007-Ra.txt

007-Ra.txt

Come tell us how you slew them poor Arabs two by two,
Like the Zulus they had spears and bows and arrows,
How you bravely faced each one with your 16-pounder gun,
And you frightened them poor natives to their marrow.

Come out ye Black and Tans, come out and fight me like a man,
Show your wife how you won medals down in Flanders,
Tell them how the IRA made you run like hell away
From the green and lovely lanes of Killashandra.

"If you angle your arm against the railing like this, then you can hoist yourself up like this" demonstrated a coked-up Irish man in his early twenties.

Brian was trying to show me how to bring my body completely parallel with the ground. This was done using a vertical railing attached to a wall. You put about twenty-percent of your weight on your weak arm, pull-up about ten percent with your strong arm, and then use your core to straighten yourself out. It was surprisingly easy, pointless, but fun. Brian was short in stature with a youthful looking face that was lightly peppered with freckles. He dressed in a plain black shirt and dark blue jeans with skater style shoes. He had found me while I was on a cigarette break in Dublin. I was in a bit of a courtyard when he approached me for a cigarette. I obliged.

"Do you do coke?" asked Brian.

"Sometimes, you selling or offering?" I replied.

"Offering."

It was Pride weekend in Ireland. I had just arrived back from Galway, Inishmore, and the Cliffs of Moher. The gays know how to party, so it being Pride was a pleasant surprise. Brian didn't strike me as gay, but I never really gave it a thought until typing these words. Wandering about Dublin I veered away from the Temple Bar cluster-fuck and stumbled into a quaint but sparsely populated pub. Not being too lively I meandered to the smoking area. Much to my liking I came across a group of young Irish singing Republican Hymes.

Go on home British Soldiers Go on home
Have you got no fucking homes of your own,
For 800 years we've fought you without fear
And we will fight you for 800 more

"We don't hate the British yah know. I have many British friends. It's just our island, all of it" said a well built young man.

"You know what the second largest city in Ireland is?" he asked.

"Galway?" I responded.

"It's fucking Belfast if you're a Republican"

A full stein of beer fell to the floor as the group began to clap and holler. They broke into more song.

I liked it. I respected it. I understood it. I wished I had something to fight for, something to believe in. An idea to unite me with others. When I was about twelve years old my cousin let me borrow Evil Empire by Rage Against The Machine. They instantly became my favorite band. The politics gave me something to connect with. Something to direct angst at.

Still we lampin', still clockin' dirt for our sweat
A ballot's dead, so a bullet's what I get
A thousand years they had the tools, we should be takin' 'em
Fuck the G-ride, I want the machines that are makin' em!

I studied everything about Rage. I learned about the American Indian Movement and Leonard Peltier. About Mumia Abu Jamal. The Black Panthers. The Zapatista. I fell deeply into Marxist, Socialist, and eventually Anarcho-syndicalist beliefs. Often espousing them much to the chagrin of my mother, teachers, and friends. I buried myself in internet forums dedicated to the extreme left. I went to protests. Fuck the WTO, the IMF, and police brutality.

I remember The Battle of Seattle, when a massive WTO protest shut down the city. Black-clad "Anarchists" shattered windows. Protesters blocked streets. Riot police fired tear gas and rubber bullets. I only got to see it in the news. I felt I missed out on something big. This was the start of the revolution, I was sure and I was stuck hundreds of miles away. It was a far cry from the hundred person protest I attended in Salt Lake City.

Shortly after the Battle of Los Angeles was released Rage went on tour. I was fortunate enough to see them in 1999. They would break up shortly after. Today my beliefs are pretty moderate, but I wonder if I'd be right here singing with the "RA Heads" had I been born in Dublin.

It was after I left the pub that I ran into Brian.

"Its not safe to do it here. Cameras are everywhere. Do you have place?" asked Brian.

I generally have a good read on people and nothing about Brian set off alarms.

"Yeah I'm at this hostel just here, they have a big bathroom downstairs. We'll be fine."

Brian cut out some lines on the counter while I played lookout. You could generally tell its good stuff if you have to chop the rocks apart. If its powder, its likely baby laxative or some other garbage. You can place it on your gums to see if it numbs them, but people can put numbing agents in it to fool you. I generally have a single tooth that will go numb within forty-five  seconds of a little bump. Its on the right-side of my mouth, sharper than it is flat. My nasal passage must leak right into that tooth. That's how I grade the quality. But at this moment, I didn't care to bother. It was three in the morning, fuck it. So I propped my foot between the door and frame keeping it open just a few inches.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" Brian whispered angrily.

"If I let my foot out of the door, that means someone is coming. You'll have about five to ten seconds to send that up your nostril, hide the bag, and look like you're washing your hands."

He handed me the bag and the changing of the guard commenced. Brian kept the conversation going while I chopped up a line. His buddy had asked him to leave his own apartment so he could sleep with a girl. He was a bit angry. As a consolation his friend had given him free rein on his cocaine. We snorted and talked for hours.

"Do you think I should go back?" asked Brian.

"I don't know man, I'd let your boy have his fun for a bit."

The thing about cocaine is you talk about everything and nothing at the same time. It's an amazingly pointless drug. No hallucinations, no love, just pointless talk. It must be the fakest drug in the world. Pretending, that's all coke is, pretend time. Show and tell for adults. When the endorphins, dopamine, and happy chemicals run dry your left empty. No glass half full, its empty, and you'll probably drop it and cut yourself with the shards. Wanting to sleep, but finding no reprieve. So many nights spent up into the morning, wanting to fall asleep. The sun coming up. Thats the worst of it. You can't hid in the darkness any longer. You can't fool yourself when you see the blue hue come into view and the birds chirping. The solution? Alcohol...or Xanax, if you're lucky.

"You know this country isn't as good as they tell you. We have serious problems here and they don't tell you!"

This was a direct contrast to what a gentleman I had rented a motorcycle from told me. His version was Ireland didn't have much crime or guns, and what not like we do in America. I suppose it all depends on who you are, where you are, and how you are. Certainly a graying business owner in the suburbs of Dublin would have a different take on things than Brian would.

I staggered back to my bunk. I laid awake as the sun came up. No beer. No Xanax. Just fast lane thoughts, with strangers in a stranger room. Why had I done this again? How the fuck could I be in this situation again? Repeat, repeat, repeat.

The rungs torn from the ladder, can't reach the tumor
One god, one market, one truth, one consumer