"I only understand
half of what they're saying," Eric said. "But that's enough."
His companion,
a short, bald man in a green sweater with the smile of a geo-physicist
too deep in his cups, had just fallen down at my feet. It was the second
time he had crashed to the floor that evening. And he was applauded. It
is not every man who can fall down drunk without spilling his beer. Eric
and the geophysicist are doing an underwater survey for a new communications
cable between Ireland and England.
In the course
of their work, they inadvertently discovered a cable that they believe
is used to monitor submarine activity in the Irish Sea. Their ship was
ordered to leave the area by the Royal Navy.
Eric is
English, not a popular thing to be at Doolan's bar."But I don't
take it personally," he said.
The drunken
scientist is Irish, and Gaelic-speaking at that. They were at Doolan's
bar because it had such provisions as keep sailors on shore leave occupied.
Not just alcohol, but women... and what passes for lively entertainment
in small Irish towns in mid-winter.
If I spoke
Gaelic, for the singer mixed Gaelic expressions into his songs, or even
understood the Irish accent better, I could have understood more of what
was said amid the sloppy, besotted din of Doolan's bar last night. But,
like Eric, I probably understood enough. The music style might be best
described as Irish self- pity. The songs were political. Sentimental.
Maudlin. When
they weren't describing some guy who had to leave Ireland to find work
in Florida, poor fellow, they expressed the familiar Irish themes: irredentism,
patriotism and pathetic proletarianism. They were sung in that whiney Irish
tenor voice that brings a mist to your eyes -- if you are in a particularly
lugubrious mood or an alcoholic stupor.
"The English
horse they were so rude... They bathed their hooves in healing blood" he
sang.
The great battles
against the English, Parnell, the Great Hunger, the Irish Diaspora, the
Easter Uprising, the cruel landlords... bosses... the IRA...
"Monday marning...
why
do you haunt me? Wi' yer bells and factory whistles all around... Monday
marning... why do you taunt me? And I'm so tired I could sleep here on
the ground".
Waterford
is a working class town, in which there wasn't much work available - from
the Famine to the European Union.
But the place
is booming now. You can borrow mortgage money at 3.5% -- an artificially
low rate, thanks to German's need for low interest rates to reduce unemployment.
Here in Ireland,
what are needed are higher rates, to dampen down some of the mania in real
estate.
Property
prices are soaring. It's hard to find an apartment. And if you set
out to buy a house, the seller may double the price before you get to settlement.
But the
place is still a little depressing. The Irish say they saved civilization.
During the Dark Ages, monks labored in Irish monasteries to preserve the
writings of antiquity.
But having
nursed civilization through its illness, it is too bad the Irish sent it
on its way. At least they could have stayed in touch.
While Vienna,
Rome, Paris, and London flourished, Ireland became a backwater. So while
Mozart, Beethoven, Dvorak and Tchaikovsky were developing the music of
the Western World, the Irish were singing their ballads - complaining about
this or that... in a manner only a notch above the lame drivel of American
pick-up truck laments of the hick genre. Even a place as remote as Finland
has produced at least one world-class composer - Sibelius. Has Ireland?
And while Housmann
was turning Paris into the most beautiful city in the world - Irish architects,
if you can call them that, were perfecting the modern factory- worker hovel.
Even now, they're still building boxy, charmless accomodations of steel
and cement, which seem like little more than weak imitations of London's
worse neighborhoods.
Where are
the quaint cottages, whose images grace the walls of Boston's IRA supporters?
I don't know,
but they're not in Waterford. And the people didn't look much better. The
best looking people seem to find their ways to bigger cities I guess. Or
maybe it's the potatoes and beer. Once, in Paris, I approached the subject
scientifically. On a long walk through the 7th and 16th arrondissements
I studied the women I passed on the street. Surprisingly, I found one out
of 5 to be rather attractive.
I tried the
same exercise on the streets of Waterford, but gave up - only one or two
seemed attractive at all.
But back in
Doolan's I tried once again to understand the peculiar psychology of mass
delusion. The crowd sang the songs. They rose and raised their hands when
the Irish anthem was sung. They locked arms and swayed back and forth --
having a grand time.
They were like
the soccer fans, who suspend all judgement, reason, or sense of dignity.
They paint their bellies blue and yell at the top of their voices. Even
when watching the game on television, where they couldn't possibly affect
its outcome, they will get together with friends and make complete fools
of themselves. And on Monday morning they retake their places in society
as sober and sensible people.
The same
group sentiment infects a manic market - a point I have made many times.
Individuals give up their own critical faculties to the emotional power
of the crowd... the home team... the army... the group.
On TV, the
CNBC cheerleaders sing the praises of this stock or that. Investors sway
with the markets. They are confident... bold to the point of being reckless.
And yet, they are always in danger of getting spooked too... being demoralized
and panicking. Routed, like an army that has lost its will to fight.
As the evening
wore on at Doolan's and more pints were poured, the raucous bar scene and
hard-edged music seemed to soften. It was like a photo that was airbrushed...
almost gauzy in the smoke-filled haze.
The singer's
voice had become more raw as the evening advanced - thanks to tobacco,
beer and the hard kvetching it had to do. But even the voice took on
a sweet tone as his ballad told a particularly sappy tale. I felt for a
moment that feeling that you get when you are connected to a group. No
longer standing alone as an observer, you surrender and become part of
the scene yourself. I felt a sentimental mist arising in my eye... and
even the fat girls looked fetching.
The Daily Reckoning
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