It appears that I have managed to get all A’s this semester.  I’m grateful that I did as well as I did.  I had the same Instructor for two of my classes.  The two classes with her were Criminal Justice and Criminology.  I loved the Criminal Justice class.  The book was an overview of law and criminal justice throughout the ages.  She would ask questions to see if we actually read the chapters and the room would fall silent.   So, starting on the first day of classes, I started answering the questions and giving my opinion on the subject at hand.   Two other students and myself were the only one’s throughout the entire term.

We discussed English Law and how Common Law came into effect in the states in her classes and others.  Actually, my state still observes English Common Law.  In my Law class we went back to how laws were developed in the Roman Empire.  It was quite fascinating.  I’m a lover of history, so I inhaled those chapters.

The other class I had with her was Criminology.  She’s a grand professor and all, but I despised the subject matter.  They used statistics to claim that children of career criminals have a higher probability, due to their environment, of being criminals as well.  Hello?  Is anyone home?  You don’t have to spend millions of dollars to figure that out.  It’s common sense, people!  And, don’t even get me started on Freud.  He was a drug addict that scribed theories in a drug induced state.  But, because he is considered a founder by so many highly paid nutters, I have to take his words as though they are holy.

She and I talked a lot between classes, so she knew that if we talked about Australia or the English imprisonment of the Irish rebels (no offense to the English.  I realise that the Monarchy treated you all just as bad as the Irish, Scottish, and Welsh), I’d speak up and give a brief history.  On a few occasions, I tended to get too passionate and mutter on for too long.  And, when we got to imprisonment of slaves during and before the Civil War, an older African-American lady spoke up.  So, the two or three of us that spoke up and we all learned a lot.  I still have much to learn about the law.

One day I was telling the teacher about getting into a bit of trouble with TSA.  As I was heading down the hallway to leave, one of the young women that never says anything tapped me on the shoulder.  I turned around and asked her what was up.  With a countenance that would raise the heartbeat of any man, she smiled, threw her hair back, and said, “I’m Irish”.

Now, I’ve never stated in any class that I’m Irish.  I’ve said that my ancestors were mostly Irish. 

“Really?”

“Yeah, like, my grandmother was from LondonDerry.”

“You mean Derry?”

“I guess….I was wondering if you wanted to get some coffee and tell me more about the Irish?”

“Sure”, I said with glee.

Anyway, we had a coffee and a I found out that she’s only 18.  Those damn morals got in the way again.  To make a long story short, I told her she was a plastic paddy like me.  There are so many young people out there desperately seeking an identity.  If the parents don’t step up and tell them of their history and that they should be proud of their ancestors, they are certain to pick the wrong identity.  When I’m asked if I’m Irish, I tell people I’m an American of Irish ancestry and I’m proud of my ancestors whether they were fisherman or nobles.  Right, she was really into the fact that I had gotten into trouble with TSA.  And, I told her about my troubles with the Hollyroodhouse British authorities.  Women say they don’t want a troublemaker, but they really do.  If that angel on my shoulder hadn’t been yelling louder, who knows… 

Here’s a few shots from my latest photowalk.  My next post will be structured better.  Sorry for getting off topic.

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In the previous post, I discussed a party I went to over the previous weekend.  Believe it or not there was more to that party.  The music may have slowed a bit, but it didn’t stop ‘til dawn.

I find myself behind the bar serving shots of Vodka, Whiskey, Scotch, and Bourbon.  There were three or four men wobbling around, smoking cigarettes, and laughing.  The atmosphere was one of a man cave.  Smoke is so thick I can barely see to pour.  And, the rolling stones are blaring through a myriad of speakers inside and outside on the deck.  All of this is going on at about 3AM.

One of the blokes holds up his glass, and says, “Here, Here”.

“What are we celebrating?”  Asks another whilst trying not to fall backwards.

“Your health”, says I.

Everyone busts into laughter, spilling expensive booze in the process.

“To America and Ireland, may they both shine brightly again(A mate that has researched his ancestors since I told him of my adventure researching mine.).”

“I’ll drink to that”, says I, whilst pouring myself a shot of Jameson.

One of the guys drunkenly spills his booze.

“Don’t worry about it.  Not even the president can do it right”, says I whilst laughing.

“So JD, is it true that European women don’t shave?”  One of them ask a bit arrogantly.  You tell one person something in confidence and then everyone knows.

“Ah come on fellas.  Go over and find out for yourselves.”  Says I, trying to change the subject.

“Was she bare, bikini waxed, or natural?”  One of them asks like a giddy school boy.

I looked around the room.  There were no women in sight, so I said something inappropriate and all of the guys laughed.  About that time I heard a shuffle behind me.  It was a good friends wife whom I immensely respect.  She didn’t say anything standing there with a handful of rubbish.   She just gave me the look of disappointment that is worse than a stabbing.

“What would you expect me to say, you know what she did?”  I pleadingly yell, trying to excuse my own ignorance.

“I’d expect you to tell them to mind their own damn business”, says she whilst going up the stairs.  She has been a good friends throughout the years.  Disappointing her is like disappointing my mother or an aunt.

“I’m proud of ya, JD”, says one of them whilst heading up the stairs to pass out.

That’s when I went and sat by the waters edge and listened to the serene rhythmic terpsichore of the water lapsing against shoreline.

Point of post:  When it comes to your women, present or past, gents, keep your mouths shut.  I know better but half drunkenly rambled on anyway.  Me running my mouth was what started our demise in the first place. 

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A couple of days ago, I was having an arduous day at work.  I was in the back doing inventory, when I heard one of my fellow employee’s call me to the front.  I went to him and asked what the problem was, and he said, “Two more fuckin’ Mexican’s just came in – you help them”.

I work with a bunch of xenophobes.  I do not like the fact that a large percentage of Mexican’s do come into this country illegally, but I’m not going to hold it against them.  They are just trying to provide for their families.  It’s far easier to say that an entire group of people are bad, rather than to realise that there is good and bad in all of us.  No one, certainly no ethnicity, is pure or without sin.  Some of us are more educated than others but that certainly does not make us perfect.

Researching my own family history has taught me more about myself than anything else.  I became humbled, as I went through the records and realising what my ancestors had to overcome.  Most were either running away from oppression or starvation.  Still, others were ran off their land that they had resided on for a millennia.

All of this being said, I do not treat others like third class citizens because of where they were born.  So, I approached the man and woman discovering that they were not Mexican’s at all. 

“O si yo (hello)”  I said whilst smiling and approaching the couple.

The man adorning a tan leather jacket and denims, smiled, as he leaned in whispering to the lady wearing a black dress and an enormous smile.  She was short with jet black hair draping across her back and dark mystical eyes.  He was tall and hefty having similar long jet black hair and dark mystical eyes.

“How did you know?”  He asked whilst smiling and laughing.

“The Screech Owl pendant was a dead giveaway”, I answered, as I leaned in to shake their hands.

“You’re Cherokee?”  The man asked with earnest intrigue and disbelief.

“My grandfather was half Cherokee”, I replied.

“Well, you’d never know it with the freckles and light hair”, he said whilst laughing.

“You might say I’m a bit watered down…There’s more Irish in the bucket of paint than anything else”, I laughingly replied.

“No way, my great-grandfather was Irish”, he yelled whilst patting me on the back.

We continued talking about the Cherokee Nation and our grandfathers.  We also discussed our fiery tempers and which group of our ancestors we could blame for that.  It was good to reminisce about all things Cherokee and mother earth.  Native American’s are thrown to the wayside far too often.  I’m still waiting for a Native American President!

When I finished talking with them, I walked to the back to finish inventory.  The lad walked to the back, and asked, “What did the Mexican’s want?”.

“They were not Mexican’s, my brother, they are Cherokee, Native Americans.”

He smirked, and said, “Same difference”.

I jumped up from my kneeling position, looked him up and down, and walked away.  I felt like decking him right then and there, but that wouldn’t solve anything.  Nor would it be worth my time to explain it because you can’t educate those that don’t want to be educated.

I am very proud of my ancestry and am not ashamed of being from the Southern United States. 

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Bright and early Sunday morning, I woke up with bloodshot eyes and an endless sneeze.  I tried everything including Eastern White Pine tea to cure the hay fever, but to no avail.  Unfortunately, I missed the festival for the first time in like five years. 

By late Sunday afternoon, the allergies cleared up and I went outside to enjoy the unusually tepid March weather.  I tilled my garden and managed to plant some seeds before dusk. 

I’m going on a trip towards the end of the week to take pictures and enjoy the scenery.  Tune in to see where I go.

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I would greatly appreciate it if you all would do me a wee favour.  You see, I’m saving up for a new Lens for me camera.  Every time someone clicks on an add, I get a wee droplet of cashola in me account.  I’m not one to beg for anything, but please harmlessly click on one.  It won’t hurt, I promise. 

To show you folks that I am a gentleman, I’ll make you a promise.  From Monday ‘til the blogosphere falls off the economic precipice that we are all being pushed over, I’ll blog once a day excluding Sunday, of course.  I’m not sure what ‘ll blog about.  Perhaps how I’m sick of talking to wood floors and tile that don’t talk back until dark. 

The blog will be eccentric in nature just like its owner.  One day, I may write a wee poem.  Then next day, I may rant about latex paint.  You never know what you’ll find, when you click over the border to Davisville. 

P.S.:  Congrats to all that won and didn’t win at the IBA’s. 

P.P.S.:  For your musical entertainment on this grand Sunday, I present to you, Love Story by Taylor Swift.  Why her you ask?  Is it not obvious?   

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I’m sitting in my almost empty and dark office.  The powerful luminance coming from the laptop bounces off windows illuminating wee droplets of dew clinging to the bare panes like lacquer to freshly milled wood.  The air is heavy with dust and drifting pollen sparkling in the moonlight.  Tiny zephyr’s hauntingly whir round the sharp corners of the house leaving me with a sense of urgency.

As most of you may know, I was supposed to leave for Dublin on Wednesday.  I was scheduled to leave my local airport at 3:51PM on that grand day, when I’d say goodbye to the family and start a new life.  All of that changed almost two weeks ago, when I realised that when I secured a job I’d have to prove that I had enough money to live off of for the six month visa.  I think it is a grand rule that I wish we had in the states.  I only have enough green backs to last for three or four months, if I live conservatively. 

A little over two months ago I sold a valuable piece of property.  I thought that I would have enough money left after paying off all of my debts to live for six months if needed.  However, it seems that every creditor that I’ve ever owed had their hands out.  And, friends and family started using me like a bank.  My large chunk of change dwindled in an expedient manner.  I still have a bit left but not enough for a six month venture.  It doesn’t help matters that the American dollar isn’t worth crap at the moment…  Thanks Mr. Bush! 

I mindlessly drifted for two or three days.  I stopped eating and walked a lot.  Walking puts me in a state of serenity.  After three days of not speaking to my family and not taking calls, I came out of the fog fighting.  “Since I’m going to be stuck here for a few more months, I might as well be illuminating myself”, I cerebrated whilst standing on the edge of a precipice looking over Raven Cliff Falls. 

I signed up for a few classes at the local University.  I’m taking Early Art History and Design.  I am supposed to start Friday, if I can get all of my paperwork sorted out.  I’m going to go to school, work on my photography, and work on computers on the side.  I helped my Uncle do some landscaping jobs last week.  We have a few flowerbeds to install in an elderly lady’s garden tomorrow.  Landscaping may be laborious, but I do so enjoy the outdoors. 

Truthfully, I was very anxious about the move to Ireland, yet very excited of the notion of a new beginning.  Many people have enquired as to why I love Ireland and speak of it with such veneration.   Ireland has a certain mystique about it that I can’t quite explain.  My love of Ireland started when I was a lad in school.

Throughout my youth, my mothers family had spoke of Ireland with the same reverence.  On occasion, my grandmother would pull antique papers and pictures out of the attic and show me and my cousins our ancestors.  She’d tell us of where we came from and how proud we should be to be who we are.  She’d talk of America and all of the great people that make up the nation from all nationalities. 

When I was ten, I had a social studies class that I excelled at.  I was the teachers pet in every class I had.  Teachers and professors alike still keep in touch with me.  On one particular brisk winter morn she asked me to help her bring in a bunch of books from her car.  We brought in about thirty small hardback books filled with vibrant pictures and words from numerous countries.  She asked us all to take one from the pile.  When I went to get mine, she pulled one out of her desk drawer that she had saved for me. 

My eyes lit up with delight as the fluorescent lights illuminated the glittering green letters that scribed, Ireland.  She smiled and whispered that she expected a good report.  We took our books home to read.  I stared at the pictures hoping to hop into this magical world depicted in the lines.  I had to read what I could while my parents were still at work.  At the time, it was a form of escapism for me.  It is not that anymore, but at that time, I desperately needed some form of escape. 

The older I got, the more I realised that we live on a small planet.  Every culture is unique in its own way, but we are also so similar. 

I’d like to thank all of my friends for all of the advice, help, and kind words.  I am supposed to get my internet back on Wednesday.  I hope to be back to regular blogging ASAP.  

P.S.:  Do you know what the up shot is to going back to University?  Illumination!  And, new skirts to chase…  

Thank you all. 

Best

jd

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Ronnie Drew, the so called King of Ireland, passed away yesterday afternoon.  He was and will remain a legend throughout the world.  He had a rustic voice that is unforgettable.

Rest in Peace Ronnie Drew.

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I was super bored last night, so I started flipping through the endless channels on the TV.  What I found knocked me back to the 80’s.  It was Little Darlings, starring Tatum O’Neal and Kristy McNichol.  I was only eight when it came out at the drive in theatre.  I had the hots for Kristy McNichol back in those days.  The blue walls of my room were covered in pictures of her.  She was a hot babe, and she had and probably still has more spunk than most men could or can handle. 

I was instantly transformed to the Friday night drive in, when I’d sit atop a pillow and be in total awe of the spirited young woman on the enormous outdoor screen.  Those were the good ol’ days.

So, who’s picture did you have plastered all over your bedroom?  Or, do I want to ask?  

P.S.:  Watch the first minute or so of the video.  It’s hilarious.  I feel really bad for the guy though!  I’ve never been kicked like the guy in the film, but I’ve been kneed more times than I can count!   Women around here think it’s funny!?  

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In the event that I am not able to do a proper post every day, I have these “Picture of the Day” post automatically posting at 00:01GMT. They are just pictures, but one could argue that they are my artistic expression. Perhaps even more expression than words can provide. This one is kind of funny, since I’m the big eared goon in the reflection.

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