that's Queen Birthday-boy for you, bitches

(retroactive update)

Dublin: Or, a book nerd dies and goes to book nerd heaven. it was amazing. i whistled cockles and mussels all three days. spent way too much quality time with the book of kells (and at the amaaaaaazing top reading room at trinity college: rows and rows and rows of dusty volumes, on shelves taller than my ego) and with all things james joyce ulysses. our seedy hostel was mere blocks from the former Night-town, so i naturally went looking for Bella Cohen's brothel. sadly enough, the hovels were razed sometime in the last hundred two years to make room for projects inhabited exclusively by easteuropeans. not that that's a bad thing, but i'd rather hallucinate surrounded by long-dead madams than by much-too-alive sailors. ha, bet you never knew. i'm a prude. drank a glass (i'm done with pints, i tell you) of porter at davey birne's pub, had dirty thoughts whilst fondling the doorway of 7 eccles street, took the train to sandymount and walked to the martello tower... the whole thing. i'm such a groupie. The best night out in the town was a handbag party. music was great, and i mean sleazy poppy great, although the boys in handbags were depressingly scarce. oh well, we still have like three countries to go.

(cut to the present)

and this is what my birthday is like: sitting at easyinternet glasgow writing to nobody about my misery. What has my day been like, you ask. midnight found me at a basement dublin disco, very gay, very bad, being asked by some older gent how i liked the city and how long was i staying and that he had one, no two, friends from panama. my responses: two days, about two hours, oh. i guess child molesting is funner to the molester than to the molestee. but i digress. slept four hours, ran three blocks in the cold, cold night to make the first bus to the airport, to make the second ryanair flight to

Glasgow: which is cold, cold, and gloomy. nine in the morning was exactly what the dublin six in the morning looked like. and noon, with cold cold drizzle snowing from low low clouds, looked like what dusk looks like in decent regions of the earth. but i love it nonetheless. thanks mostly to TK-Maxx and a pair of brown-beige pumas with whore-pink lining and laces for fifteen pounds. and ninety-nine cent red england socks from H&M. no viktor and rolf visible in this store, though. maybe it's sold out already? a birthday shouldn't be this sad! tonight we hit some "disco punk / electro house / euro sleaze / new wave dance party" at glasgow school of art. gotta interact with the natives, you know. keep those fingers crossed, dear reader!