dead drunk dublin and other imaginal spaces
blank image this is the way home poetry - written and spoken stories and creative writings alternative writings, prose, essays, reportage manifestos, insights, alternative views music mp3 original music eyes to see with movies, flash and animations links - click here to read reviews of our favourite websites click to subscribe to our occasional ezine all about dead drunk dublin info on how to contribute to dead drunk dublin


self-portait
detail : green face

p a d d e d   l e p r e c h a u n

a   b l o o m s d a y   t a l e     :      philadelphia, 2004


:   m o n i c a   p a c e



It was the first Bloomsday that it rained. Even though the curator himself took the stage & assured us it never rains on Bloomsday. In the rumbling, close air.

The tree-lined idyll that is Delancey Street was cordoned off from traffic. Throngs sat on stoops of brick turn-of-the-century buildings, or on wooden chairs in the street, waving fans emblazoned with the likeness of Joyce. Actors, curators, rabbis, Joycean scholars, and even a sandal-wearing ex- police commissioner John Timmoney did dramatic readings from Ulysses. The audience giggled at all the bawdy bits. Mirrors and micturation. Actor Michael Toner was especially hilarious, screeching in his best little-girl voice for the character of Cissy Caffrey. After his performance he kissed the book as he walked back to his seat.

Remember seeing a priest kiss the bible at Mass?
Appropriately, during a following section, a reading about urination, the skies opened up.

A half-hour hiatus was announced. I damply befriended another Joyce aficionado who's been going to the event for ten years and gladly agreed to do an interview for my story. We followed a portion of the crowd to — where else — an Irish pub up the street.

On Walnut Street there are two Irish pubs side-by-side. One, I’ve heard, should never be patronized by real Irish people. On this day, inexplicably, a human being, male, stood in the doorway in full leprechaun regalia.

— I wonder if that's his real fat — I mused aloud of the green-clad gent. We very purposefully sidestepped him to the more authentic place next door.

— Even better than that — I said to the Bloomsday folk once we settled inside, — Benjamin Franklin once sat next to me on the bus in old city. I spotted him again during my lunch break at a shitty coffee place. He was itching at his lace and talking on his cell phone.

We raised our glasses to James Joyce and to the Irish weather as thunder split the air in two.

— Slainte, we agreed.

[]

   

to contact the editor, email editor@deaddrunkdublin.com or use our contact form here
all contents copyright © 2007 all rights reserved - redmoonmedia, publishers - authors rights are protected

site design by redmoonmedia