Halo: Reach Review

Halo: Reach, a video game for the Xbox 360 console, has been out for well over a month. Some of the more hardcore fans of the Halo series already own it, and have been playing it at the expense of things like showering and going to classes. With the holiday season coming up, is the newest Halo game worth shelling out $60 for? Yes, Halo: Reach is such a good game, that you won’t mind neglecting your friends and family for a while.

The Halo series, which includes five games and several spin-offs, has been around for the last decade. Halo: Reach combines the best aspects from all previous titles, while still adding some new components. The first part that is noticeably better than the last few installments is the single player campaign. You are no longer a lone Spartan super soldier single-handedly decimating ferocious alien hordes; you fight along side other Spartans who are just as badass as yourself. Having multiple Spartans, along with the addition of space combat, makes for some truly epic cut scenes and game play moments.

The Spartans in your squad, with the exception of yourself, actually take their helmets off. Meaning that the single player story is much more emotionally engaging, and not as convoluted as previous Halo games. But really, some people don’t even care about the single player – although they should. The reason why the Halo series has been so popular over the years is because of its multiplayer that is more addictive than candy to an eleven-year-old.

Halo: Reach’s multiplayer has achieved something that has not been done since the first Halo; it is balanced. You can no longer dual wield guns or entirely dominate with just one weapon. Everything has a specific use, and the auto-aim is toned down for a more even playing field. The original pistol is also back, albeit slightly toned down for balance, along with health-packs. There is even a new game-type called invasion, in which a team of Spartans fight against a team of Elites (aliens that are very scary looking). Oh, and did I mention there are jetpacks now?

One of the main additions to Halo: Reach’s multiplayer is armor variants. Gone are the power-ups of the previous games. Instead, the player can choose from a number of armor permutations that give them special abilities. These can include jetpacks, invisibility, sprinting, and a number of other options. The armor permutations lend even more balance to the game, because it takes away the unfair advantage in previous games when one player found a power-up and the others didn’t. Add to this the multitude of animations done while assassinating someone, and you have arguably the best multiplayer Halo experience thus far.

Halo: Reach has lots of throwbacks to the original Halo game. This both makes it more fun to play, and levels the playing field. The new additions only add to an already great game, based on a decade of Halo titles. While it is true there are some problems, such as frame rate glitches and long loading times, these are well worth the price. I give Halo: Reach a 9.7/10.

StarCraft 2 Review

StarCraft 2 is a real-time strategy game for the computer, where the player controls armies of various human or alien factions. The original StarCraft came out in 1998, so gamers have been waiting for a sequel for about as long as Hilary Clinton has been waiting to become President. The original StarCraft is also the national sport of South Korea, and I’m not even joking.

StarCraft 2’s single player campaign plays somewhat like a role-playing game, due to the ability to choose different missions and permanently upgrade your units. The improved graphics and awe-inspiring cut scenes really serve to draw you into the story, and make it seem like a gorilla with a mental handicap drew the original game. The only problem with these well-polished graphics is that you need a computer that has the processing power of a humanoid robot with an Austrian accent.

The plot of StarCraft 2 is very similar to that of Mario, if Mario were an alcoholic and the bad guys were a swarm of bloodthirsty aliens, instead of a reject from the ninja turtles. You play as Jim Raynor as he leads a rebellion against the tyrannical government the Terran Dominion, and tries to save his girlfriend Sarah Kerrigan from the vicious alien swarm known as the zerg. The only problem is that Kerrigan was mutated into the leader of the zerg swarm in the last game, and I’m pretty sure a condom won’t help much with that. While the plot and characters feel rather clichéd, it makes for an entertaining story nonetheless. Besides, it’s the multiplayer aspect of StarCraft 2 that makes it more popular than Dick Cheney at an NRA meeting.

Some people compare StarCraft 2’s multiplayer to a game of chess. It’s more like a game of chess on crack, and just as addictive. Blizzard, the creators of StarCraft 2, has kept the same formula that made the original StarCraft a success. The result is a balanced and competitive game, which will stop many a nerd from getting laid for years to come. However, the learning curve is very steep, so players new to the StarCraft mechanics will get zerg rushed more times than the Bible has been quoted out of context. While Blizzard’s online ranking system helps with this problem, the game is entirely restricted to online play. Meaning you can only play multiplayer if you have an Internet connection. But at least you can now see who has StarCraft 2 via facebook.

StarCraft 2 has an engaging single player, and an addictive multiplayer that will leave you wanting more. If you can spare the money, shell out $60 for this game. I give StarCraft 2 a solid 9/10. Also, you must construct additional pylons!

Ireland Journal 6: Relatives

It is a classic story, the tale of the American who goes back to Ireland to find his roots. This narrative is so time-honored that even the famous John Wayne depicts it in the movie The Quiet Man. While I may not be John Wayne, pilgrim, I have a similar story involving the search for my distant relatives in Ireland. A quest that almost ended in complete failure.
One of my aunts had befriended an Irishman by the name of George, back in the States. After knowing him for a decent amount of time she found out that his last name is Hallissey. Hallissey, sometimes spelled Hallisey, is not a very common Irish last name. It is also the maiden name of my Grandmother. Hey, turns out that my aunt had unwittingly befriended a relative of ours. Upon finding out this fact my aunt talks to George, and sends me information regarding relatives that still reside in Ireland. George contacts his family, and lets them know that I will be in Ireland and that I wish to meet them. So after my studies are complete I head off to the area that my family is from, a small town in Ireland called Macroom.

Macroom is a small market town with a population of a little more than 3000, located in the southwest of Ireland in County Cork. I arrive there by bus armed with a few phone numbers, addresses, and emails. I only have three days to contact my relatives in the area, because after that I am heading to the Rory Gallagher tribute festival. Arriving in Macroom late on the first day I figure that my sleuthing can wait, so I head to the pub. I walk around and figure that the nightlife in such a small town would be as lively as a George A. Romero movie - I was wrong. The center of town being so small, I could vaguely hear the music from what seemed like the only open pub in town. I head over and sure enough there are people inside, guys mostly. So I head in, sit down, grab a pint and make small talk with the Irishman to the left of me. He's around my age so its easy to relate to him. After drinking and talking for about fifteen minutes or so, he introduces me to everyone else in the pub. Turns out I'm basically the only American in town at the moment, so everyone in the pub wants to talk to me. My ego is pleased. Fairly quickly the owner of the pub grabs a seat next to me and introduces herself. She is well traveled and intelligent, so she's actually interesting to talk to.

It's later into the night and most of the people from the pub have left. Myself, three of the first people in the pub I met, and the pub owner are the only people who remain. Officially the pub is closed, screens down and everything, but we are all still drinking. They all tell me that usually the night doesn't go this late, but something about an American being there makes the small party go longer.

After sleeping off the previous night, I begin my sleuthing with the minimal information I have from my family. Phone numbers, emails, none of them work. So I find a local phone book and start to look through the last names. I find only a few people with the last name of Hallissey, but all the numbers I try lead to dead ends. The local cemetery was also full of dead ends, with none of the headstones having the last name of Hallissey. By the time I was done at the cemetary the day had started to come to an end, and I still had no leads. So I did the only logical thing after a long days work, head to the pub. The few Irishmen in the pub were very helpful, and the pub itself was one of the most interesting I have seen. Inordinately interesting and bizarre objects were entangled in every available crevice of the pub. Sadly the leads the lads in the pub gave me didn't pan out. The next day would be my last chance to meet my relatives.


After sleeping until the early afternoon again, I woke up and immediately got to work. I looked over all of the information I had and was still stuck. That's when I noticed a detail that I hadn't noticed before. All of the addresses were in Cork City...not in Macroom. Having no other options I gathered up all of my belongings and hopped on the bus to Cork. I was going to randomly show up on one of their doorsteps.

About three hours later I am standing in front of a house where my distant cousin Paul supposedly lives. I ring the doorbell and hope for the best. The door opens and a man in his 40s or 50s answers.

"Paul Hallissey?" I ask.

"Yes." He replies in a rather puzzled tone.

"Hi, my name is Trevor. I was in contact with your brother back in the States and he gave me this address. We're related."

"Sorry, this is a really awkward time." He says.

He then proceeds to give me a phone number to contact him at, tells me to call him tomorrow morning, and closes the door on me.
My hope of getting to know my family in Ireland is crushed as soon he closes that door. I head back into town and hope that I have better luck finding a hostel to stay in that night.


After I find and check into a hostel, I figure I might as well walk around Cork City and find something to eat. Suddenly, my cell phone starts to ring - it's Paul. He apologizes for not being able to talk earlier and explains that he was dealing with a very obnoxious customer for his auto repair business. It turns out that I was in fact quite lucky that I showed up on his doorstep at that exact time. If he had not been dealing with the obnoxious customer he would have just assumed I was student selling art, and not answered the door at all. We grabbed a pint later that night and got to know each other a bit. It was one of the most enjoyable conversations that I had while in Ireland.

Ireland Journal 5

Imagine a city torn apart by civil strife. A city where the yellow flames of violence burn the street on a daily basis. The routine clashes between British troops and the IRA (Irish Republican Army) is darkly referred to as the "evening matinée." Barrels of vinegar lay out on the street as numerous as garbage bins; the vinegar helps to counteract the effects of tear gas. Car bombs echo across the city like thunder without lightning. The residents of the city claim it is an occupation, while the oppressors say they are merely trying to keep the peace. The city I am talking about is Derry during the period of time from 1968-1998, a period given the name of "The Troubles." But first, let me tell you about how I came to be traveling about The North of Ireland in the first place.

Last summer I spent some time in Italy, and while in Rome I met a lad named Ryan from Northern Ireland. Since both of us were traveling by ourselves, we became fast friends. Fast forward about a year later and I'm traveling to Northern Ireland to pay him a visit, and photograph the political art/graffiti in the area. For those of you who don't know why political expression is so important in the North, here's a quick history lesson:

Ireland is divided into two separate countries, The Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland. Northern Ireland is part of the United Kingdom, which is great because the Irish absolutely love the English. In fact, the Irish love the English so much that they tried for generations to throw off the yolk of British oppression, and finally succeeded in July of 1921 with the signing of the Anglo-Irish treaty. But just like George W. Bush in the 2000 US presidential election, England was a sore loser. Instead of giving Ireland complete independence as a free Republic, they made them swear an oath of loyalty to the British crown and retained control of six counties in the North. This splitting of the country spawned a bloody civil war in the Republic of Ireland and an awesome movie starring Liam Neeson.

Considering the bloody history surrounding the creation of Northern Ireland, political expression is very important in the North. However, my investigation into political expression in Northern Ireland would have to wait until after my time with Ryan. I went to Portstewart, where Ryan lives, to watch an annual motorcycle race known as the NW 200, and to meet cute Irish girls...but that just goes without saying.

The NW 200 is one of the largest sporting events in Northern Ireland, where motorcyclists race at speeds faster than British Petroleum's stock is currently plummeting. In fact, I think I still have as much whiplash as Bill Clinton does after a runway model convention. While in Portstewart I stayed with Ryan, his parents, and Ryan's younger brother. His family was very hospitable and I very much enjoyed staying with them.

From the perspective of a political scientist, one of the most interesting facets about staying with Ryan is the fact that his mother is a Protestant and his father is a Catholic. Now unlike most religious groups who hate each other because they are essentially preaching the exact same message, the conflict between Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland has more of a historical context. Historically speaking, Protestants have been aligned with the pro-British loyalists and the Catholics have sided with the Republicans - who desire a unified and independent Irish state. Perhaps because of these religious differences, Ryan's family has a very open minded attitude. After spending the previous several months studying the Northern Ireland conflict, it was amazing to hear stories from Ryan's parents about their experiences during "The Troubles." And once I left Portstewart to head to Derry, I would hear even more firsthand accounts involving violent clashes between British troops and protesters.

Derry is one of the most interesting cities that I have ever been to. Not only does it have three names depending on one's political affiliation - Derry, Londonderry, and Freederry - but the art in the area is amazing. During "The Troubles," the area known as the bogside was a constant tumultuous mess; British troops would clash with protesters almost daily. There are numerous murals that have been painted in the bogside, but one mural in particular strikes a very emotional chord. The mural is a painting of a fourteen year old girl named Annette McGavigan. She was shot dead on September 6th, 1971 by crossfire between British troops and the IRA. She was simply walking home from school. One of the three bogside artists, Kevin Hasson, is a cousin of this girl. I had the fortune of meeting him while in Derry, and had the privilege of hearing his tale of growing up during "The Troubles." Apparently, much of the aggression between the protesters and the British was the result of teenage bravado, and the dangers of the time were just the normal circumstances that people lived with.

While walking along the old city walls I stopped to talk with an older Irish gentleman by the name of Paddy. Yes...that is a very stereotypical Irish name. But he also has never had a single drop of alcohol in his life, so I suppose you just trade one stereotype for another. Paddy told me of his time during "The Troubles," and said that the Catholic neighborhoods could be compared to ghettos in large American cities such as New York. Part of the reason that violence was such a problem in Derry was because of the unfair economic and social conditions that Catholics were forced into.

Another aspect of the city that I found interesting were the numerous paintings about the situation in Gaza. It seems that with the history of oppression in Derry, they can sympathize with the plight of the Palestinians better than others.

The Character of Batman

Batman is currently the most popular comic book figure, due in large part to the success of the live action film The Dark Knight. The box office doesn't lie on this one, The Dark Knight holds the record for highest grossing weekend opening of any movie, ever. Right now, I doubt even Tony Stark could knock Batman off of his proverbial popularity throne. Yet as timeless as Batman is, his character has gone through dramatic transformations over the years, often acting as reflections of changes happening in society at the time.

A few years ago, bringing up the topic of Batman during normal conversation would have been considered weird. Batman was not the "cool" thing, definitely something reserved for comic book nerds and children at heart. Speaking of children at heart, that reminds me of my favorite interpretation of Batman outside of the comics:

Batman: The Animated Series


Batman: The Animated Series takes a darker, more realistic tone than most of the previous Batman incarnations. Yet it is still outlandish enough to remind viewers of the comic book that it is based on. The various plots used in Batman: The Animated Series were very well written and show parts of the Batman's history, which allows the viewer to relate to him better. Compared to the Batman cartoons that are on today, Batman: The Animated Series easily beats out the competition:



Now that we have seen why Batman: The Animated Series is the best cartoon version, most likely due to a lack of nachos, let's see how it compares to recent, more realistic takes on the character of Batman.

Overall, Christian Bale does a good job as Batman. The only problem is that he is not really intimidating. But with a voice that sounds like a 40 year old chain smoker, it would be hard to intimidate anyone.

Note: The first two videos may be a bit...intense for some viewers.

A Few Different Interpretations on Batman:

Christian Bale

A Musical Interpretation

Kevin Conroy (Voice Actor in Batman: The Animated Series)

Michael Keaton

But truly, no comparison of Batman can be made without, at the very least, a brief mention of his foe, The Joker. When I mention the Joker, Heath Ledger is the actor who will come to most people's minds. But before there was Heath Ledger, there was another...and I'm not talking about Jack Nicholson. I'm talking about the fact that a Jedi played the role of The Joker for many years.

That's right everyone: Mark Hamill, the guy who portrayed Luke Skywalker in Star Wars, played the voice of The Joker on Batman: The Animated Series. Apparently, he turned to the Dark Side after he realized his agent wasn't as good as Harrison Ford's.

Now, I will leave you with one more interesting tidbit I found out about Batman, he can also sing the blues.

Batman Sings!
This picture is ironic, because Batman would never do this. Bruce Wayne might...but not Batman.

European Journal 3

I am currently on a bus from Dublin back to Galway, and had recently been on a ferry from England to Dublin.

Now the question is: did I make it to Amsterdam despite the natural disaster that has halted nearly all flights in Europe?

The answer: Ever seen that movie Rat Race? Yeah, it was something like that, but without Whoopi Goldberg.

Now, even though I escaped London and made it to Amsterdam, the airline cancellations lasted longer than anyone expected. Making it harder to get on an airplane than it would be for Tiger Woods to get his good reputation back. But before I tell you about how I'm getting back to Ireland, let me tell you about how I managed to do the impossible, and get to Amsterdam against incredible odds.

After spending a night on the floor of the London City Airport, I awoke at 7:am with barely three hours of sleep to see if I could get a flight out of London. Flights were still canceled, and buses, boats, and trains were all booked up. The only choice was renting a car. As I rolled the idea over in my mind, I thought to myself about what Batman would do in this situation - because that's how most important problems are solved in my life. My conclusion was that Batman would drive there in style in his Batmobile. The only problem was that I didn't have a Batmobile, or know how to drive on the left side of the road. This is when I decided to do something that I like to call "pulling a Batman."

The phrase "pulling a Batman" refers to someone doing a highly improbable action, and doing it in a bad-ass way.

I went to the rental car desk determined to get my Batmobile, and learn how to drive on the left side of the road on my way to Amsterdam. Lucky enough for me, I did not have to drive, but I did take a car. While I was waiting at the rental car desk, two Dutch businessmen had overheard that I was heading to Amsterdam. They were heading to Rotterdam, a city near Amsterdam, and asked if I needed a ride that far. I was more relieved than Nixon was to be pardoned when he shouldn't have, which set a precedent for United States Presidents to be able to participate in extra-legal activities and get away with it, thereby increasing executive authority and creating an even larger imbalance of power between the three branches of the United States Government.

Tangents on United States Governmental policy aside, I was damn lucky to be offered a ride by two Dutch businessmen who had the LAST CAR to rent at the airport. So we drove, over England and through the chunnel, to Grandmother's house we go. And as I woke up from a nap one of the Dutch businessmen exclaims: "Welcome to Belgium."

Belgium is a very beautiful country to drive through. I even had a Belgium waffle, and it was delicious. Yet when I finally arrived in Rotterdam I was surprised to learn something that should be rather obvious about Dutch society considering their history as some of the best traders before and even during the rise of the British Empire. Put simply, the Dutch are very good at making money. (Note: I say only say this cause I'm still annoyed at having to split the cost of the rental carI had to split the cost of the rental car and chunnel pass three ways with the two Dutch businessmen. While it was completely fair, I felt that things would have been quite different if I had been hitchhiking back in the United States. So if I had not made it to the Netherlands in the same style as Batman, I at least had arrived in a style somewhat fitting Bruce Wayne.

After taking a train from Rotterdam to Amsterdam Central, I stepped into the city with no place to stay and no idea where my friends were. But I knew one thing, I had information on where they were staying - I had a place to start. After a few hours of scouring and exploring the city, I received a call from a friend of mine who was also visiting the city. We chilled for a bit, grabbed some coffee, and he showed me a good hostel to stay at for the night.

After a decent nights rest I get a call from my friend Torsten who I am supposed to be meeting in Amsterdam. We meet up and it turns out his flight was canceled as well, and he is stuck in Amsterdam. Here, let me set this scene up for you differently:

We have two American college students stuck in Amsterdam, with nothing to do for a couple of days while their flights are delayed. Amsterdam, what a terrible terrible place to be stuck in, with absolutely nothing to do. Luckily the airport gave us a hotel to stay in for a few days, and we found enough historical sites and museums to entertain us for the duration of our stay.



There were several differences I noticed between Dutch and American society. The two that stand out like a football player does at a Star Trek convention are coffee and bicycles. The Dutch have more bicycles per capita than I have ever seen in another country. Approximately 16 million people live in the Netherlands, and there are about 16 million bicycles in the country! The Dutch like bicycles much more than they like windmills. This article should tell you a bit more about bicycles in the Netherlands:

Dutch Bikes

The Dutch don't just have a plethora of bicycles, but they also use clean power sources. The countryside of the Netherlands is littered with wind turbines that produce electricity, which is much more efficient and sustainable than the burning of liquefied and fossilized plant matter that so many other countries use.


The coffee in Amsterdam was also quite interesting. Now, there are many people out there who would condemn coffee and say that it is bad. I would agree. If you have too much of anything it can be bad for you. For example, you can drown if you have too much water. However, the pros and cons of drinking coffee is a discussion for another time.

Also, there were hookers in windows in the red light district......gross.

Overall, my first real tour of mainland Europe was about as much fun as Al Gore would have had if he wasn't cheated out of an election. Except I don't have an exceptionally large stick residing in my nether-regions, while it seems Al Gore might.

However, Man-Bear-Pig is real.


P.S.

Jack Martin saved my life from a crazy bicyclist, he's da man.

European Journal 2

I'm supposed to be in Amsterdam right now, enjoying a nice cup of Dutch coffee. Instead, I am spending my night in the London City Airport with two Dutch guys and a girl from Germany, all of us hoping to God that flights will resume tomorrow.

But first, let me explain how my travels got me here...

It all started several days ago when myself and my friend Torsten flew from Galway Ireland, where we are currently studying, to Girona in Spain. While there we saw the Salvador Dali surrealist museum. And let me tell you, judging by his artwork he did more drugs than George W. Bush did in while in college. After visiting Girona, and sampling some of the local and cheap Spanish wine, Torsten and I went our separate ways. He went to visit an old friend in France, and I went to visit a friend of mine in Sheffield, England. Yet the way I met this friend was rather...unusual.

Last summer I was doing some traveling in Italy for a few days, and went on a day trip to Florence. After walking the city of Florence in a day, and getting a sunburn worse than a Twilight vampire sparkling in the sun, I was tired and ready to go back to Rome to sleep. So I got in line to change my train ticket to an earlier time. Shortly thereafter they stopped selling tickets. An English girl who was in front of me in line turned around and asked me if I knew if there was any other place to buy tickets. Without really glancing at her I pointed to a ticket machine where she could procure a new ticket. I then decided to continue the conversation by asking her "Aren't you a little young to be traveling alone?"

Her response:

"I'm twenty."

Considering that I was also twenty at the time, I felt like the CEO of Budweiser if he walked into an alcoholics anonymous meeting...really awkward. Apparently just because someone is short does not mean they are younger than you, go figure.

After apologizing for my assumption, we grabbed a bite and talked for about 45 minutes. We then became friends the only you can in today's digital age, through facebook. This is the friend I was visiting in Sheffield. It was quite fun hanging out in Sheffield, and I even became fast friends with both a French and an Indian dude at the hostel I was staying at. So after having a few drinks with a few of the guys at the hostel I got up early the next morning to take a train down to London, so I could catch my flight to Amsterdam. Everything went fine except for one tiny problem when I got to London - ALL FLIGHTS ACROSS NORTHERN EUROPE WERE CANCELED!

Apparently, a volcano erupted in Iceland, covering most of Europe in a blanket of ash. I'm not exactly sure, but I think it looks something like this:





Or that could just be a scene from the 1997 movie "Volcano" with Tommy Lee Jones, with audio added from "Who Framed Roger Rabbit." Here's a link to the actual story about it on the BBC news page:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/8623806.stm


Either way, it's pretty shitty. So I decided to spend my time running around London trying to find a way to Amsterdam so that I could meet up with Torsten. I tried every single available transportation imaginable:

-trains, check
-buses, check
-boats, check
-car, check

All of them were booked up by the roughly 600,000 people whose flights were affected by the volcano. So here I am, forced to sleep on the floor of an airport.

The only good thing to happen while in London was the food I received for dinner. Out of the kindness of their heart, two staff at the airport gave me a bunch of leftover food that they were taking to donate to charity. If not for those two very kind people, I would have gone hungry.

Even a volcanic cloud of ash can have a silver lining.



Also, props to Erin for figuring out the meaning of "WWBMD."

What would Batman do? He would get the hell out of the UK. Let's see if I can pull a Batman.

European Journal 1

I am currently writing this blog post on a bus, that's right...I'm on a bus.

It's something like this:



The only difference being no water - AT ALL! A three hour bus ride with NO DAMN WATER! Normally I wouldn't complain as much, but let me explain why I need water as much as Kanye West needs vocal lessons.

I stayed up all night last night to finish a paper at the last possible minute, and I had 1 1/2 weeks to do it. Now, I know what you're thinking:

"Gee, uh, you must be as stupid as that last guy the U.S. elected to office."

But no, I'm not Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man. I just...rediscovered how awesome old cartoons like the Justice League and Batman: The Animated Series are. They're not some retarded talking yellow sponge that flips delicious krabby patties, they're cartoons with a plot that adults can also enjoy. Not only that, but they also teach kids the difference between right and wrong, and that it's okay to stand up for what's right - especially if you have a Green Power Ring (just watch out for yellow).

But yeah, I did watch cartoons instead of doing my papers for 1 1/2 weeks. So I stayed up the night before and did it. Thus, I did not get any sleep the night before this long bus ride.

But wait, it gets better.

On the way to the bus station I realized I forgot my computer and plane tickets, and ran back to get them.


After running back to my flat with my heavy camping backpack on I realize I must run all the way back to Eyre Square - a distance that is usually a fifteen minute walk for me. Let me tell you though, most EPIC run of my life.

With the adrenaline surging through my veins, headphones around my neck blaring "Cage the Elephant," and all my luggage on my back, I ran to Eyre Square in the blistering sunlight and made barely made it in time.

Best start to a vacation ever!!!


Also: WWBMD?

Think about it...what does it mean?


The first person who guesses and posts on this blog what "WWBMD" means, will get a special mention in my next blog post.

Ireland Journal 4

The lights in the theatre slowly dim to complete darkness; the audience is brimming with anticipation. The still silence is suddenly broken by what sounds like a full chorus, all singing in unison on a single chord, along with a flood of lights from above the stage. The lights reveal a single figure with a bushy Santa Clause-style beard who is dressed in tux, top hat, and carrying a silver platter with a solitary champagne bottle on it.

As the Russian opera continues, now with a solo male voice, the old figure stumbles toward a portrait on the left side of the stage. As the music and lights slowly change, different characters enter, all of them in Victorian aristocratic garb. After all seven characters grace the stage with their entrances; the lights dim to near darkness.

Intrigue grips the crowd…anticipation. Someone appears from behind a curtain on the right side of the stage, he looks excruciatingly different from the rest of the cast. As he shuffles onto the stage he stops and turns toward the audience, the light illuminating on his menacing face. His face is startling, speckled with dirt, blood, and a beard. The clothes on his back are tattered, worn, and look like they have been soaked in the mud outside a butcher shop. The script refers to him as simply “The Tramp.” I call him Gustav, and he is my part in the play.

The play I’m referring to is a one-act original play, based off of Anton Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard. Anton Chekhov was a Russian short-story writer, playwright and physician. He is as good at writing short stories as Arnold Schwarzenegger is at blowing stuff up. The one-act play in which I played the Tramp is titled The Blood Cherry, and it is similar to the short play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. The similarity lies in the way that both Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead and The Blood Cherry take minor characters out of larger works and expand upon the characters, giving them a back-story. The character of the Tramp was my most challenging acting part so far; because of the way the Tramp tells his murderous tale – THROUGH A FREAKIN’ TWELVE MINUTE MONOLOGUE!!!

Leading up to performance I had as much free time as Bill Gates did back when he actually did work. About two weeks before the performance I rehearsed nearly everyday, with the average rehearsal time running around six hours. I felt that I would have had more free time if I took up something easy like rocket science, or getting a major re-haul of America’s healthcare system through the United States Congress. Yet the amount of time and money I put into the play is miniscule compared to what my director put into it; a man who is possibly one of the most interesting people I have met...and out of respect for his wishes, I will not be writing about in this blog.

Ireland Journal 3

First off, I would like to apologize for not writing in a while. I have the lead part, and a twelve minute monologue, in a play competition here and I have been very busy because of it. Now to get down to business...

I came to Ireland expecting to be immersed in a different culture. To experience the native customs, food, and language differences that living in another country has to offer. Leave it to Willamette University to screw that up.

Here is the basic recipe Willamette University used to cook up their Ireland study abroad program:

Step 1: Take twelve students from a small liberal arts college. Make sure you marinade them with plenty of wrong expectations, telling them they will have the freedom and independence that studying a different education system provides. Once thoroughly marinaded, put these students in a pressure cooker, forcing them to spend massive amounts of time together. Wait until personalities clash, then remove from pressure cooker.

Step 2: Take your partially cooked students and add one Professor of Chemistry from their home university, have him teach an Irish culture and music class.

Step 3: Put students and American Professor in large pot. Add carrots, potatoes, and so much structure the students have a hard time integrating themselves within the local Irish college community. This structure should take the form of two required classes early in the morning, making it so the students are limited in the classes they can take with Irish students.
Note: Make sure when adding the two required classes that you only use the Willamette students that have been marinading. DO NOT allow any other students into these classes or your dish will have a funny aftertaste.

Step 4: Take your boiling pot of twelve students, one Professor and the other ingredients, and put them on a bus. Have this bus simmer on weekend long trips around Ireland. Make sure the students wake up early for these trips, occasionally miss their non-Willamette classes, and are treated like High School students on a field trip. If done right, your dish should have a subtle flavor of overbearing chaperon, touristy Americans, and no free time to sleep or do laundry.

Step 5: Once your dish has simmered for long enough, add the final ingredient of required movies for class. These movies should take away free time once a week on Tuesday evenings, and not allow students to go to the many societies and clubs that happen at this time.

Step 6: Add salt, pepper, and paprika to taste.

Step 7: Serve. Repeat these steps next Spring semester with a different batch of Willamette students.

If you couldn't tell by the above recipe, the Willamette University study abroad program is not what I expected it to be. The classes that are required of us by Willamette University separate us from the rest of the students populace, and reinforces the fact that we are outsiders - making it harder for us to get to know the local students. The amount of time that our required classes take up is about as crazy as Charlie Brown after he changed his name and joined the Manson family.

For example:

A standard 1.0 credit class at Willamette University is three hours a week. The 1.0 credit required Irish music and culture class, which is being taught here by Professor Silverstein, is three hours a week, plus movies and weekend excursions. I'm not a math major, but it seems to me that 3 hours in class + two hour movies + entire weekend long trips = more than just 1.0 credit. My point is that the time we are required to put into this class does not equal what we are getting out of it, with either credits or educational value.

As much as I am complaining about the structure and setup of the Willamette program, I am still having the time of my life. I mean seriously, I'm a twenty-one year old adventurous college student in Ireland. I would have to be as exciting as John Kerry not to have fun.



Note: I would like to note that although I may disagree with some of Professor Silverstein's policies regarding his class, I am not attacking him or anyone else personally. I have the utmost respect for Todd, and am glad he is on this trip with us. I am merely using satire to critique the problems with Willamette University's study abroad program to Ireland, so that they may be improved for future students.

Ireland Journal 2

At first glance it seems that other than the accent, and the odd penchant for potatoes, there is not much difference between American and Irish society. The fact of the matter is that Ireland is very different from the States. One such difference is the Irish sense of humor.

One of my Irish flat-mates described the Irish sense of humor better than I ever could. He said “any Irishman could stand up to a judge and say that his head is blue, without even making a face.” If you couldn’t guess by that description the Irish are definitely not sarcastic at all. They also hate Guinness, and love the English. Running in tandem with the Irish love for sarcasm is a phrase called “slagging.” Slagging can take several forms, from playful teasing, making someone feel intentionally uncomfortable, to pulling a devilish prank on them. And my God do the Irish love to prank. They like pulling pranks more than Angelina Jolie likes adopting entire third world countries. This love of dastardly pranks holds especially true for drunken male college students with nothing better to do on a Monday night. One such prank that I had the privilege to witness is a called the “three-man lift.”

The three-man lift entails convincing some poor unsuspecting soul that by using the biomechanics of the human body, it is indeed possible for one man to easily lift three others. The unwitting victim then lies down on the ground, with two people on either side of him interlocking both their arms and legs with his. Once the center person is fully secured the fourth person, who is supposedly going to lift all three of the people on the ground, takes off his pants. As the nature of what is really going on dawns on the person in the middle, their face changes from that of intrigued curiosity to sheer terror. The fourth person, who is now in nothing but his boxers, proceeds to sit on the face on the victim. Since the victim has their arms and legs locked up by the people on either side of him, he is completely helpless to his fate.

Following this rather entertaining event, one of my Irish flat-mates asks if anyone had not played the game spoons. I spoke up, and said that I had never played it. Now, let me put something straight here. I knew full well that this was going to be some kind of a prank, because the conversation had gone from the topic of the three-man lift to some Irish game I had never heard of. You would have to be as smart as the guy who designed JFK's car without a roof to think that spoons would not be a prank. But, being the only American in a room full of boisterous, drunk, male Irish college students, I thought that participating in spoons would be a good way to earn their respect.

The game started with my flat-mate John and I squaring off, each of us with metal spoons in our mouths. We then took turns leaning forward to face the ground, so that the other person could use the spoon to hit their opponent on the head. The object of the game was to hit the other person on the head so hard that they would give up, a feat which seemed relatively hard considering the way in which we were holding our spoons. I went first, causing only a tiny ping on the top of John’s head. It was then my turn to tilt my head forward, so I obliged. WHACK! An unusually hard smack hit my head. I figured that either John took more steroids than Mark McGwire, or someone else hit me with the spoon. I looked around…but no one else had a spoon, so I continued the game. This happened several more times, and I even went so far as to jump to try and hit John harder – an act which was met by massive amounts of laughter from the surrounding Irish. After one particularly hard smack it finally hits me – an idea, not another spoon - so I stood straight up and turned directly around. Sure enough there was a rather large Irishman, doing a poor job at concealing a spoon in his hand. At this the entire room erupted in laughter, and I received several hearty slaps on the back from those who had prank me. At that moment I was accepted as one of “the guys.”

Ireland Journal 1

For those of you who don't know, I have been in Ireland for the past week. I am attending NUIG Galway for one semester, on exchange from Willamette University. Now that you know the details of why I am here let's get down to what really matters in Ireland...DRINKING!!!

My God do the Irish know how to party. On our groups orientation the first thing they gave us was free alcohol. If you didn't get that let me repeat myself: THE SCHOOL GAVE US FREE ALCOHOL!!! To an American college student they're basically saying "welcome to Ireland, let's get shit-faced." The guy who gave us our campus tour was even hung over, and quite probably still drunk, while he was giving the tour. This man was quite a character. Picture a 5'5" black haired Irish man with a very charming accent, who was blatantly hitting on every single naive American girl on the tour - and it was quite obvious that they all wanted him. James, our tour guide, has more Game (Game: slang for one's ability to generate attraction in the opposite sex) in his little finger, than I do in my whole body. Yet drinking here is very different from in the United States, it's extremely gregarious.

In the United States drinking is marginalized, and even looked down upon in various circles. But, with the way that most people in the United States drink, and the way our laws are set up, I can see why. The drinking age in the States is quite frankly, stupid. It forces legal 18 year old adults who can vote, buy cancer sticks, and die for their country to drink in a much more dangerous underground environment. In Ireland the drinking age is 18, but everyone grows up with drinking as part of the culture, and knows how to drink. People here would not be stupid enough to drink and drive; that's what the massive fleet of Taxis that drive around late at night are for - to drive drunk people home. While it is true that essentially everyone drinks here, and that you youth will get smashed in a safe and socially acceptable way, the pub culture is very different from that of the American bar culture. (Note: I've never actually been to a bar in the States, but I read a lot and have friends that go to bars so I know what I'm talking about.)

Old people do not go to bars in the States, and with good reason. They are creepy, annoying, and like to rub it in your face that they defeated Nazi Germany. If you ask me we should take all the old people and ship them to a place with lots of oranges, where no one has to deal with them. We can call it Florida or something...In Ireland however, people from all generations go to the pubs to drink, socialize, and have a good time. And trust me, it is a damn good time. There is nothing better than for a small band to be playing traditional Irish music, and all of a sudden everyone in the pub starts to sing along. It's fantastic! (Note: I actually love old people and the wealth of knowledge they can share with younger generations, that part about shipping them to Florida was Sarcasm.)

As I look out the window, it is snowing...it's not supposed to do that here. It is supposed to be wet, rainy, windy, and cold - basically Oregon weather if it tried to get the "competitive edge" in Major League Baseball. The entire country of Ireland has ran out of salt. That is right ladies and gentlemen, an island nation surrounded by the ocean - which I'm pretty sure has at least some salt in it - has completely run out of salt for the roads. It looks like Ireland was about as prepared for this cold front as Jesus was for Mel Gibson to make a movie about him.




For those of you who actually know me, I will quickly recount some of the things that have gone on so far:

The flight was alright. I lost two of my bags on the way over, but the airport found them and shipped them to me so I have them back now. I brought my xbox 360 with me because Mass Effect 2 comes out on my 21st birthday, and I figured it would be a great way to make friends with some of the local Irish - because everyone knows the best way to make friends is by blasting the shit out of aliens together. Sadly, I have yet to get it to work yet because I have not found a decent adapter, and forgot to bring one with me. Getting sleep has been tough as well, and I have been under considerably more stress than I expected, but talking to my good friends back home has really helped me deal with adjusting to things here. Also, our group went clubbing, and I was quite surprised when a fight broke out between two very drunken Irishmen. The bouncers stopped it quickly.

Note to my mom: I know that I have been mentioning drinking a lot in this blog post but don't worry, it is just part of the culture here. When I do drink I am smart about it, and merely doing it socially. I even took a night off from drinking the other night, even though everyone else wanted me to drink. Love you, <3


Also, please give me feedback about my blogging. If it is too hard to follow, or too long to read, then let me know. I want these posts to be as entertaining as possible.


BTW, I've been writing this with an ever so slight hangover...I love Ireland :)