Happiness Is A Warm Pint
Its obvious to everyone I meet that I could make Dublin my home. So instead of tipping I just promise never to move here. That comes in handy considering the Euro is the strongest it's ever been against the dollar. They knew I was coming.
What the hell is it with that damn car stereo? Now its blasting "Lady Madonna." Only three years in Britain and already a Duchess. I guess "Swept Away" never opened across the pond.
On 33 St. Stephens Green we see a plaque on a Georgian brownstone that reads, "Oliver St. John Gogarty, Poet and Surgeon, Had Rooms Here 1915-1917." Poet and surgeon. I feel a deep connection fondly recalling my dentist who also bankrolled San Fernando porn back in the mid 70's.
Later I read Dr. Gogarty went mad trying to find a word that rhymed with "malignancy."
Paul is now tailing us with "Band On The Run." We learn there's no car stereo. He is appearing at the RDS Center, an outdoor arena. 30,000 people paid 150 Euro to see Paul; the rest of Dublin hears him for free.
"Paul!" My moonstruck bride says reading the Irish Independent with her sunglasses on. "This is the first time he's played Dublin in 40 years. And we're here for it. It's magical."
"It's Wings," I say.
"Can't you enjoy anything?" she asks.
"No," I say. "John was the poet."
The crankier I become, the more Dublin cheers.
Ireland has a palpable reverence for all writers. I can't walk a block without bumping into a bookmaker. Yet when we pull into Langton's pub and I immediately list my television credits nobody seems too impressed.
Pouring me a pint, Langton reminds me Dublin is home to Jonathan Swift, Oscar Wilde, and James Joyce. I am momentarily humbled until I take a sip and remind Langton those hacks would crumble like three-week-old soda bread if they had to sit around a conference table pitching one-liners to a kid fresh out of Harvard.
My wife's face buries deeper into an Irish anthology as the jukebox oozes "Silly Love Songs."
She's rereading Swift who wrote "A Modest Proposal" calling for the eating of Irish babies. Swift was being ironic. Everyone knows Irish babies are way too stringy.
As I assure Langton and anyone in earshot that we'll find those weapons of mass destruction when we're good and damn well ready, she drills deeper into Oscar Wilde, an openly gay Victorian writer. An eye opener for me because I didn't know homosexuality had been invented back then.
I head back to the hotel after Langton politely informs me his TV doesn't get the Fox News channel.
We lie in bed. She promises sex as soon as she finishes "Ulysses." I wait.
Summoning the spirit I beckon room service for another pint. Because I already sampled a pint of Guinness this time I ask for a pint of Bushmills.
Paul still echoes. I'm humming "My Love Does It Good" while sidling up next to her.
I whisper in her ear that Paul is my favorite still living Beatle. Then I ask if we're in Ireland, or is Ireland in us?
How long can it take to read "Ulysses?"
I wait.
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David Feldman can’t find a Starbucks and this Irish coffee doesn’t seem to be sobering him up.
