11/18/1989

Hungover as all Hell in a hostel lies the Post Spoiled American Warrior, missing his friends and girlly and ready to kill for even a warm glass of Tropicana Pure Premium OJ.

The law says that in order to be a nightclub, a meal must be served. To do this most cheaply, the place we were last night charges a £3 cover and gives you some good drinking and dancing, slop & rice. Pretty good idea.

I am in the Select Bar, for pub grub, on Shop Street. Good food, great soup and pretty good prices. It looks really la-dee-dah, but isn’t. Full of regulars, they took me in with no problems.

Back in Quays, waiting for the artist, from last night, to arrive at 3. 2:30 now and so bored. Body still in pain from last night. I crave no beer or cigarette, just a hot bath, some good OJ, and my friends. Megen’s crazy depressed tape plays on shitty $15 Walkman with even shittier £4 earphones. Little ones, that go in earholes, attached to headband. What is she doing to me? She knows I will listen to her tape the most and it is even more depressing than Tarbox’s! Black Death on magmatic media.

Coke bottle empty and 10 more minutes until artist arrives. He has to make it on time, because my bus leaves for Mallow at 3:15.

* Quays on Quay Street, visit it, very nice.

3:02 – where is the bastard?!? I NEED my beret, muthafucka!

The kid didn’t show so all I have is a drug helmet, with my growing longer dirty hair sticking out the back. And I saw my bus, the Cork bus, cruising down the street from the station as I take the diagonal path across the park in the middle of Galway City and I have to stay here now until 6 and will only get as far as Limerick tonight. Limerick sucks. It is dead.

I started reading “Lonesome Traveler” while sitting out in the cold in front of the station, but it got too cold so I finished my reading session in the pub/lounge. Not drinking or smoking and listening to everyone and some old drunks can’t remember who ordered the last pint. All want to drink it, none want to pay for it.

Long, dark bus ride to Limerick finds me thinking sleeping hearing smelling seeing my friends. Megen’s Death tape plays on and on and on. Midway through trip, bus stop, five girls get on. One sits next to me and we say nothing. At bus stop in Limerick, she gets off and says “Thank you. Nice to see you.” The Irish are really truly nice people.

* The best cure for loneliness is to keep on moving.

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