Interlude One: A walk by the Sea

Perhaps you've heard, but the Irish enjoy beer.

Now, I don't want to alarm anyone, but I do as well. It may amuse you to hear that, much like we look upon a Guinness back home and think, 'Ah, the delicious novelty'so to do the Irish look upon, say, a Bud Lite. When you corner one of them and demand to know what hair brained logic leads them to savor that watery and tasteless brew, he'll inevitably look you calmly in the eye and tell you, 'American television told me it was the King of Beers". The Irish, Ladies and Gentlemen.

Afew nights ago I met an Irish Chap at a pub named James (the chap, not the pub), a single serving friend. It turns out he has a Grandma Kelly, who recently passed. He then became convinced we were lost cousins, and didn't let my glass run dry all night; the next morning, I'd wished he had. The Irish men are easy to meet; by 10 at night at any pub, you're practically peeling them off. Its the women that are giving me trouble.

I under the firm belief that I missed the day in middle school where all the young boys were taught how to talk to the opposite sex. Its the only explanation I've been able to come up with. An example, to illustrate:
I was at the comicbook shop, as is my want, perusing (and I use the term correctly, fellow bibliophiles; "to examine intensely")the action figures, when I saw, from the corner of my eye, a comely Irish lass. Now, regardless of the country you're in, a girl in a comic shop is a rarity; a cute one is unheard of. I noticed that she was casually fingering through the Neil Gaimen trades. Now, Neil Gaimen's bibliography is not only something I can discuss indepth, but I can discuss it with some flare and elegance; the perfect set up.
"So, have you read much Gaimen?"
"A bit"
...
"Cool"
...
And that was it. When it was apparent that no other words were going to flop out of my agape mouth, she walked off, as shocked as I was that I had been completely unable to form a second thought. If I can strike out at a Comicbook Store, I think I need to seriously consider handing in my man card. Perhaps donate it to someone who could actually do something with it, like Rachel.

Over the weekend I walked to the sea with Pat; it was very romantic, a fact that we felt forced to constantly bring up, to our mutual discomfort. However, we did find the loneliest Palm tree in Ireland, which I imagine is constantly thinking to itself, 'Why oh why did I have to be different and float north alone". I could sympathize.

It turns out that the Irish have went and made the perfect food while the rest of us weren't paying attention; Shepard's Pie. It's meat, in sauce, bounded on all sides by potatoes of many varieties, and then topped with more potatoes. What do I want most in my meal? How about, Meat and Potatoes?
Done. Roll me home.