Of course we've been here before. Not before like when we recorded with MARIANNE FAITHFULL back in 1998 or whenever the fuck it is (my sense of time is destroyed. DESTROYED. Which makes it really HARD for such an INVETERATE liar like me) that we were here PISSING (not shitting as I had originally reported) into U2's drum kit at Windmill Lane where we recorded her stuff for SERENADE IN RED. I mean BEFORE as in a few days ago when Niko dragged us here to the renegade guitar techs house. He of the glue-filled garage. He who would work his magic upon the guitar that Niko busted the head off of in the middle of the set at DOUR.

So coming back it's no surprise that it is exactly how we left it. Raining. Guys stumbling in the rain and onto the ground by the Liffey river. The one woman we stopped for directions ranting strangely and lacking coherence regarding the fact that she didn't believe that she "was the ONE," and finally the well-dressed business man who in the middle of the crosswalk acted out this entire pantomime that seemed to consist solely of JERK OFF motions and the universally appreciated FUCK YOU salute.

Yup. Just how we left it.

I had once read in a collegiate study of James Joyce that it was figured out at some point that like 50 percent of the Irish populace had sought help for mental "issues" ranging from depression to full-blown fucking lunacy.

Which means if you're hanging out in Dublin with two people one of them is a fucking lunatic.

PERFECT.

We get over to Whelans and I meet my friend and damned decent guy Declan, who plays in the great band Clann Zu, but who is also an animator extraordinaire and much more importantly part of the Universal Brotherhood of Bouncers, or UBB, which of course I am a member of. Except at least here the UBB members are actually licensed by the state, have to take exams and usually wear suits.

WAIT ONE FUCKING MINUTE�what kind of exams?

You are faced with a belligerent drunk you

a) kick him in the yobs and haul him outside
b) kick him in the yobs, haul him outside, kick him in the yobs again
c) kick him in the yobs, kick him in the yobs, kick him in the yobs
d) try to get over on his now sobbing girlfriend
e) ALL OF THE GODDAMNED ABOVE

Anyways, we're here, ensconced in another semi-plush backstage area and enjoying ourselves, which in this instance means choking back red wine, for the health benefits, like red wine was going out of style.

That's when I am approached by a man who introduces himself as

"Happy."

"What?"

"Happy?"

"Why yes, I'm fine thanks."

"No. My name is Happy."

"Ah. I see. And how are you spelling that?"

"Hopi. Just the way it sounds."

Yeah yeah, OK, now I know who this is. This is the fella who is promoting this show, who spent the preceding months being very vocal about how we made him uneasy and nervous and that perhaps he wouldn't even BE at the show because he felt so uneasy so it was really my job to make him feel a little bit better so, in my desire to do so, when he offers me some HASH to smoke I beg off and offer him one better.

"KETAMINE?"

"Isn't that a horse tranquilizer?"

"Why no. It's in fact an anesthetic most widely used at this point used for subhuman primates and small children. Which makes it largely appropriate in my case. It had been used for adults but the hallucinations were so horrible that they discontinued its use. So you're sure?"

"Oh no. I mean yes. I'm fine. Well I mean I will have some later."

"Cool."

Of course later he says he remembers he has to drive and he begs off but in begging off I see a strange look in his eye that I can't quite place. I gotta keep my eye on this one, I think, as he walks away thinking "I gotta keep my eyes on this one."

Which is the totally right response as the subterranean and creeping sense of violence that's slinking through the accumulated days and nights of narcotic drool seems to indicate that THIS COULD BE THE ONE.

Now when we usually use that phrase in an OXBOW context that means only 10 people will show up and this is the show where that'll happen.

In my PERSONAL context however at this point in time it means that despite the failure of the UK contingent of NO HOLD'S BARRED fighters that had been beating the hustings over the last recent few weeks, angered by my well-intentioned jibe at some local fighters in GRAPPLING magazine, to kick my ass at one of these shows, some transformative violence was a'brewing. In my head. In the air. Oh just about everywhere.

But the bands opening for us are playing and they are cool. Eaesa Peasa, which is Gaelic for something or other, is cute and when we come out to watch them play, I can see the joy register on their faces and I think it's touching that at least SOMEONE is glad to see us. Turns out that we're staying with their singer and I'm glad her band does not suck because I hate to lie because I have to. I'm much more of a recreational prevaricateur�.

"Hey Eugene? What was that guy's name who gave us that thing?"

"Steven."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh yeahhhhh�.."

In any case they don't suck, we don't have to lie, the show rips from start to finish and I burn myself several more times on things on stage, but outside of that no incident.

And post-show drink, drink, drink, drive, drive, drive, and maxing and relaxing in the most delightful of ways passed out on the floor of Clauda's, because that was the singer's name, nice suburban house, I am in heaven.

Of course that's before I find out we have another long drive and a ferry ride and more long driving to get to Birmingham, England.

And the pills are calling from beyond the dunes.