stuff lately

Since i last wrote, i went to salsa night at the Granary in killarney. it was surprisingly posh, even hip. everyone was well-dressed and attractive. the salsa was shockingly legit, there was a teacher from sierra leone leading everyone in 'zouk', followed by a conga lesson. i was in a full sweat by the end. so much for doubting latin dance in rural ireland, they definitely don't screw around when it comes to dance.

what was not legit or expected in any way was a secret "performance", written on the event poster in extremely small letters, "salsa/ burlesque show at midnight". i failed to notice this detail prior to my arrival, so when two women came onstage, one dressed in drag, and proceeded to undress one another to the music, i was, to be frank, confused. Even more baffled was i when the one in drag left, and the other woman stayed, only to continue removing articles of clothing until all that covered her breasts were two sparkly tassels and some feathery wings. Mirjam, my non-Irish cohort, and i looked on in befuddled awe. Nothing could really explain what was going on.

Following this starkly odd performance, everyone was back to normal without a blink. The dj had no hesitation throwing on a latin Rihanna remix as if nothing had happened. This calm continued, until a second announcement came. "The second part of our performance is about to begin!" Again, I was uninformed. This time, however, Mirjam had retired to the downstairs bar with the "normal music" and "normal pubgoers", and I had to face this one alone. This second storm was significantly more jarring. The feather-breasted woman returned to the stage, this time with greater fervor and spunk. She was dressed in a horse-riding outfit, which was expressly removed, of course, to reveal a black corset and a curious metallic chastity belt, which became the focus of a 20s-style silent comedy act. She began to attempt to pry off the chastity belt, a decorative triangular plate of solid metal, with various tools. The first was a hammer, which, after a few forceful bangs, didnt seem to satisfy. A larger hammer appeared, which again, after some painful-looking slams into the pelvic region, also failed to do the trick. This obviously called for heavier artillery, and the next step up was, of course, a blade grinder. As a power tool, it required being plugged in to a power strip behind her, as well as the use of protective goggles and gloves. Before we could really process what was going on, sparks of light shot erratically from her groin, showering the audience. Along with the deafening whine of metal grinding against metal, and many audience members having to physically move away to avoid being burned or injured, it was undeniably erotic.

I think my jaw was open for a full 60 seconds. After our daring performer was done, and we had all had a good laugh, a nervous chortle or some newfound facial wounds, she jovially trotted off stage, a rolling backpack housing her tools and discarded clothing. I medicated with a gin & tonic as salsa music blasted on once again. Carefree, unfettered partygoers samba-ed their way back on stage, partners in tow, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.

I made a point of approaching her later, just to get a feel for what she was like in real life, as she evidently bore a freaky, if not twisted, side. She seemed sweet and normal. I asked whether she'd be coming to one of Lorna's dance classes at the restaurant, as I'd heard they were friends, and she replied, with quiet Irish inflection, "Well, I've got two small children at home, so probably not, it's a bit far."

Right. You basically just sawed off your ladybits with a steel grinder; meanwhile, your two small children are sleeping like kittens at home. How did I not realize?


As far as the rest of my time thus far, the weather here has either been both absolutely beautiful or incredibly dismal. I don't really mind either. Mirjam and I have become good pals, eating all of our meals together in the kitchen and pruning the garden together in the afternoon. We were honorary guests at one of Lorna's bellydancing class yesterday morning. It illuminated the lack of mobility in my hips and the range of mobility in Lorna's. (She's 56).

Last night we saw some incredible live music at a pub in Dingle. It was two guys, one on guitar (I think he said his name was Donough Hennessy) and the other on flute and bagpipes. It was mind-blowing, I wish I could have recorded it. It was the most authentically Irish experience I'd had yet, the pub was drenched in old Irish schwag, the musicians playing Irish music as if they'd known it since the womb. Yet sadly, and ironically, the joint was packed with Americans. We had people from Idaho, California, Colorado, Minnesota, even Texas. It was blasphemous. I wanted to quiet them all down, bring everybody into a corner and tell them to shut up about broadening our horizons for a minute and just act Irish, for God's sake, don't ruin it. The music was so good it could have brought tears to my eyes, the setting was so right, the players were so good with their instruments...if it weren't for the intermittent spurts of "so, where in Frisco ya from? Me and my wife here, we've been in Idaho fer, oh, I dunno, thirty-five years now...Whatcha drinkin'? Oh Guinness, yeah, that's a good one, Susan, you want a Guinness? This girl here's from California and she's drinkin' a Guinness...another Kahlua? Whatever you say, hun."

I've got a pear tart in the oven that I made from scratch. I'm basically an artisan baker now. This place is bleeding right into me. If you need me I'll be havin' a hot whisky over at the family mobile home down the road. It's where the young kids tend to party around here.