. Thompson could have written about the mating habits of slugs and I’d gladly devour it.

Wait. Do slugs mate?

Yes. Yes they do. You’re welcome.

I’ll never write like this literary godsend. And I’m okay with that.

I also know I’ll never have a writing schedule like the guy. Although, clearly, cocaine did wonders for the guy. I read this article a few months ago on Uproxx about his daily routine, and while I’m not sure if it’s real or not, I’m kind of hoping it is.

HST’s dietary habits have me insanely jealous. If I ate like that my stomach would capsize and groan like a manatee.

I imagine they sound like a mix of Chewbacca and Lucille Bluth.

I also intensely applaud HST eating fettuccine alfredo in the hot tub. The closest I get to this is using red vines as straws when I drink my glasses of wine while reading my Sweet Valley Twins books in a tub full of Mr. Bubble.

I write sporadically throughout the week but Sunday is my full day reserved to write. I screen calls, I don’t leave the house, I sit my ass in a chair. My schedule doesn’t rival HST’s but I have a schedule and I think that’s what matters.

Or maybe cocaine matters. Beary the Bear seems to think so.

My Sunday Routine

8am – church. Haha. Just kidding.

8am – alarm goes off

8:07am – hit snooze again

8:45am – rise but no shine

9am – coffee promptly made

9:10am – fish oil pills to take the edge off

9:30am – dick around on Twitter

9:35am – coffee, read flash fiction stories at various lit mags

9:45am – coffee

10:15am – coffee

10:45am – story submissions and ZOMGCOFFEE

11:30am – begin blog posting

11:45am – coffee and/or pizza consumed

Noon – shower, consider becoming a carny

12:30pm – put on pants

1:00pm – edit novel-in-progress

3:00pm – consume Michelob Ultra

3:10pm – make poop jokes on Twitter

3:30pm – more novel edits

6:00pm – wine and write/edit flash fiction

8:00pm – scrounge up a semblance of dinner and a TV show

8:45pm – TV or writing

10:00pm – drops iron pills

10:15pm – reads Cracked.com

11:30pm – sleep

There. That’s what my typical Sunday involves. It’s raucous ain’t it?

If you want to share your writing schedule, complete with drugs, alcohol and veiled perverted references, send it to me and I’ll post it next go round.

Guest Blog Post: Roberto Carlos Garcia

Roberto Carlos Garcia has a new chapbook, ya’ll. I’ve admired his work since I read a few of his pieces on Fictionaut and it makes me happy I can share his great fortune.

And a great poem.

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amores gitano (gypsy loves)
by Roberto Carlos Garcia
Červená Barva Press, 2013

Roberto Carlos Garcia’s work has appeared in Connotation Press- An Online Artifact, Wilderness House Literary Review, Poets & Artists Magazine, Metazen, Atticus Review, and others. His fiction is included in the anthology “The Lost Children,” a book of 30 short stories to benefit children’s charities PROTECT and Children 1st U.K.

“Amores Gitano (gypsy loves)” is his first chapbook.

A native New Yorker, he now lives and works in New Jersey where he is pursuing an MFA in Poetry and Poetry Translation at Drew University’s Low Residency MFA Program.

You can follow Roberto Carlos Garcia on Twitter at @thespokenmind. His website is www.robertocarlosgarcia.tumblr.com

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“In his chapbook, amores gitano, Roberto Carlos Garcia breathes adult passion into the craft of desire, these poems strip themselves, naked. They flirt and they want and each section a near erotic frame of determined risk ready to widen the realm of the reader’s senses. Here is a poet who can dress and undress the lyric with his mind, hands and tongue.”
—Thomas Sayers Ellis, Author of Skin Inc. Identity Repair Poems and The Maverick Room

“Roberto Carlos Garcia gives us twenty stunning gypsy loves in amores gitano that together construct a language so wrought with desire it swaggers. This is a luminous book that marks the emergence of a new and important voice that is sure to stir up all kinds of bad.”
—Sean Nevin, Author of Oblivio Gate

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18.

There’s a cruelty
about her
that’s always hungry.

When she finally takes,
finally tastes flesh
& is full,
what’s left of me
is loved again,
her cruelty abates.

In many ways
I’m a keeper
in a zoo.

Once the lions are fed
I can enter the cage
but still,
I’m leaving my life
to chance.

$7.00 | 30 Pages | In Stock

A Huge Musical Crush and Then Some

Best. Concert. Ever.

Friday night, Carnaval Electrico was held at the Crescent Ballroom in Phoenix. A gathering of musicians including my two big faves: Hanni El Khatib and the Cold War Kids.

Hellz yes.

Cold War Kids are frickin amazing. Listen to them.

If you don’t know who Hanni El Khatib is, check him out here. He’s rock and guitar and amazingness all tied up in taught lyrics. I kinda want to mosh-pit when I listen to him. His new album drops on April 30^th and you can check out his new single FAMILY here.

Workin’ that mic like a pro.

And that’s my good and honest goddamn plug.

Anywho…the main concerts were outside, and despite it being Phoenix it was rainy that night. And yet, it was fabulous. The PBR was flowing and I stayed up late like a big girl should.

“Just call me Cinderella, muthafuckas!”

I ate from my very first food truck and danced my ass off.

My husband is clearly Dennis in this scenario.

And let me just say dancing in the rain was a delicious experience. Feral and wild, it brought the crowd together, not to mention it curled my hair something fierce. By the end of the night I had raccoon eyes and Gary Busey hair.

This is me the next morning. Don’t be jealous.

And with the rain, you could feel the love. It’s the hippie in me but the crowd was on that night. All of us meshing and getting along and frolicking in the rain. I bought a fellow dancing companion a beer. Another woman ran through the crowd hugging and kissing strangers – myself included. Another kindred dancer posed for a photo with me.

I have no idea who this woman is. But she’s cool.

As a side note – if my interpersonal skills were as good in the real world as they are at concerts I’d be so well-connected by now.

The best part of the night was…wait for iiiiiiiit…when I met Hanni El Khatib. I was probably about ten feet away from the stage and when he finished his set he meandered through the crowd. No one approached him and I couldn’t help swooning.

Finally on his way back to the stage, my brave husband stopped him and asked if he’d take a photo with me. He said sure and waved me over.

Hanni (we are now on a first name basis) shook my hand and asked my name. On my second beer by then, I told him that my name was “Jules”, blushed, and then vaguely mumbled something about loving him and his music. I think I tried to hug him. A crowd gathered.

Then he wrapped an arm around my waist and we took the photo.

THIS IS MY PROUDEST MOMENT, MOM

I couldn’t keep the grin off my face for the next fifteen minutes.

Despite my huge musical (and then some) crush on Hanni El Khatib, my husband is the best for arranging it. Whatta man.

WARNING DO NOT GOOGLE IMAGE “WHATTA MAN” BY SALT N PEPA YOU WILL GET DICK PICS.

As I said.

Best concert ever.

Deep Tissue Massage Thoughts with Large Marge

Yesterday, I received a deep tissue massage by a Slovakian woman named Large Marge in the massage parlor’s last room on the left. (Only one thing in that statement is a lie.)

She asked me if I wanted my glutes massaged and it took all the effort I had to keep a straight face and resist asking, “Glutes are boobs right?”

It was the most violent massage I have ever experienced in my life. Don’t get me wrong, I asked for deep tissue but by deep tissue I didn’t request “toe-curling-pants-wetting-pain”. But like all good women, I bit my lip and took it in the dark.

Now the point of this post is not to discuss my sadomasochistic massage, it’s to talk about writing, ass faces.

In a roundabout way, I suppose.

I can never relax during a massage. I think this is partly related to my very first massage. I was probably 16. My step-mom booked a couples massage for my sister and I with a husband and wife naturalist team bent on introducing holistic methods to the masses. Sounds like the plot to a Captain Planet episode doesn’t it?

 

Remember these fools? 

 

After much tee-heeing about the hilarity that we’d share a massage room, I was assigned the male masseuse. Or maybe I took one for the team for my 13-year-old sister. Either way – I still remember him. He reminded me of some old hippie…grey hair, ponytail, Aladdin-style vest. This did not worry me. The fact that he had a very long coke nail on his right pinkie finger was the kicker that kept me alert throughout the whole massage. Relaxation was not to be had.

I was terrified. I kept picturing him slipping in the oil and clawing me with his nail. I’d come out of that massage like poor old Rosemary Bathhouse after her demon-rape dream.

 

“Worst massage ever.”

 

So because of that one experience and thanks to an extra-long coke nail, I can’t unwind. I always think. My brain whirls. In fact, there are always three main things I think as I’m being massaged:

1. “What body part are they rubbing me with? Because it feels like a [comment edited]…”

2. “What if lose control of my bowels?”

3. “Cake is awesome. I wish they could rub me with cake. Hey, let’s make that happen.”

But in addition to those slightly improper thoughts, I think of my stories. Stories in progress, yes, but it’s also a friggin’ fabulous time to brainstorm. Your mind wanders. And while I’m busy worrying about if the reason the masseuse is asking me to flip over onto my back is for mere human sacrifice, I’m also brewing up some pretty kooky scenarios in my noggin.

(Doesn’t the word “noggin” really get you jonesing for some egg nog? Think about it.)

I don’t entirely attribute the fact that I can’t relax because I’m a writer. Maybe I’m just neurotic. But what I do when I’m NOT relaxing is definitely related to my writing. I’ve always been like this. I can never NOT know what’s going on around me. I can’t fall asleep in public; I can’t sleep during a road trip or on an airplane. Sure, maybe I’m busy worrying about whether someone will teabag me while I doze but I don’t think that’s it.

I have to be constantly aware. And that’s a good thing for an eavesdropping, quote-stealing writer.

What this shows is that sometimes it’s okay to not to relax during a massage. Chalk it up to inspiration. I also came out of it with an envious case of bedhead.

 

“Helena Bonham Carter ain’t got nothin on me.”

 

After all, without Large Marge and her voluptuous forearms I never would have had this blog post.  So the next time you want to come up with a plot point, drop $60 and head to the nearest massage parlor for a very happy ending.

 

C’mon. You knew that reference was coming.

Schlitz Hunt and Raccoon Penises

Ah, Montana. That land of the free and home of the brave. Or buffalo. Or odd water fountain signs.

Or something like that.

I haven’t been home in two years and on a semi-spur of the moment decision last week I decided to get my Arizona ass up there.  Up to the land of my people. Rough hewn cursers and tobacco chewers. PBR and Hamm’s. Antlers and guns. I am from this world. And I love it.

I used to live there. But now I just visit it.

With abandon. Visits to my family typically involve food, booze, and a lot of laughing and cursing. I tried to cram as much as I could into a five-day visit.

And as can be expected, shenanigans were had.

The Airport, The Trip

I did not spy any wrinkly elbows like my last time here but you can always recognize the folks going back to Montana. Camo, cowboy hats and bejeweled tees, oh my.

Oh my, indeed.

Once on the plane, I ordered a drink and finished up Hell’s Angels by HST. Halfway through, I realized I was mumbling to myself about Cassady and Kerouac as I sipped a bloody Mary, while the woman next to me read the bible and typed up Psalms on her iPad.

It was…awkward.

My sister, Chrissy, and her boyfriend were there to greet me at the airport. They whisked me away for a delicious sushi dinner at Asian Sea Grill. When we got back to my sister’s house I was given the most precious gift I could ever have wanted.

A raccoon penis.

“We got you something,” The sister said.

Her boyfriend held it out to me. “Guess what this—”

“IT’S A PENIS!” I roared, snatching it away.

They were baffled. I was proud to have recognized the appendage.

As you can see this penis clearly resembles a J. It’s a J-Boner. And I shall make a necklace of it.

“Just the tip.”

The Garage/The House

When we all get together at my dad’s house we hang out in the garage and in the kitchen. Things get wilder than Lindsay Lohan’s cocaine eyes on a Saturday night. Beer, food and beer pong is the typical MO.

And my dad’s garage is amazing. It’s a true man cave. This is where everyone hangs out. Not the house or the living room. We’re in the garage, bitches. You can’t take a picture in the garage without being photo bombed by a naked chick.

I didn’t do it.

And what a garage it is.

It has an A/C and a heater and a stove and three fridges. The only thing missing is a toilet. But I bet we’ll get that soon.

and did I mention a shit ton of alcohol?

Cooking dinner takes place in the actual house and my sister and I manage to make it an elaborate affair.

Dinner got out of control fast.

So we ate. Then it was a beer pong face-off. Words are not needed.

The Sister

My little sister who uses the word “gal” with a frequency I’ve never heard is a doll-face, blue-eyed…gal. We can make any situation fun. If I’m on a desert island I’d want her there, not only for the laughs, but for the possible cannibalization factor.

But I digress…

FACT: We went to an antique store and caused trouble. But they were asking for it. On a table they had block stickers spelling out H-A-R-T-S. This is not how hearts is spelled. Strike one. Strike two – you’re just setting it up for us to spell SHART with that ill-spelled combination.

You just got shart attacked.

Needless to say many shart references were made the entire trip.

FACT: We took a road trip to Powell, Wyoming to see The Mother.

“You call those mountains, Wyoming? Fuck you.”

The sister, mother and I met at a coffee shop called Uncommon Grounds, which seemed fitting since when the three of us get together it can be slightly crazed.

This sign’s advice did not bode well

But I 80% jest. It was a great trip. I dug seeing the town where my mom lives and her college. She’s a baller.

After making our mark on the city…

Screening a phone call from my grandmother… (side note: the last time my grandmother and I spoke she called me chubby and I called my mommy to be soothed.)…

MY mother gave us a tour around her apartment, the tiny campus and led us through many, many alleyways. The woman has a healthy obsession with alleyways as do I. Nothing good can come from them.

You’d never know it but she’s plotting our alleyway shankings.

Fact:  We stopped at the Little Cowboy Bar and Museum in Fromberg, MT.

Swinging the front door open, five old men swiveled their heads our way, judging whether “our kind” was right for their bar. Grudgingly, they nodded their assent and we entered, giddy to be accepted into their barland.

A gorgeous old gal named Shirley Smith with Dolly Parton nails and Liz Taylor hair seemed delighted when we asked to tour the museum. She led us back to a dust filled room full of cowboy thangs, which included alien fetuses.

This is a face of fear.

After our tour, we sidled up to the bar and ordered two Coronas. My sister tried to sweet talk a dear old man and I think the women’s restroom was clearly and exceptionally marked.

“Sir, you look in need of a good time.”

“This is the women’s restroom, correct?”

Fact: We ate and drank at Uber Brew. Montana has good beer. And what better place to get it than a delicious brewery. But the main reason for choosing Uber Brew wasn’t the beer. It was the cheese crunchies, bitches.

Behold my glistening beauty.

I’ve never heard of this sandwich anywhere other than Billings. A grilled cheese sandwich that’s dipped in mayonnaise (I think) and then deep fat fried. All you get from this sandwich is third degree burns and a healthy case of guilt. But it’s so worth it.

The Father

My dad proved how much he loves me by spending one afternoon driving around and looking for Schlitz. Why? you’re asking. Well, because I have always wanted to try this beer. I write about it in stories and hear it referenced. It’s research, damn it.

My grandmother, dad and I piled in the car one bright day. “Where are we going?” I had asked.

“South side,” dad grunted. “I’m taking you down where the Schlitz drinkers live.” I dug fingernails into my palms to keep from whimpering.

Now the south side is the part of town that everyone refers to as, “across the train tracks”. You know you’re in a good part of town when every window has bars on it.

In the end we couldn’t find any original Schlitz. Instead, like all good fathers, my dad brought me back Colt .45 and Schlitz High Gravity.

Fancy cans for such shitty beer.

My dad is the only person I can talk with about hutterites and boiling skulls. He’s learned me well. And though it’s a shame I see him far too often, nothing can beat the times I have when I’m there. (Collective AWWWW, everyone).

He’s really pissing. But he makes it look good.

And so, that concludes just a fraction of my trip pictorial.

But I’ll be back. I’ll be back and I’ll find a real Schlitz. Montana would have it no other way.

I Like to Fondle Books.

Hello, My Name is Jules and I’m a book fondler.

“Ma’am, the lanyard clearly says ‘rapist’.”

But this wasn’t always the case. Back when I was young and silly…

“Makin’ out with a dog because it feels so good…nom nom…”

…I used to operate under the assumption that books were to be treated like precious artifacts. Not to be manhandled, or pried too far open, or dog eared.

Taking a crap and reading is hard, yo.

I would read in the bathtub all the time and occasionally drop books into the murky water. This would commence the frantic flopping around rescue of probably a Sweet Valley Twins or Christopher Pike book. I was near tears when this happened, believing I had treated the book horribly, ruined it forever.

Imagine me, back in the day, living like Regina Morrow from Sweet Valley High every time I tarnished a book. Except picture the photo of Bruce Patman as the actual book.

It’s hard I know.

And when I borrowed books to other people, you better believe I was on watch that my book was returned in appropriate condition. If the book I loaned came back creased, spine dented, or dog eared this usually resulted in a scolding to the borrower as I was not allowed to give public executions.

“Yeah, I kinda ruined those for everyone. Sorry about that.”

I was a stingy asshole back in the day (apologies to my 13-year-old self).

But not really, Christ, look at that hair.

But somehow this miraculously changed. Within the last 10 years, my feelings on fondling books have done the old switcheroo – kinda like a Thai prostitute on a hot and confusing Saturday night.

Now I play fast and loose with my books.

BOOKS. Not boobs.

The reason for this is simple.

As I read and reread books over and over again I came to appreciate the wear and tear. A tattered book is a loved book. It was read well and appreciated. Now if I drop a book in the bath, I calmly retrieve it, sip my wine and continue reading, letting the pages dry. I dog ear books at the good, juicy parts. I write in them. I highlight. I record my thoughts and emotions. It’s important to me. Because when I go back and read it, I’ll remember. When I loan it to others they can see my words and silently mouth what-that-fuck?

These days, I’m a cavalier bastard. Like Elizabeth Wakefield, except pretend Todd Wilkins is a book. The motorcycle can be a couch because I just really don’t care for the outdoors.

“WHEEEE, books!” “Shut up, Elizabeth.”

This doesn’t mean I’m cruel. I don’t intentionally use books as scapegoats, or birth control, or as shields in a back alley knife fights.  I just don’t sweat a little rippin’ and tearin’.

My feelings about lovingly tattered books are carried over into how I generally feel about much in life. Current and future wrinkles, they are mine, so back the fuck off. I have laughed and loved and lived. I have scars and I am still alive. You can’t avoid them and you should be proud of what you hold.

Unless of course you hold the Ebola virus then I cannot help you.

This is what makes me a book fondler. I shall probably be one until the end of time. Or until they fingerprint me and lock me away in book prison.

This photo says all you need to know.

I imagine it’s a nice place.

You’ve Reached a Coon Hat Wearin, Childfree Zone

Now that I’ve reached my sexual prowess (AKA turned 30) it’s only natural that people ask me when I’m going to breed. And it’s only natural that I express my frustration in the best form that I know: words. This doesn’t go for my family or close friends. They know my belief system and I’m not shy about telling them if they ask.

“Mom, I can’t hold a baby. I barely have enough time to hold the remote control in one hand and a PBR in the other. Never mind the horse head.”

This goes for acquaintances, strangers, and those hobos at the park who just goddamn won’t let me check the mail in peace.

“Guys, seriously?”

If we’re first time meeters and you casually ask, “Do you have children?” I’ll relax my grip on your throat. I’ll allow this question. It’s an expected curiosity. However, if you ask, “When are you going to have children?” well get ready for a ripe retort. Because that’s what you get for being a complete doucher.

First, this question is insulting. Not only is it none of your business, but what if I can’t have children? What if I’m a hermaphrodite? What if I’m still waiting for a marriage proposal from Rob Lowe, you guys?

I don’t even get the courtesy, “Are you planning to have children?” question. It’s the straight assumption that it’s an inevitable fact, which really stings like those Indian burns you used to give your little sister.

You can’t see the fear in her eyes.

Second, you make me the awkward one for struggling for a response. And more often than not, if I’m honest with strangers, “I don’t want children yet,” then I get the rebuttal, “Well, just wait for it. You will,” or some equally eye-roll-worthy coddling response that they probably deem is suitable for a Hallmark Card.

So I feel it’s only fair to reply with some sort of statement that will make you blink. For instance, I once had a 32 year-old male co-worker say, “When are you gonna pop out a kid?”

I had set my pen down and my bottle of ether and said, “I can’t have children. My insides are so rotted no life can live down there.”

What?

He asked.

After a slack-jawed gape, he promptly shut up and performed his sullen computer programming duties.

That’s right fucker. You’re here to work. Not ask me about my ovaries.

One night I decided to make a list of all the responses a childfree woman or man could give when barraged with this tiring question.

Here are just a few responses to The Question When Are You Having Children?

• In 1999, the US Army declared me a childfree zone
• I just waxed…so…
• I saw Rosemary’s Baby and it just took all the fun out of it.
• Full House scarred me for life.
• My license to breed has been revoked. Voluntarily.
• I can’t handle anything with bowel movements bigger than mine.

And in the heat of the writing-moment, I also broke down and made a video. I wore a coon cap because it’s my Superman cape, okay, you guys?

I hope you watch this with a thousand yard stare.

Enjoy the jump cuts, bitches.

Part III: Dublin, Ireland – FEED ME PLEASE

Know me – know this: I love to eat. I like good food. I’ll plot my days around a meal, fasting so I’m able to gorge myself even more when the time comes.

the thanksgiving fiasco of 1999 had its strange moments.

Also, it’s an ongoing fact in the family that if I don’t get fed, I’ll throw a rager pretty damn fast. Seriously, cue Sybil.

This is generally what I look like after I eat a meal. Really note the candy cigarette.

“ahhh, the digestion pains so good…”

So it makes a lot of sense that the first hushed argument my husband and I had in Dublin revolved around food. We arrived on December 26^th, St. Stephens Day, a holiday that pretty much shuts down the city. Starved, we ventured  around and around seeking the perfect meal. When we made it to the Temple Bar area my husband was shocked at the prices.

“$28 for fish and chips?” he had griped, dragging me to the next restaurant menu.

“We keep passing all these beautiful food places. I don’t want any more walking!” I had wailed in response.

We couldn’t decide. We stumbled along bitching at each other until we found THE Temple Bar.

BANNER LOVE FOOD

Sweet success.

There at the Temple Bar I broke a sweat eating my first meal in Ireland. A corned beef sandwich with red onion and brie.

Enduring angry starvation for this sandwich was well worth it. Which brings me to my next point. I love food, but I’m a food snob. I want to eat meals that are worth the goddamn calories. Therefore, I scoured the city of Dublin for the best places to grab a bite and this is what I found…

The Winding Stair

I squealed with delight when I found this restaurant. Why, you ask? Because it’s a combo-restaurant AND bookstore. “Named after the Yeats poem, and in honour of its winding staircase…”

The food is locally sourced and not typical Irish cuisine. What I so admired about Ireland is that any locally sourced product was noted on the menu and the farm name was given.  The Winding Stair was cozy, intimate and overlooked the quay. To start the meal, we ordered this appetizer: Burren smokery, Terry Butterly, Stephen Kavanagh and John Rogan’s smoked fish plate with our Dillisk bread, crème fraîche, pickled cucumbers and caper-berries.

For our entrees, I ordered venison (in typical Montana fashion) and my husband ordered duck and both were prepared perfectly. I highly recommend this quaint restaurant and great food. I cannot recommend the Instagram photos I took of our entrees and therefore no horrid photos are to follow.

And then the bookstore. It’s the oldest surviving independent bookshops in Dublin. Sigh. What can I say? I went back three times.

MARRY ME

The Farm  

This is a restaurant that prides itself on local and organic food and ingredients. On Dawson Street in Dublin, the atmosphere and décor of The Farm was adorable. We ordered from the prix-fixe menu, getting an appetizer, entrée and dessert for approx $50 per person.

Mama like.

The food was good. Not great. It was healthy and tasty but underwhelming for what I expected. However, the service was impeccable and the atmosphere worth it. There was even a buzzer on the table to call for service. THAT is superb.

Crackbird/ Jo Burger/Skinflint  

Yes to all of these.

The greatest find on my restaurant list was this boutique restaurant group that owned four concepts in Dublin. My husband and I dined at three of these.

Crackbird is one of the best names and logos I’ve ever seen in my life.

I like to imagine the bird’s name is Gary and he does crack.

Serving up delicious wings and sides were the main pros of this restaurant. The cons were the awful 1999-circa Madonna music piped through the place and the out-of-place Asian décor. That said, it was still delicious. I’d eat the face off their chicken any day.

I hunted everywhere for Jo Burger. Finally I found it on Grafton Street.

Their menu is fabulous.

You choose your meat, your bun and your toppings. The pairings are astounding. Caramelized chili banana, bacon & goats cheese? Uh, yes please. Or maybe you prefer Green Thai Curry Mayo, Coriander & Chilli?

Whatever you want, Jo Burger has it.

And it was one of the best burgers I’ve ever had.

My husband and I stumbled out in ecstasy.

Skinflint, sounding more like a skin tag condition than a restaurant, was located in a narrow alleyway.

Again, like Jo Burger, their menu served up delicious, thin-crust pizzas with insane toppings.

All the pizzas were named after women, making me feel slightly awkward as I ordered. “I’ll have the Dorothy. Ahem. Not like that. The pizza.”

The pizza, fools.

And let me tell you, I ate the shit outta that pizza.

McDonald’s/Burger King

Shut up.

I know. I KNOW.

On O’Connell Street where our hotel was, there were two Burger Kings and two McDonald’s  Our first day in Dublin, my husband and I scoffed at all the silly fools eating at these American chains. But night soon fell. It got late. We were slightly tipsy. It was St Stephen’s Day and nothing was open.

We succumbed to McDonald’s. Slinking in, I made my husband order a Quarter Pounder. We ate fast and then bolted.

Another night, traipsing home from Temple Bar we made a Burger King pit stop.

The Husband does the walk of shame.

And a few days later, getting back from bar hopping on New Year’s Eve, my first meal of 2013 was eating McDonalds on top of my hotel bed wearing nothing but my socks and underwear.

The lesson learned is that fast food overseas is convenient in a drunken pinch.

That’s it.

Shut up.

A few lessons learned on this dining extravaganza…

• You don’t tip bartenders. You tip servers 8-10%.
• Big security guards at Burger King make me nervous.
• Irish coffee is so much more than Irish coffee.

Behold my beauty.

And so, this concludes my Ireland Trilogy. I’ll always remember it. I’ll always taste that fresh Guinness in my mouth. And most importantly, I’ll always have a fond appreciation for bartenders warning me against Romanian gypsies.

Oh, the sweet smell of fear. Or ether.

Part II: Dublin, Ireland – The People, The Friends, The Sweatpants

Fact.

Going any place where people speak with foreign accents instantly turns you into Madonna.

minus the emaciated arms.

After about a day in Ireland I was speaking (and acting)  like Rita from Arrested Development much to my husband’s deep chagrin. But despite my ill-received fake accent, one thing was clear: The people in Ireland are charming. Friendly. Deliberately photo bomb-y.

dick. creative dick.

From our tour bus driver who gave me a rib-crunching hug for tipping him (and that is not a euphemism) to the adorable Irish sales clerk at Ted Baker on Grafton Street who complimented my American accent.

Her: “I just love your accent.”

Me: “My accent?” [swooning and blushing and a flash mob all soon followed].

I thought the only accent I had was my non-Hallmark-verbose mouth. But I’ll take it.

Europe is a magical place. It lets you see other cultures un-Americanized. It peer pressures you into drinking. It makes you realize you say “awesome” and “cool” way too much for your own comfort.

The Sweatpants and the Shorts

One day in Dublin and it was clear. I am not a teenager anymore. But I do know how they should dress. And it’s certainly not in tights paired with crotch-revealing shorts.

But wait. Yes. Yes it is.

The rules for the Dublin youth are simple. Sweat pants for the males, complete with sweatshirt hoodies and gangsta moves. Shorts and tights for the females, cigarette in hand. Note: ass crack must be dangerously close to showing on either of these.

pretty much the teen female look of Dublin.

The teens travel in packs, with one female for every three guys. Put ‘em together and baby you got a stew goin’.

Or the most epic face palm in the world.

The Germans

At Temple Bar we met a pair of Germans. Maybelle and Mark. We danced and sang along to the Cranberries circa 1994. Just let that image burn into your mind.

New friends and dance moves.

One thing Europe does is instantly make you have low self esteem. They spoke better English than we did. They know two languages. I can barely form a sentence as I’m scooping cake into my mouth.

Bridging the culture gap was interesting. After about three times I gave up trying to explain what public relations meant. And still we managed to have fun together and have actual conversation. They bought us drinks. On our third round, my husband turning down the offer, the German boyfriend, Mark, stared at us blankly. We do not accept no, said his stare.

So, relenting, we drank more.

Damn those Germans.

The Bartender

The owner/bartender at the Ha’Penny Inn, chatted us up all night. Dad-like, grey and wise, he warned us about staying away from Romanian Gypsies with a serious frown on his face.

That is all.

And that is fucking awesome.

Hubert

This is what life and Twitter is about. About two years ago I met Hubert O’Hearn on Twitter and stayed in touch ever since. He’s a great writer and inspiration and when he moved to Ireland a meeting between us was in the making.

We shared a pint (or maybe three) of Guinness at a pub in Dublin and spoke of Irish and writerly things.

It was damn cool. And surprising. I met a social media connection face-to-face and was not shanked.

But seriously. I jest. Meeting Hubert was a dream. Great guy, great conversation, always a great story.

And to steal Hubert’s words, “It figures that friends from Phoenix and Thunder Bay would finally end up meeting face to face on O’Connell Street in Dublin.”

It figures, indeed.

The Irish

Our last night in Ireland was New Year’s Eve.

A leprechaun copped a feel but that’s beside the point.

NO TOUCHING

After slumming it at the tourist-infested streets of the Temple Bar area we decided to take our thirst for Guinness to a more local pub called the Stag’s Head.

There, my husband and I met two Irish gents who offered to take our photo for us after I was caught fumbling with the camera. We started to chat and ended up at the bar until one in the morning. They knew more about American politics than I did. They cursed more than I did. They drank Guinness faster than I’ve ever seen a mofo drink it. In short, they were the nicest guys.

And again, it was another case of them happily buying us drinks and Irish peer pressure.

Midnight struck. I kissed my husband. We hugged the new stranger-acquaintances.

All blearily shithoused.

We shared politics and what struck me was how respectful they were. They were genuinely curious about our way of life in America, what we perceived it to be, and our opinions. And though only sometimes differing in opinion, it was a comfortable and polite conversation filled with many jovial “fecks”.

This. This is what travelling is made for. Even though I don’t know more than one night about them…about the Germans…about the girl at Ted Baker, I’ll never forget them.

I’m a sap at remembering the random connections I make.

Coming up next week…The Food, The Tears and Final Observations…

Part I: Dublin, Ireland – A Brief Intro, Jesus Times, Sights & Signs

December 25, 2012 was kept very secularist, suckers. No garland, no presents, the only fat man I encountered was the one sitting next to me. And let me tell you, the only acceptable fat person is John Goodman.

Hey baby, turn that frown upside down.

But getting back to the blog at hand…

Christmas Day, I was on a plane. The husband was gnawing on a cheese platter in the seat next to me and there was some movie playing where Ashton Kutcher wears the same pair of pajamas in every damn scene.

Someone get the poor guy a wardrobe.

In a spur of the moment decision, the husband and I decided to eschew the typical “family” Christmas plans and book a trip to Ireland. I am now a world traveler. I’ve never been overseas before and I now realize there are two phrases that should always be uttered on overseas vacations: Emilio Estevez and the perfect storm.

No relation between the two.

Or is there?

The bow tie is code for “the perfect storm”.

Because this blog post will get out of control pretty damn quick, kinda like my bowels on a hot Saturday night, I’m going to break this down nice and easy into a three-part extravaganza. Just how your mom likes it.

The Sights

When I travel I must take in the sights. Museums. Scenery. Hobos in dumpsters. Stuff like that. Hotel be damned, I will not stay in it long. I will wake you from a good night’s sleep so we can ramble the town. I will slip you energy drinks. And I’ll especially jump on the bed if you try to nap.

The Gresham on O’Connell Street was our lodging and it was very nice with its pointed toilet paper tips and heated towel rack.

Eff yes.

A week before the trip I made a super-sweet itinerary and kept it carefully tucked away in my super-serious planner.

I shit you not. I carried this folder halfway across the world

First thought scouring the city: Man, I love how old things are just lying around in Ireland.

Everything I saw was a lesson in giddiness. Shit’s old, people. Damn. I always knew that…but having never been overseas before and only traveling here in America one just experiences buildings/culture from the 1700s, so it really blows your freaking mind to see buildings from Jesus Times.

Here’s a brief recap of the sights we saw…

Kilmainham Gaol

One of the largest jails in Europe, used during the 1780s to the 1920s, this tour really helped us get a sense of Irish history. Sobering history and what gorgeous lines on this jail.

any time there’s a glory hole I’m taking full advantage

The Guinness Storehouse

The tour started off with me going up to an Irish guide.

Me: “Excuse me, I would like a map.”

Guide: “What language?”

Me: “In American, please.”

Guide: “You mean English?”

Me: “That is correct, sir.”

Firstly, this is why you do not take me overseas.

Secondly, GIVE ME MORE GUINNESS NOW.

Over here in the US, I never cared for Guinness. But in Ireland…oh baby. I drank that dark foamy beer more than my husband. Thick, creamy and just made for a scoop of ice cream, I’ll never get that true Irish taste out of my mind.

And my mouth.

Plus, how can you NOT love a company where Rutger Hauer was a goddamn spokesman.

Dear god, run.

Thirdly, I guess what I’m saying is the Guinness Factory was delicious. Especially the 360 degree views at the Gravity Bar.

Dublinia – the Viking Museum

The Vikings settled Dublin. Did you know that? Yeah, well, neither did I, until we took the tour of Dublinia. We started off with a tour of Viking family life, with my husband wolfishly uttering, “Oh, you’d have so many kids by now…”

Moving on.

It surprised me to learn that Dublinia means “Dark pool of water”, especially since that’s what I call it when I lose control of my bladder.

Basically, this museum was super cool and gave many ripe photo opportunities for me to wear my pouty-face. As evidenced below.

SHE DEAD.

“MY TRAVEL ADVISER TOLD ME THIS WAS LEGAL!!!”

“No, YOU’RE the man.”

Churches

I am not a religious person. But I love touring old churches. The history, the beauty, the corpses buried beneath floorboards…

“Hey! Jon Swift! Sup, buddy?”

We stopped into two of the more famous ones – St. Patrick’s Cathedral and Christ Church Cathedral.

This is my how-I-look-when-enter-a-church face.

Words can’t really describe these.

Just…beauty and epic, epic history. Thank god Henry VIII wasn’t the prick that he was and burned these to the ground. It really made me wish I had a better understanding of art history so I knew the difference between medieval and gothic architecture. Instead I just ended up calling everything a flying buttress and snickering silently in a corner.

BONUS.

Cliffs of Moher

I’ll admit it. My first thought was – I wonder how many people commit suicide here, HERPDEPRWHAT? After a stern scowl from the Husband I decided to NOT ask the question. It was difficult and later that night Wikipedia helped me out with the answer. (4 suicides in 2008)

But I digress…yay, prettiness!

DAMN YOU, WIND

The bus ride to the cliffs did not bode well.

Corcomroe Abbey

Give me a graveyard and I am a happy girl.

I could seriously make out with our tour bus driver for stopping at this Abbey. This 13th-century Cistercian monastery is the oldest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. It was beautiful. We stopped as dusk was falling and it was complete with that old eerie feeling.

Probably one of my majorly favorite parts of the trip.

The Signs

I fucking love street art.

As mentioned in last year’s San Diego blog post, I’m a sucker for signs. I see something on the street corner (no, not that call girl) and I’ll snap a shot. This usually ends with my husband being five blocks ahead of me as I mutter to myself and frantically hurry to catch up with him…

I always take a camera to the bathroom for pics like this:

Spiral flavored?

GOOD GOD YES

TOO MUCH PUNNY

Even in Ireland I couldn’t escape the Kardashian’s

Reminded me of one of Cinderella’s stepsisters

Pretty Ballerina

Bansky?

Making me proud, Ireland

Book depot on the street.

This toilet was mine

The name of this drink deserves a medal

CANNOT. STOP. LAUGHING.

TRAPPED WIND.

I hope you enjoyed me shoving Dublin down your throat. Believe me, that is not a euphemism…as much as I’d like it to be.

Coming up next week…The people, friends, and sweatpants of Ireland.