Castle Kilkea 10/26/06
It starts two days earlier at 7 am in the San Francisco airport. My travel pills are kicking in already but we haven’t boarded the plane yet, I force my eyes to focus on a brief and superficial cover article about Fergie Ferg in the most recent Paper magazine.
I wake up an hour and half after the take off. I sleep and read. Then find an empty row on my way to the restroom, and spread out for the rest of the flight. We land in NYC. I grab a bagel with turkey then stake it out at my gate even though I am two hours early for the connecting flight to Dublin. Before flight 112 there’s a flight to Moscow. Russian guys are decidedly hot and some are for defs gay. My gaydar is working over time. It’s some kind of overcompensation for the hyperstraight/closeted environment I’m flying into. Or maybe I’m horny. No one seems decidedly gay after the Russian flight leaves. The Irish slowly gather, spreading out on the pleather seats, and raising accented voices in familial laughter or anger. I stop in the bathroom a few times. I read some short stories. We board. I force myself to stay awake through the travel pill haze because we get an actual meal on this flight. I don’t realize I’m sitting in first class till we are off the ground. The Devil Wears Prada starts then stops 15 minutes in, right when it picks up. I watch The Break Up, Half of the Devil Wears Prada, the second half, then the first half.
Dublin. I take a bus to a train, it proves difficult to maneuver carrying a coffe, garment bag, shoulder bag, and rolling suitcase. The train allows boarding early, which satisfies because I want to settle in and the station is rather chilly. There's a balck woman with bright red hair in my car, and two white families. The one right by me is having trouble securing their previously booked hotel reservations, the son has a mohawk. The other hasd an father type figure, fattish, redfaced no chin. The mother is thin with no chin dishwater short hair pulled up and teased in the back and flattened in the front like an Ohio lesbian. I press on the crown of my head out of self conciousness. The daughter is prettyish. She is dressed trendly, like an Urban Outfitters shopper. Long blond hair, tight jeans and all, but I can see too much of her mother and father in her. She might be nice now, but she'll age badly, and soon too I think.
Ireland seems more and more like an American place everytime I come. I don’t feel like I’m in Ireland till I smell burning tires and cowshit on the train to Killdare. I step off the train into a rich thick dark farm odor and a thin rain, which only gets worse as my father drives me to Mountmellick, to Aunt Martha’s house.
I wake at 5 a.m. Excited for the wedding. I go back to bed at 9 a.m. and rise again at 11 a.m. My cousins lounge around the house, we put off getting dressed till 12:50, though the ceremony starts at 1:30. There’s some trouble pinning roses to lapels and thin materialed dresses. Amo’s dress is very tropical, very teal and pink toulle, very cruise ship.
Twinjob looks very mafia. I look decidedly very GAY with my thin cut suit, purple tie, vintage broach and cropped yet still present bangs.
The ceremony is Catholic. I wince when it’s mentioned that God’s love is manifest through the love a man feels for a woman and a woman for a man, and also by their commitment to each other in God’s love, and that they must have Catholic children to continue the love of God.
In Europe, at least in Ireland, at least at this wedding, many men appear gay, on further inspection they appear Metrosexual, which I quickly remember is synonymous with European.
There are tight dresses, a favorite is a pink corsetted top with lacing down the back and a tight skirt part. Absolutely slut pretty. She's pretty enough though. Most of the young ones (20's) are. But agin I can see the age in them the way they'll get old, it seems the Irish carries their future bad looks with them, it's there behind the small eyes weak chins, and ruddy cheeks, waiting to expose them. I think of Agent's evaluation of certain celebrities of having White Trash bone structure. They might be pretty but it's there. Yes.
We get in cars and head to the castle.
The castle is a CASTLE. Originally built in 1118, by Norman invaders. Then maintained for 700 years by the Sullivan family as they waivered in and out of poverty for 7 centuries. It’s stone and tall. Twinjob and I share a room with two beds high cielings, and alcove a fancy wardrobe and a view of the gardens. I want alcohol. I want desperately to dance my ass off, I want desperately to find a secret dyke or faggot to sit with and judge everyone’s clothing and manner relentlessly, raising ourselves up with each biting stinging Irishgayirish witty observation. There’s Twinjob but it won’t satifsy.
Dinner is beef or salmon. Beef. It’s Twinjob me and 6 shy cousins. I’m two glasses of wine in, and one Jameson.
I’m three Jameson in. The wedding band plays the love song from Robin Hood Prince of Thieves for the first dance. Then onto a magical montage of 50’s and 60’s, some Irish traditional party songs, some country. I’m four Jameson in when they play Blondie
so I’m on the floor, but it quickly changes into something less pleasing. The whole dance floor forms a large dance circle, different folks take chances embarrassing themselves in the center. Son of the Bride’s Father is absolutely mad, jumping around like crazy, grabbing different women and pulling them in. The circle all grabs hand and dances toward the center and back out repeatedly.
They all seem so unselfconcious. Not in a proud way, as much as a naïve way, as if there were no reason to be selfcouncious about being less than drunk and terrible dancers. Twinjob is all
The Irish have no rhythm
Some people clap double time some exactly on the beat but most aren’t even clapping a counter rhythm or a rhythm at all. There seems to be no sex here. No desire. The woman are wearing tight dresses, they look pretty, the men are dressed handsomely, but no one is grinding, dancing close, pinching each other, the songs are unsexy.
That I-WOULD-WALK-500-MILES-AND-I-WOULD-WALK-500-MORE-JUST-TO-BE-THE-MAN…The dancers go mad, I go for Jameson.
There’s a dj at midnight. I get my cousin to request Missy Elliot even though she doesn’t know who she is and all I can remember the words to is Gossip Folks. I go for support, the dj makes a face at us and asks us to repeat ourselves. He doesn’t know who she is. He has an infiniti light bos and some disco accesories hanging off his kit.
I rip my sweater when I try to take it off. My shirt too. My broach was pinned clear through apparently.
My older second cousin collects on the dance I promised her, with a fierce grip on my wrist dragging me to the dance floor she pushes me to the middle of the large arythmic circle of relatives and in laws toward the bride who links her elbow into mine so we can spin, her train nearly tripping me, I hop weirdly so as not to step on it and pull her to the ground.
I dance with the older cousin some, but then it’s more technoized country, so I simply walk away which feels like a true act of cruelty.
Jameson.
Sandwiches and coffee and tea are put out. I take severeal ham sandwiches: white bread, butter and a thin layer of rough ham, also coffee with no milk and lots of sugar.
The dj plays and ABBA medley so I hit the floor as gay as possible, Twinjob dances like he has a scolioses brace on, he says
I’m trying to seem straight
I wonder if I dance like him. But he can’t imitate me so I guess I’m fine.
Amo comes over to me all cruiseship and tealpinksequiness she’s all
You’re hardly moving
I break out the I’M-JUST-TRYING-TO-EMBARRASS-YOU-WITH-MY-DANCING moves. Everyone is definitely impressed. Actually impressed.
My step mother is still up at 1am, she shuffles over to me on the dance floor and says
I haven’t danced with you since MY wedding
That was maybe 16 years ago.
I turn in a circle and dance, she gets the hint and shuffles off.
It’s more technocountry, and more. Then a great medley of 50’s and 60’s rock
I go mad, so does Twinjob. So does everyone. I can’t figure out if cousin keating is laughing at me or with joy in dancing with me. Suddenly it’s That I-WOULD-WALK-500-MILES-AND-I-WOULD-WALK-500-MORE-JUST-TO-BE-THE-MAN…again. No really. I mosh with everyone because that’s what is done. Aren’t the boys who sing this scottish?
We stumble to our room to change. Tight girl jeans might not go over well with this crowd but I’m 8 Jameson in now.
Down to the residents’ pub. But I only last till 4a.m. It’s been nearly 16 hours.
I wake up an hour and half after the take off. I sleep and read. Then find an empty row on my way to the restroom, and spread out for the rest of the flight. We land in NYC. I grab a bagel with turkey then stake it out at my gate even though I am two hours early for the connecting flight to Dublin. Before flight 112 there’s a flight to Moscow. Russian guys are decidedly hot and some are for defs gay. My gaydar is working over time. It’s some kind of overcompensation for the hyperstraight/closeted environment I’m flying into. Or maybe I’m horny. No one seems decidedly gay after the Russian flight leaves. The Irish slowly gather, spreading out on the pleather seats, and raising accented voices in familial laughter or anger. I stop in the bathroom a few times. I read some short stories. We board. I force myself to stay awake through the travel pill haze because we get an actual meal on this flight. I don’t realize I’m sitting in first class till we are off the ground. The Devil Wears Prada starts then stops 15 minutes in, right when it picks up. I watch The Break Up, Half of the Devil Wears Prada, the second half, then the first half.
Dublin. I take a bus to a train, it proves difficult to maneuver carrying a coffe, garment bag, shoulder bag, and rolling suitcase. The train allows boarding early, which satisfies because I want to settle in and the station is rather chilly. There's a balck woman with bright red hair in my car, and two white families. The one right by me is having trouble securing their previously booked hotel reservations, the son has a mohawk. The other hasd an father type figure, fattish, redfaced no chin. The mother is thin with no chin dishwater short hair pulled up and teased in the back and flattened in the front like an Ohio lesbian. I press on the crown of my head out of self conciousness. The daughter is prettyish. She is dressed trendly, like an Urban Outfitters shopper. Long blond hair, tight jeans and all, but I can see too much of her mother and father in her. She might be nice now, but she'll age badly, and soon too I think.
Ireland seems more and more like an American place everytime I come. I don’t feel like I’m in Ireland till I smell burning tires and cowshit on the train to Killdare. I step off the train into a rich thick dark farm odor and a thin rain, which only gets worse as my father drives me to Mountmellick, to Aunt Martha’s house.
I wake at 5 a.m. Excited for the wedding. I go back to bed at 9 a.m. and rise again at 11 a.m. My cousins lounge around the house, we put off getting dressed till 12:50, though the ceremony starts at 1:30. There’s some trouble pinning roses to lapels and thin materialed dresses. Amo’s dress is very tropical, very teal and pink toulle, very cruise ship.
Twinjob looks very mafia. I look decidedly very GAY with my thin cut suit, purple tie, vintage broach and cropped yet still present bangs.
The ceremony is Catholic. I wince when it’s mentioned that God’s love is manifest through the love a man feels for a woman and a woman for a man, and also by their commitment to each other in God’s love, and that they must have Catholic children to continue the love of God.
In Europe, at least in Ireland, at least at this wedding, many men appear gay, on further inspection they appear Metrosexual, which I quickly remember is synonymous with European.
There are tight dresses, a favorite is a pink corsetted top with lacing down the back and a tight skirt part. Absolutely slut pretty. She's pretty enough though. Most of the young ones (20's) are. But agin I can see the age in them the way they'll get old, it seems the Irish carries their future bad looks with them, it's there behind the small eyes weak chins, and ruddy cheeks, waiting to expose them. I think of Agent's evaluation of certain celebrities of having White Trash bone structure. They might be pretty but it's there. Yes.
We get in cars and head to the castle.
The castle is a CASTLE. Originally built in 1118, by Norman invaders. Then maintained for 700 years by the Sullivan family as they waivered in and out of poverty for 7 centuries. It’s stone and tall. Twinjob and I share a room with two beds high cielings, and alcove a fancy wardrobe and a view of the gardens. I want alcohol. I want desperately to dance my ass off, I want desperately to find a secret dyke or faggot to sit with and judge everyone’s clothing and manner relentlessly, raising ourselves up with each biting stinging Irishgayirish witty observation. There’s Twinjob but it won’t satifsy.
Dinner is beef or salmon. Beef. It’s Twinjob me and 6 shy cousins. I’m two glasses of wine in, and one Jameson.
I’m three Jameson in. The wedding band plays the love song from Robin Hood Prince of Thieves for the first dance. Then onto a magical montage of 50’s and 60’s, some Irish traditional party songs, some country. I’m four Jameson in when they play Blondie
so I’m on the floor, but it quickly changes into something less pleasing. The whole dance floor forms a large dance circle, different folks take chances embarrassing themselves in the center. Son of the Bride’s Father is absolutely mad, jumping around like crazy, grabbing different women and pulling them in. The circle all grabs hand and dances toward the center and back out repeatedly.
They all seem so unselfconcious. Not in a proud way, as much as a naïve way, as if there were no reason to be selfcouncious about being less than drunk and terrible dancers. Twinjob is all
The Irish have no rhythm
Some people clap double time some exactly on the beat but most aren’t even clapping a counter rhythm or a rhythm at all. There seems to be no sex here. No desire. The woman are wearing tight dresses, they look pretty, the men are dressed handsomely, but no one is grinding, dancing close, pinching each other, the songs are unsexy.
That I-WOULD-WALK-500-MILES-AND-I-WOULD-WALK-500-MORE-JUST-TO-BE-THE-MAN…The dancers go mad, I go for Jameson.
There’s a dj at midnight. I get my cousin to request Missy Elliot even though she doesn’t know who she is and all I can remember the words to is Gossip Folks. I go for support, the dj makes a face at us and asks us to repeat ourselves. He doesn’t know who she is. He has an infiniti light bos and some disco accesories hanging off his kit.
I rip my sweater when I try to take it off. My shirt too. My broach was pinned clear through apparently.
My older second cousin collects on the dance I promised her, with a fierce grip on my wrist dragging me to the dance floor she pushes me to the middle of the large arythmic circle of relatives and in laws toward the bride who links her elbow into mine so we can spin, her train nearly tripping me, I hop weirdly so as not to step on it and pull her to the ground.
I dance with the older cousin some, but then it’s more technoized country, so I simply walk away which feels like a true act of cruelty.
Jameson.
Sandwiches and coffee and tea are put out. I take severeal ham sandwiches: white bread, butter and a thin layer of rough ham, also coffee with no milk and lots of sugar.
The dj plays and ABBA medley so I hit the floor as gay as possible, Twinjob dances like he has a scolioses brace on, he says
I’m trying to seem straight
I wonder if I dance like him. But he can’t imitate me so I guess I’m fine.
Amo comes over to me all cruiseship and tealpinksequiness she’s all
You’re hardly moving
I break out the I’M-JUST-TRYING-TO-EMBARRASS-YOU-WITH-MY-DANCING moves. Everyone is definitely impressed. Actually impressed.
My step mother is still up at 1am, she shuffles over to me on the dance floor and says
I haven’t danced with you since MY wedding
That was maybe 16 years ago.
I turn in a circle and dance, she gets the hint and shuffles off.
It’s more technocountry, and more. Then a great medley of 50’s and 60’s rock
I go mad, so does Twinjob. So does everyone. I can’t figure out if cousin keating is laughing at me or with joy in dancing with me. Suddenly it’s That I-WOULD-WALK-500-MILES-AND-I-WOULD-WALK-500-MORE-JUST-TO-BE-THE-MAN…again. No really. I mosh with everyone because that’s what is done. Aren’t the boys who sing this scottish?
We stumble to our room to change. Tight girl jeans might not go over well with this crowd but I’m 8 Jameson in now.
Down to the residents’ pub. But I only last till 4a.m. It’s been nearly 16 hours.
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