Having left the Writer's Museum, full again of good cheer and Irish hospitality, we walked the streets, with Jean H. singing snatches of patriotic songs mixed with ditties, sprouting Yeats and Paul Muldoon, and bits of the great speeches by Jim Larkin, James Connelly, and Charles Parnell. We walked down from Parnell Plaza to Connelly Square, and Hanuman, who, as you know, picks up local speech inflections immediately and effortlessly, was suddenly all excited.

For Jean Hanuman, the great poets of the 20th Century are the great rockers.

"Brilliant," he shouted. "We're about ta ramble past Phil Lynott!" "Who's that, Jean?" I asked. "Are ya daft?" he sneered. "Come on, Jean, give me a break." "Ah, A'm just takin' the piss wi ya. Phil Lynott, a black Irish rocker, the Irish Elvis, the leader of the great Irish band Thin Lizzie." "Thank-You, I said, for explaining so courteously," I replied. "Yer welcome, ya fockin' wanker."

     For more of our stay in Ireland, see these photos.

    Unfortunately, one set of photos has been lost. Hanuman and I, you see, set out on an aptly named pub crawl (confining ourselves to last-name bars (O'Donohough's, Foley's, Murphy's, etc.) I had some great pics of Hanuman playing fife on Irish Music night at Gilligan's, holding court on the dart board at O'Rileys (doubling out on 100 with two double-bulls), and matching stories with the old boys in the Cat and Cage (OK, we dropped the only last-name bars rule after a few). I lost Hanuman when he walked outside with a girl named Fiona (and who he insisted on calling Colleen). At 6 a.m., here comes a bedraggled Hanuman (you guessed it, through the hotel window) with a confused story involving a beer celler, a bell tower, and a slap in the face near the River Liffey, where the camera had an unfortunate accident.
      Oh, that Hanuman!