Surrealism in Dublin

The Liffey River runs high this morning, the likely result of a thousand Irish pisses into it last night.  Breakfast is cliche Euro – espresso and croissant – although the post-pub revelry and sporadic vomiting make dawn’s meal exigent.  Nothing venerates first light like a good gastrointestinal heave.

Dave Browne finishes his 100th straight hour of live music this evening. Perched upon a leather throne, he is currently receiving hourly massages as he struts and frets his hours upon the stage  (how about a little applause for that apropos Shakespearean reference!) and wears a drawn gaze that resembles ketchup sliding down a glass window.  Poor bastard might die today.  Along with a thunderous cheer, onlooking masses hoist and tilt their mugs in respectful salute every time he passes another hour.  The Guinness Book representative stands in observance and sips upon a Guinness Stout in what has to be one of the most symbiotic and dually effective marketing campaigns ever witnessed.

Trekked through Merrion Park to hear the unexpected celebration of James Joyce’s Bloomsday – Joyce’s novel takes place on this day in 1904 – followed by a soulful rendition of U-2’s Where the Streets Have No Name as sung by a talented street performer.  A few meters further, crowds gather for the Where’s Wally record attempt.  Wally is the Irish equivalent of America’s Waldo and tourists should know that it will upset a lot of Irish folks if, in a gesture dedicated to a day of surrealism – or at the very least, irony -you try to position your un-striped shirt in the midst of their Where’s Wally crowd.

The tip of the Spire_of_Dublin or Monument of Light rests some 400 feet above the city and police officers are adamant that one should not attempt to pee upon it after a hard afternoon of drinking.  Adamant!  Close to that is a combination Italian/Mexican restaurant where, if you accidentally happen to miss the “Please wait to be seated” sign, you will draw the ire of the waiter and he will state clearly “I’m not going to serve you bastards so you can just leave now.”  On the plus side, the pizza joint next door has a whole pizza for 10 Euros and half a pizza for 4 Euros.  When asked the obvious question, the waitress shakes her head and says “I know, so which would you like?” and then squints with the kind of expression that suggests basic math just might be a little too rough for her.

Rumor has it Dave is at 98 hours. Off to the pub….

By ccxander

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