M's aunt threw an Arabian Nights themed costume party a few weeks ago. A girl after my own heart, when she throws a party, she REALLY goes for it. HUGE marquis set up in the back garden, anything standing still for more than 30 seconds draped in rich gold and red cloths, the music, the carpets...
Needless to say, I got way into the outfits. M and I thankfully passed on dropping 40 EUR for a questionable man's Bollywood get-up -- all the costume shop had -- in favor of ripping up some sheets and adding an artfully folded pashmina to the mix. Apart from the freckles and verdant greenery, I feel they look quite convincing?
As for me, I had a disturbing number of items appropriate to a bellydancer costume already in my wardrobe. The result, channeling "I Dream of Jeannie," as follows (on right):
Still working on that whole twitch-nose-do-magic thing, but in the meantime, I'll let the riot of color and candlelight speak for itself...
Bruce Springsteen was born on September 23rd, 1949 in New Jersey, which makes him a couple months younger than my mother (I hope she doesn't mind this admission. Trust me, Ima, I'm going somewhere with this...)
Now: my mother has serious amounts of energy for any age -- she is constantly doing/going/planning/cooking/gardening/organizing. To the point where I need to gently remind, when I visit, that I'm there for vacation. IE: I need to feel okay with being lazy, so could she just sit down and read a book with a cup of tea in the afternoon for at least 15 minutes...? That way, I don't feel like such a massive sloth watching her simultaneously polish silver, plant geraniums and whip up a batch of my favorite tomato-fennel soup.
However!
I think even my formidably energetic mother would be hard-pressed to perform the rollicking 3.5 hour rock 'n roll set that Bruce "Almighty" Springsteen graced Dublin with on Wednesday night. He. Was. Amazing. And, even after 30+ years of selling out to massive crowds, delivering multiple critically/commercially acclaimed albums and incessant touring, he still manages to convince the audience there's no place he'd rather be than up on that stage, singing his heart out for them...
At one point, he brought a six-year-old kid up to help him sing a few verses of 'Waiting on a Sunny Day.' I know a few MASSIVE fans, who would give their left arm/leg/testicle for this very opportunity. And I can't help feeling that, for that little boy, life can only get more disappointing from here on out...he must have been LEGEND at school yesterday.
Also, I'm not entirely proud of this behavior -- oh, who am I kidding? Am secretly delighted with myself -- but a friend and I managed to make our way [sneak] into the pit, despite our lack of blue, purple or any other color wristband. As easy as "just walk in through that entrance, past the men in hi-viz jackets, and act for all the world like you're supposed to be there..." Sure, we had to spend the rest of the concert hiding our left wrists from view of surrounding fans and stewards, but it was a small price to pay for being in concert-cam vicinity to The Boss.
He finished his blistering set and encore at 11 p.m. with 'Rocky Ground,' a song he called "a prayer to Ireland" during troubled economic times. In the final verse, he trades lines with his backing singer, interspersing the bleak with the hopeful.
"We've been traveling over rocky ground, rocky ground
There's a new day coming
We've been traveling over rocky ground, rocky ground
(I'm a soldier!)
We've been traveling over rocky ground, rocky ground
Oh, a new day's coming
We've been traveling over rocky ground, rocky ground
(I'm a soldier!)
We've been traveling over rocky ground, rocky ground
Oh, a new day's coming
We've been traveling over rocky ground, rocky ground
(I'm a soldier!)
We've been traveling over rocky ground, rocky ground
There's a new day coming
We've been traveling over rocky ground, rocky ground..."
It's
testament to Bruce's trademark humility and magnetic, graveled voice
that when he tells us things'll get better, we BELIEVE. The mood of a
nation distilled into perfect verse.
It also doesn't hurt that he's still a total hottie. (Damn that groupie gene.)
We have a dogwalker, Barry, who comes on Wednesdays to walk The Bitches while we're at work. He regularly leaves a note, detailing the day's activity and their behavior. To us, they are works of spare, comedic genius and perhaps, Internet, you may also find them amusing.
And so, the first in a series of dogwalker debriefs:
"Scarlett and Dru. Walk 12:30 - 4 p.m. Three Rock Mountain. Well-behaved. In and out of stream, very active, lots of jumping and leaping in meadow. Scarlett a bit hesitant on recall when we met a family. Otherwise fine, followed the pack, got on well with a pug and terrier. Barry"
An Irish person referring to his/her parents in conversation will often call them "the auld pair." Further broken down, this becomes "the auld lad" (father) or "the auld one" (mother.) Use cases would include, but are by no means limited to:
"Me auld lad said he'd come in to pick me up from the pub later if I'm too scuttered to walk home. Grand job so."
Me auld pair...
"It's the auld one's birthday -- we're takin' her out for dinner, so I may head burst on or the auld lad'll clatter me if I'm late."
It goes without saying that any future child of mine (however Irish), who refers to me as "the auld one," will be summarily deprived of all potato related dishes and/or products for a full winter. And if that doesn't teach him/her, we'll extend the ban to tea as well, for maximum cruelty.
Our friend, Jack, turned 30 in style on Saturday night in what began as a laidback -- even sensible -- barbecue, but inevitably devolved into barely contained hayhem. (We might have known those bales wouldn't be used for sitting.) Jack's family own a dairy farm, hence the availability of said hay and title of the post -- sorry to disappoint for those in search of more x-rated content. I exhort you to GET YOUR FILTHY MINDS OUT OF THE MILKING SHED.
We saw Florence & the Machine and Snow Patrol at Phoenix Park on Sunday and It Was AMAZEBALLS. (M has begged me to stop using this word, but needs must I'm afraid -- there is no other superlative that will do.)
Is probably worth mentioning at the outset that, as well as amazeballs, it was seriously MUDDY. Not just "it rained a bit before the concert" muddy. More like an "it's been raining for the past three days and this is the third night in a row a major concert's taking place at the venue" kind of muddy. Welly-makers across the country surely hit their yearly sales projections in the days leading up to and including. Our group, I'm happy to report, were full participants in the Welly Fashion Parade:
We know. So stylish.
As with most outdoor music events in Ireland, there were a lot of disturbingly drunk people. Memory serving, I counted three knock-down-drag-out-in-the-mud fights kick off within ten feet of me throughout the night and this was supposedly the "tame" ticket in the multi-day concert series? (The Swedish House Mafia gig at the same venue the previous night, for example, will go down in history for its nine stabbings and two confirmed overdose deaths. To be clear, one particularly ambitious would-be murderer managed to stab five people, so technically there were "only" five stabbing incidents total. But let's not split hairs.)
My favorite lone-drunkard of the evening has to be the cowboy I spotted, swaying precariously back and forth during the break between Flo and Snow, clutching his beer as though life depended. Gotta hand it to him -- he is fully owning the hat and mud.
M agreed, after much cajoling, to let me on his shoulders for Florence's "Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up.)" In my defense, it was her suggestion (to the audience), so I can hardly be blamed for the back pain he's been complaining about since. Fault the extra weight on my mud-caked wellies. From my vantage point above the crowd, his injury and sacrifice were totally worth it! She was brilliant and mad in equal measure, like some bouncing ethereal, flame-haired fairy with a voice live that sounds every bit as good as when it's blasted on the stereo in your living room. At one point, she stopped, picked up a champagne glass full of black liquid with a white foamy cap and sang an a-cappella verse:
"Black velvet and that little boy's smile,
Black velvet and that slow, Southern style.
A new religion that'll bring you to your knees,
Black velvet if you please..."
Suffice to say, I believe Guinness may have its new ad campaign.
And, from now on, I will only be drinking Guinness from a champagne flute.
"We raise it up
This offering
We raise it up
This is a gift it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight..."
Also, for the record, I purchased the red, polkadot raincoat, pictured above, in Dunnes, as a means to (A) keep dry(ish) and (B) for M & Co not to lose me in the crowd. Which would have worked...save the fact every third girl at the concert had had the exact same raincoat, as though part of an impromptu pro-festival, anti-rain solidarity movement. Plan foiled.
By the time Snow Patrol came on, daylight was fast fading and a misty rain was coming down. But the crowd didn't care one little bit. From the first song to the last, Gary Lightbody & Co were ELECTRIC, as evidenced by this bouncy, sound-quality-poor video of Run:
The final verse, where the music cuts off and the crowd takes over, sends the good kind of chills down my spine. The words even contain thinly-veiled encouragement to the post-concert clean-up crew:
"Have heart, my dear
We're bound to be afraid
Even if it's just for a few days
Making up for all this mess..."
My friend, Suzy, held a
zoo-themed party this weekend. I’d been
excited about it for months…ever since I saw the words “costume not optional”
on the invite.
“Perfect time to rock our
his & hers matching fleece tiger one-sies!” I exclaimed happily. (No purchase necessary – we already had them
taking up space in the airing cupboard.
I promise we’re not furries.)
M’s reaction
was initially more along the lines of: “Over my dead [endangered large cat]
body.”
His reticence for making a
total ass of himself in public, however, is no match for my rabid enthusiasm
for same. I’m a persuasive girl when it
comes to costuming.
So up we rocked at about 6
p.m. to an outdoor BBQ in full swing, resplendent in aforementioned tiger suits (so
comfortable -- should be de rigueur party-wear!
I added sequined Tom’s wedges for effort.)
We were greeted by our hostess, a ladybug,
and her husband, a tall, lanky Scooby Doo in studded S&M(ish) dog
collar. (Did he buy it specifically…or
like us and the tiger suits, did he already have it? The mind boggles.)
Assorted rabbits, cat(women),
psychedelic eagles, butterflies etc were gathered around the watering hole,
sipping beers in relative harmony. There
were also a couple of dogs -- actual dogs -- running around, dressed in human
clothes. (Suitably impressed by their
canine grasp of irony.)
As the night wore on, more
animals arrived – flamingos, chickens, a “party animal” (very clever) and a
large and vocal contingent of zebra, who turned out to be the true wild
beasts. Big drinkers, those zebra – as rowdy and raucous as the stripes would suggest.
Top prize, though, goes to
Teenwolf, who showed up late (probs direct from the school basketball game.)
Legend.
I’ll leave you with a
photo of M and I, taken circa 2 a.m., that I think says all you need to know about the end of the night.
