A Galway Epiphany

As I tried to figure out what to do about Benjamin J., I considered the options.

1. Kill him.

2. Tell the Guards.

3. Do nothing.

Number 3 was what I excelled at.

Telling the Guards had proved futile. Killing him, phew-oh. I was spirit-spent on all the death that engulfed my life. Once, I had attempted to head for America, the great illusion, but it sustained me through many bad Februarys.

Ann Henderson, the shining love of my bedraggled life, was dead. She’d once asked me,

“What would your ideal life be like?”

Even I knew that if a woman asks you that, you better include her as part of the vision. Then and now, I didn’t know, but I could flippantly reply,

“To drink ferociously and not have hangovers.”

Like that would happen.

Ofttimes, I sat on Nemo’s Pier, stared at the ocean for hours. I could yearn as an Olympic event.

I had recently read

Wild and Crazy Guys

By

Nick de Semlyen.

An account of the eighties’ comedians Bill Murray, Eddie Murphy, John Belushi, Dan Aykroyd, Steve Martin. After Ghostbusters, Bill Murray was one of the hottest stars in the world. It didn’t sit easy with him, to such an extent that he fucked off to France, studied philosophy at the Sorbonne.

That impressed the hell out of me.

One passage describing his daily life in Paris seemed as close to perfect as you’d get, especially if your mind was most ways fractured.

Before I lay out Bill Murray’s Parisian day, here is a rundown on what was going on in Ireland, in its entire insane color.

Trump arrived in Ireland, having literally fist-bumped with the queen during his U.K. visit. He did have talks with Farage on the very last day that Theresa May was in office as prime minister.

Farage had 33 percent of the European vote and, if a general election were to be called, the Tories were looking like they’d be decimated. Brexit, in its third insane year, continued to avoid solution.

All over Europe the far right were on the rise.

In Ireland, Trump was a huge hit in the tiny village of Doonbeg, where his hotel was situated. His sons went to the local pub and got a fierce welcome, even the parish priest coming out to sing their praises.

Was this now what we were?

No wonder we embraced Katie Taylor’s fifth world title.

We so desperately needed a hero.

I needed to savor a day in Bill Murray’s Paris life to exorcise the sheer weirdness of what our country was experiencing.