Hob Nobs, Saturday afternoon pints in Hogan's, Saturday night pints in Hogan's, Sunday afternoon pints in Hogan's, the occasional fry, rain, good tea (tae), sense of humor, my shed, Galway, friends, family, stray dogs, the sea, Donal Dineen on Today FM, beer fueled madness, spuds, gravy, roast beef, Kerrygold butter, hang sangwiches, canals, The Ticket, Kehoe's, Christmas in Dublin, brown bread, small towns, Jaffa Cakes, The Pines, BBC, Channel 4, TG4, city energy, Ireland's hedonistic optimism (where are we going, who cares?), Lok Moon food...
Aside from lamenting the above there has been much tomfoolery with cameras lately.
Minneapolis is packed with disused inner city buildings ((LINK), (LINK)) which I assume were once the pride and joy of their parent corporations, before tax breaks and vast tracts of land ripe for development drove companies beyond the city limits. Examining/contemplating these buildings, for me, always conjures up images of the 1930's. An era when every man wore a hat, instead of beer people drank martini's, manhattan's or whiskey sour's, and sharp suit sporting gangsters were public heroes... good times.
By car and bike I'm discovering hidden sides to Minneapolis. Gradually it is winning me over. Affordable stuff, old and young alike walking the streets with near impunity, nice folks, diverse yet integrated population, good jobs, lakes, parks, beautiful old industrial structures (here perfectly captured by Martha (LINK)) untouched by tasteless hands or fresh paint, harsh but defined seasons, easy driving distance to brutal and almost infinite wilderness and graffiti ((LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK), (LINK)) that covers trains and walls bringing a smile to my face and a silent nod of appreciating to those who work under the cover of darkness at this fine craft.
A decent city when you do the sums.
19 August 2005
13 August 2005
Please steal my bike
Some time in 2004 I bought a bike, that over the course of only 12 months, six of which it lived in the basement, turned into a piece of crap. You get what you pay for as they say, so I've no regrets over the purchase and sure enough the bike did serve me well during our time together. However, the time has come to get rid of the bastard. Method of disposal options are as follows:
I could sell it though I'm sure the $30 I'd get would be small compensation for the hassle involved. I could trade it in as part payment for a new set of wheels, but again the hassle of dragging it any distance can't be justified. I could give it to a local charity shop, no excuse why I shouldn't.
The plot thickens. I could throw it into a tree that lies below a nearby bridge over the Mississippi River. This tree is already full of old pairs of shoes that people have laced together and cast up into the branches. It's quite a cool thing to drive by or stand under and gawk up at literally hundreds of pairs of used shoes dangling and swaying with the motion of the tree. God knows why it began or who started it. You never see anyone actually hurling shoes at the tree yet there are more every time I look. Only recently I noticed that bikes had begun to populate the tree. There were only four or five last time I looked down over the bridge but it's obvious that something new has begun.
So, my fourth option would be to fling the bike over the edge of a bridge into a tree, but I'd rather use it as apparatus in an experiment. An experiment that will confirm or shatter some beliefs I have about Minneapolis. I've always known that the neighborhood I live in is pretty pleasant. The level of that pleasantness could never really be quantified... until now. Petty crime is what really gets to people. It wears you down, pisses you off, instills distrust between you and your neighbors. Sad to say but not long after, say, a murder, a neighborhood will recover. But, when you live on a street where plants are getting swiped from your garden, your car radio is getting robbed on an every two or three year basis, your shed is getting broken into you then live in a constant state of apprehension and suspicion and maybe even paranoia. That's Dublin. People here don't believe me when I tell them that if I left a cold, moldy, cup of tea in my front garden back home, that some scumbag would lift it the second my back was turned. The Irish rogue sees all the angles and some times you nearly admire his ability to engineer and execute the theft of objects worth no more than the price of a few pints.
Believing that petty but persistent crime is directly related to quality of life and mental well being I decided to leave my unwanted bike unlocked outside my apartment door just to see what makes the American criminal mind tick and more importantly to see if this neighborhood is as nice as it appears on the surface.
Nearly three months have passed and the bike still stands outside the door. Cobwebs stretch between various parts of the frame and rust is turning once shiny steel to a a dull red-brown color. Grass that couldn't be cut by the lawnmower because of the bike being in the way is starting to weave itself around the wheels.
I'm starting to think that nature will consume the bike before it falls victim to robbery. Conclusion thus: not a bad place to live.
I could sell it though I'm sure the $30 I'd get would be small compensation for the hassle involved. I could trade it in as part payment for a new set of wheels, but again the hassle of dragging it any distance can't be justified. I could give it to a local charity shop, no excuse why I shouldn't.
The plot thickens. I could throw it into a tree that lies below a nearby bridge over the Mississippi River. This tree is already full of old pairs of shoes that people have laced together and cast up into the branches. It's quite a cool thing to drive by or stand under and gawk up at literally hundreds of pairs of used shoes dangling and swaying with the motion of the tree. God knows why it began or who started it. You never see anyone actually hurling shoes at the tree yet there are more every time I look. Only recently I noticed that bikes had begun to populate the tree. There were only four or five last time I looked down over the bridge but it's obvious that something new has begun.
So, my fourth option would be to fling the bike over the edge of a bridge into a tree, but I'd rather use it as apparatus in an experiment. An experiment that will confirm or shatter some beliefs I have about Minneapolis. I've always known that the neighborhood I live in is pretty pleasant. The level of that pleasantness could never really be quantified... until now. Petty crime is what really gets to people. It wears you down, pisses you off, instills distrust between you and your neighbors. Sad to say but not long after, say, a murder, a neighborhood will recover. But, when you live on a street where plants are getting swiped from your garden, your car radio is getting robbed on an every two or three year basis, your shed is getting broken into you then live in a constant state of apprehension and suspicion and maybe even paranoia. That's Dublin. People here don't believe me when I tell them that if I left a cold, moldy, cup of tea in my front garden back home, that some scumbag would lift it the second my back was turned. The Irish rogue sees all the angles and some times you nearly admire his ability to engineer and execute the theft of objects worth no more than the price of a few pints.
Believing that petty but persistent crime is directly related to quality of life and mental well being I decided to leave my unwanted bike unlocked outside my apartment door just to see what makes the American criminal mind tick and more importantly to see if this neighborhood is as nice as it appears on the surface.
Nearly three months have passed and the bike still stands outside the door. Cobwebs stretch between various parts of the frame and rust is turning once shiny steel to a a dull red-brown color. Grass that couldn't be cut by the lawnmower because of the bike being in the way is starting to weave itself around the wheels.
I'm starting to think that nature will consume the bike before it falls victim to robbery. Conclusion thus: not a bad place to live.
04 August 2005
The empty west
The French and German working man enjoys between four and six weeks of holidays every year of his employed life. His Irish contemporary also fares pretty well having three to four weeks in which to down tools and appreciate life. A week at the Galway races, a break in sunny Spain, many the carefree drunken night over Christmas, a few long weekends messin' around the house. All possible for this man. The American however, he must be satisfied with a meager two work free weeks per year. I now fall into this category, and what a rough deal it is.
I remember being at a job interview about a year ago, not far from here. After meeting with a few engineers I was turned over to HR to learn of what benefits the company could offer a young man like me.
"Lay it on me" I says, and she did. "We'll, you get the healthcare, the dental, subsidized this and co-payed that... and for your first seven years with the company you are entitled to 10 days paid vacation per year." To be honest, I didn't expect any more. The medical and dental plans were very generous. I sat there forcing a smile and returning the enthusiasm that was emanating so strongly from across the table. "10 days? Great!" says I, while secretly and internally saying "screw that, gimme four weeks or you can go to hell with the job." Not the time, place or country for those thoughts of treason. Instead of trying to turn the tide on this foundation of the American working life, as much value as possible must be squeezed from time away from the grindstone. Hence, a five state, 3400 mile, 10 day trek to Montana and back.
On the fourth Friday in July Martha and I headed south on I-35 until it intersected with I-90. It was all west from there on an empty corridor through endless and perfectly geometric fields of soybeans and corn. Thoughts of camp fire cooked corn on the cob doused in butter and salt plagued my rumbling stomach. That’s some good eatin’. The land faded from green to light green with every mile and after crossing the South Dakota border it seemed that a very weak shade of brown was going to be the outcome. Rocks, hills, dust and vast open prairie replaced the crop fields of Minnesota.
We reached Badlands National Park (LINK) that afternoon. A strange rocky place that looked and felt like an evaporated ocean floor. After setting up the tent I noticed one of our car tires was slashed. Probably not maliciously since our neighborhood in Minneapolis is pretty quiet, more likely that it somehow happened on route. Given that we were only 700 miles into our trip, with many more to go we decided to get some expert advice. Having recently acquired my US driving license I drove into the town of Wall and found a garage. It was a hot, dry and dusty day. Two dormant looking pumps stood outside the garage. I’m guessing that their fuel prices were no match for the 30 pump gas stations that people can easily access along the highway. If you ever read National Geographic magazine you’ll know about the short section called ZipUSA. It usually focuses on small rural towns. Ordinary people are photographed and offer some stories about the town and their lives. Real down to earth stuff but interesting. The two mechanics who fixed our tire in Wall would make fine material for the magazine. Nothing extraordinary about them. Genuine, hardworking, friendly characters. Behind the oil, dirt, scattered tools and loud air compressor that repeatedly cut in and out this was a solid business built on meticulous work and loyal customers. There’s something reassuring about the honesty of certain people. It’s these experiences that I remember and value most.
Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise. We went to bed around 20:30 and woke as the sun was coming up over the jagged horizon. Getting on the road by 07:30 allowed us to reach Devils Tower National Park in Wyoming by early afternoon. Another otherworldly kind of place. Devils Tower (LINK) is a bigger version of The Giant’s Causeway back home. Many times bigger. Millions of years ago huge hexagons of igneous material extruded out of the earth stopping at nearly 1300 ft. During the afternoon we hiked around the base of the tower, stopping to gawk and photograph. Plenty of climbers could be seen ascending the vertical rock, each dwarfed by the hexagonal columns they clung to.
This is killing me, trying to find time to sit down and write. There is simply too much to tell and the effort to transcribe my memories can't be summoned now.
I remember being at a job interview about a year ago, not far from here. After meeting with a few engineers I was turned over to HR to learn of what benefits the company could offer a young man like me.
"Lay it on me" I says, and she did. "We'll, you get the healthcare, the dental, subsidized this and co-payed that... and for your first seven years with the company you are entitled to 10 days paid vacation per year." To be honest, I didn't expect any more. The medical and dental plans were very generous. I sat there forcing a smile and returning the enthusiasm that was emanating so strongly from across the table. "10 days? Great!" says I, while secretly and internally saying "screw that, gimme four weeks or you can go to hell with the job." Not the time, place or country for those thoughts of treason. Instead of trying to turn the tide on this foundation of the American working life, as much value as possible must be squeezed from time away from the grindstone. Hence, a five state, 3400 mile, 10 day trek to Montana and back.
On the fourth Friday in July Martha and I headed south on I-35 until it intersected with I-90. It was all west from there on an empty corridor through endless and perfectly geometric fields of soybeans and corn. Thoughts of camp fire cooked corn on the cob doused in butter and salt plagued my rumbling stomach. That’s some good eatin’. The land faded from green to light green with every mile and after crossing the South Dakota border it seemed that a very weak shade of brown was going to be the outcome. Rocks, hills, dust and vast open prairie replaced the crop fields of Minnesota.
We reached Badlands National Park (LINK) that afternoon. A strange rocky place that looked and felt like an evaporated ocean floor. After setting up the tent I noticed one of our car tires was slashed. Probably not maliciously since our neighborhood in Minneapolis is pretty quiet, more likely that it somehow happened on route. Given that we were only 700 miles into our trip, with many more to go we decided to get some expert advice. Having recently acquired my US driving license I drove into the town of Wall and found a garage. It was a hot, dry and dusty day. Two dormant looking pumps stood outside the garage. I’m guessing that their fuel prices were no match for the 30 pump gas stations that people can easily access along the highway. If you ever read National Geographic magazine you’ll know about the short section called ZipUSA. It usually focuses on small rural towns. Ordinary people are photographed and offer some stories about the town and their lives. Real down to earth stuff but interesting. The two mechanics who fixed our tire in Wall would make fine material for the magazine. Nothing extraordinary about them. Genuine, hardworking, friendly characters. Behind the oil, dirt, scattered tools and loud air compressor that repeatedly cut in and out this was a solid business built on meticulous work and loyal customers. There’s something reassuring about the honesty of certain people. It’s these experiences that I remember and value most.
Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise. We went to bed around 20:30 and woke as the sun was coming up over the jagged horizon. Getting on the road by 07:30 allowed us to reach Devils Tower National Park in Wyoming by early afternoon. Another otherworldly kind of place. Devils Tower (LINK) is a bigger version of The Giant’s Causeway back home. Many times bigger. Millions of years ago huge hexagons of igneous material extruded out of the earth stopping at nearly 1300 ft. During the afternoon we hiked around the base of the tower, stopping to gawk and photograph. Plenty of climbers could be seen ascending the vertical rock, each dwarfed by the hexagonal columns they clung to.
This is killing me, trying to find time to sit down and write. There is simply too much to tell and the effort to transcribe my memories can't be summoned now.
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