Slackin' Slatkin

If you are reading this, then it is already too late. I have lost myself and set my identity ablaze. Belfast has corroded the false idols of my unquestioned beliefs in the American ideals of Truth, Liberty, and Justice. This corruption of the soul I believed to be my “self” struck like a blazing flash of lightning satori that left the moveable corpse of my body thunderously shuddering. While my vision of enlightenment struck in an instant, the events that occurred during my two months prior, in Belfast, were what allowed such a momentous revolution of perspective to occur (and yes, your stereotypical notion that all great things which occur on the Isle of Eire are precipitated by Guinness are indeed correct in this instance).
Day Zero (or the day I tore down the walls of the unquestioned beliefs of my childhood) began when my best friend from age fourteen, Kristian, awoke me Saturday morning, the 11th of March. After a wee bit of hot shower meditation and high-fiber breakfast, my consciousness was pulsating enough to leave my dorm, and set sail upon the flowing black asphalt sea towards St. George’s Market in Belfast’s City Centre.
When we arrived at 14:35 all that was left of the famous farmers market were fish/livestock carcasses and a mop-up brigade who wielded their weapons of purification with the confidence only found within true masters of the custodial arts. With the market closed we headed with our bodies slouched, and hands in our pockets to the recently constructed Waterfront Centre. It seems like the alternative-adolescent crowd of Belfast congregated their studded-pierced-tattooed-Mohawk-spiked bodies by the shore to worship the holy sacraments of PDA, skating, chillin, and extreme parkour. Unfortunately along came a pair of neon-yellow female Enforcers of Justice who threatened to bombard these “loiterous” youths with the Fire and Brimstone of their mighty pens and notebooks, if they did not move their adolescent ritual of coming-of-age to a less recently monetarily flooded (and thereby touristy) area. As the police officers walked past, I, wearing the finest of Chinese assembled American labeled outdoors-wear, exchanged a courteous smile and nod to these .40 caliber Smith and Wesson clad Defenders of Peace and Equality. I grinned while muttering some manner of compliment to my law-abiding matriarchs under my breath, eliciting a chuckle from my friend Kristian, and went on my merry way in search of better company amidst the crowd of Belfast.
Then, out of the gray it started to rain. There was nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide: except for Belfast’s most famous public house, The Crown Bar (Est. 1826). We were finally able to push our way past the herd gathered around the waterhole at 17:00 and obtain the black elixir of life that defies the natural laws and order of the universe; falling away from the center of the planet and towards the white-frothy cream at the top (more commonly referred to as Guinness). There was not an open old aristocratic (thereby exclusive and closed off) booth in the place. So with weight on our feet and frosty beers in our hands we emptied our goblets to their temporary resting place in our circulatory system.
With our bodies warmed, we set out into the drying streets in search of dinner. On our walk back Kristian spotted one of the famous Belfast murals depicting the conflict between Catholic/Nationalist and Protestant/Unionist. Consumed by his mighty brew, Kristian wanted to venture into the periphery of West Belfast’s Sandy Row Ulster Protestant Neighborhood. Not being one to turn down an adventure I obliged his request.
We paused at the mural to read:

It was surrounded by the beautiful sights of vacated old redbrick factories protected by walls topped-off with shimmering coils of flowing curls of razor wire. Our odyssey continued down the road, and as we were walking three young boys with buzz-cuts and tracksuits spilled out of a toyshop and onto the sidewalk. “Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!” These nine-year-olds each began to familiarize themselves with the sound, feel, and smell of firing a six-shot with their recently purchased cap-guns as we past. “Bang-Bang!”
Two shops up the road at Take-Out Palace, two middle-aged men were standing on the corner leaning their “wife-beater” blue tracksuits with accenting silver-chains against a new black Land Rover Discovery. As we snuck by and hastily crossed the street, we were came across a crowd of twelve-year-olds running around a Camo-colored ATV driving down the middle of the street. We had seen enough, and ducked down the next corner block to get back on Great Victoria Avenue.
On our left were the skeletal remains of some half torn down cinderblock building that had not withstood the changes of time since The Troubles. Coating the cinderblock-bones of the building was a ghost in the shape of a man, hidden by a black ski mask, black clothing, and an AK-47. In the shadow of this haunted-wall were six children from the age of four to seven and wearing mixed clothes, ranging from Bulls Championship t-shirts to the customary tracksuit, standing between Great Victoria Avenue and us. As we approached they stopped digging sticks into the sidewalk, and looked up at us. I was about to walk past, and looked into their eyes to exchange a smile and “Hello,” but all that I received were mischievous giggles and glaring smiles as I passed by. Right as they were behind me I heard in choir unison “Yankee, Yankee, Naa-Naa, Naa-Naa, NaA-NaA!” I looked over my left shoulder as they danced triumphantly in their End Zone, like six-year-old T.O.’s.
I wanted to turn around and explain to these children how their actions were guided by the ignorance sown into society by the symbols and institutions that rule over the individual. But instead I just turned my eyes to the black abyss stretching out in front of and below my feet, stuck my hands into my pockets, and chuckled at the consequences of such a wacky and absurd idea.

March 17 was P-Day. Shit was crazy. I woke up at 9. Showered. Shaved. Mixed up a tasty Black Bush (Bushmills Brand) Whiskey and hot honey water. The fumes were sharp and pungent and cut my nose because of the increased volitility of the alcohol at a warm temperature. I washed down my drink with a bowl of Muesli and Mimosa. Hell, I even got one of my best buds from home, K-Bizz, to have a morning drink.

We met up with Charcoal (another American studying in Belfast from Virginia), and headed to the parade in Belfast City Centre. The parade began at 12:30, and we left at 12:25. Not to worry, we were used to being late, especially since we were a good 25 minute walk to City Centre. We were suprised that the closer we got to the City Centre the more people were passing us in the other direction. Then we saw the Music Man from Canada who was walking back towards the university hugging a bag of cabbage, and a backpack of assorted organic goodness. He told us the parade was a bust and already over at 13:00.

We walked back to the University talking about whether the fact the parade sucked or that we missed it sucked harder. We all voted for the former in a unanimous vote. As we were walking back we passed The Botanic Inn (“The Bot”), and noticed a line of maybe 30 people waiting to get inside at 13:15 on a Saturday. The crowds had come for the St. Patrick’s Day madness and Ireland/Italy, France/Scotland rugby matches.

After 20 minutes of waiting outside, we were let it the doors. Fighting through an impentrable fire hazard was almost entirely futile. I got halfway to the bathroom that was on the complete opposite side of the pub, and realized that resistance was futile, and waited at the bar five minutes to order two Budweiser’s and two Harp’s. I am not one to usually drink American “Buttwiper” beer as K-Dog once so wisely put it, but I needed to get a beverage in a bottle, so I could throw it in my pocket and carry back the pints of Harp, and suprisingly since St. Patrick’s Day is really an Americanized abombination of a 1/2 holiday, I figured it was appropriate to drink the Americanized abombination of a 1/2 beer. Don’t worry dear reader, those beverages were not all for me. My friend Charcoal shared them with me as we enjoyed the first half of the Ireland vs. Italy rugby game before we refueled. While we watched the game we met some wild Irish blokes from the north that were down for the Patty’s Day festivities.

Ireland trampled Italy, but fumbled the ball during overtime and let Italy score an unnecessary try. This would come back to haunt the Irish when after many more beers and rugby watching France beat Scotland by a greater deficit than Ireland beat Italy in the last play of the game, and won the Six Nations title. Everyone was pissed at the last call of the game, and angry. The DJ threw on some song from Jock Jams Vol. 1, and within the span of two songs people were merrily dancing and clapping around.

I was in the midst of manic merriment when I got tapped on my shoulder and a green plastic tophat was thrust into my hands. It was no ordinary green plastic tophat that was thrust into my hands, it was a green plastic tophat filled with fallen soldiers by the names of Guinness, Harp, Budweiser, and Magner’s. I accepted the hat, lifted it into the air to toast the gods and threw back the cool and sweet-carbonated dark liquid. The elixir of happiness. I think it was here when I remembered that K-Bizz had told me he was going to split, even though it happened 2 hours prior.
Dancing and hugs ensued. Arms around my shoulders. Masculine and heterosexual gaiety was the dance of the day. What was it’s bottomless fuel? Fallen soldiers with a slight marinade inside a boat shoe. I would like to say that the first and last sip were distinctly different, and altogether unbearable, but that would be a lie. Tossing a shoe back of fallen soldiers envigorated my soul like a box of Sugar Babies.

The craziness continued, but it was 18:00, and we were going to see Cut Chemist at 21:00 at the Spring and Airbreak. Charcoal and I left The Bot, and made our way back to Elm’s Village. I went back to lie down for a little more than an hour before K-Bizz and I went to grab a bite at Bishop’s Fish and Chips. The meal was lousy and filled me to my wind-pipe. It was heavy and not pleasant.

We got to the Spring and Airbreak at 21:30 and it was almost empty. I did however find my French friend Marinera, my Irish friend Tipperary, and her brother Juan. K-Bizz had crabs in his pants, or something. He was dancing like a madman, and doing reasonably well. I would have jumped out there and shown him how it was done to the funky break beats that were saturating the scene, but I was hungover and full.

There was only one cure: a pint of Stella and a pint of water. Both were delicious, but Marinera’s French friend Don Quioxte was drunk as a leech and hitting my glass of water, because apparently it was a feminine quality to stay hydrated and happy in France. The joke was on him though when his obvious attempts at opening a jar of Marinera on the dance floor were ended by a severe burn!

So Cut Chemist finally went on at midnight. Charcoal came, but only after opening some seratonin channels, and ten minutes into the set. I didn’t see him all show since I was front row and center clinging like a thirty year-old woman to her beauty, except I was clinging to the barrier. Cut put on a great set. The most interesting parts of the show were when he filmed the crowd jumping around to House Of Pain’s “Jump Around” after telling them he was also “Irish”. He said he was going to put it on Youtube, but I’m still waiting Cut!

The other cool thing he did was film three people from the audience telling him their name and where they were from. On my left He picked Juan from Tipperary and on my right he picked Marinera from France. Since France took the Six Nations title she recieved a hearty dose of “BOOZE” from the crowd. After Cut recorded this, he went back to his crazy technological abombination and waited for Tom, his Visual DJ to compile the video. After it was put onto a DVD he put it into some crazy godlike turntable that played audio as well as the corresponding visuals, and he could scratch video and sound together. He then proceeded to scratch my friends into garbled stillframes.

The show soon ended at 1:45. K-Bizz was exhausted from dancing and had to get up at 4 to return to Boston. Charcoal had to check in on his buddy who opened the floodgates of seratonin when he found out his sister who was supposed to fly out to visit him from Iowa got into a serious car accident and in the middle of surgery to save her life. I just went to bed. All around the best St. Patrick’s Day in the history of the universe. It’s a fact, check the Slatkin book of univere records.

I have most certainly been slackin on my posting for Slackin’Slatkin. My humble apologies. I would like to say that it was all a result of having better things to do than write posts online, but unfortunately that is only a part of the answer.

About a month ago, right as my posts were dwindling, I discovered Pandora’s Box. It has unleashed a world of distraction and destruction of brain cells comparable only to the holocaust I waged against my neurons in Dublin, but I am getting ahead of myself. What is it you ask that I discovered? I do not know if I should tell you, because then invariably you will be in the same place I was. Then again the only way that we can learn something is from experience, not from someone telling us not to do something (that only makes it more tempting).

So friends, please do yourselves a valuable lesson and check out www.quicksilverscreen.com or better yet www.dailymotion.com. They are both websites that stream many television shows currently on-air or on DVD instantly to your computer. Granted the resolution is not HD, it is still watchable. It is like having a remote to actually choose whatever television show you have ever wanted, and holding that remote all the time. Pandora’s Box might have been a little harsh, maybe it is like Prometheus giving man fire. Zeus forgive me!

More specifically my essence has been stolen by the newish Sci-Fi Channel show, Battlestar Galactica. Brilliant acting, cinematography, writing, and story that convincingly examines excellent political questions ranging from torture, terrorism, and the judicial system to philosophical questions examining what it means to be a human being.

I watched all of Battlestar Galactica and the Clerks animated series. I am working on The Tick and Batman Beyond at the moment (but this time it will be a slower process).

I have also been busy writing (and not recieving) 3 grants to study Zen Meditation and the effect (as well as difficulties) using Zen meditation to curb social disorders in adolescents in Japan. Mammalian Biochemistry practical reports and exams, as well as Existentialism readings of Kierkegaard and Nietzsche have been occupying my physical and mental spheres.

One of my best friends since 7th grade, K-Bizz, came to visit me in Belfast for the week. We had a grand time seeing a bunch of live concerts; Electric Eel Shock, …And So I Watch You From Afar, The Winding Staircase, Tracer AMC, and Cut Chemist. We also watched Pan’s Labryinth, traveled to Dublin for 2 days and enjoyed a pub crawl in Temple Bar, and had a dinner party at my flat for Kristian to meet my International friends. St. Patrick’s Day was yesterday, and that is a story for a whole other post!