Trouble, but just a bit

So I finally met up with my dear friend Michael yesterday afternoon. I accompanied him on a business errand (he's always up to one of those) and then we sat around talking, eating, drinking for the better part of six hours. We discussed the plight of the Irish all over the world, globalization, the troubles, the riots . . . and he encouraged me to write a piece for one of the papers here. In fact, I think he'll hound me until I produce some copy. Everyone's a fucking editor.

But really, it was wonderful to reconnect with someone who knows me so well.

Then I picked up a newspaper and planted myself in an old haunt, The Foggy Dew, drank a beer, read the paper, wrote in my journal. Then I got chatted up by a mechanic from Galway who was born two weeks later than I. He had a tattoo of his childhood dog on his arm. After the pub shut down for the night, I managed to convince him and two of his friends (also Irish-speaking lads from Galway) to escort me to Ri-Ra, another of my old haunts, a fabulous club that plays the kind of funky music that makes my body want to move.

And so it did. Until 3 in the morning.

Being the fabulous Sagittarian born in the year of the Dragon that he is, Brian Duggan spun me around the dance floor like crazy. Great. Fun.

And I'll leave the rest to your imagination. Although keep in mind that Duggan is a family name on my mother's side, and I have no interest in risking any sort of inbreeding whatsoever.

So, as far as I'm concerned, I got into just enough trouble last night to keep my vibrant wildness well alive.

We'll see how I manage today. I've made contact with one of the old gang. His brother is like a drug to me. Said brother, I now know, is in town again after many years of living everywhere but here.

Playing it by ear, y'all. . . .