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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. Bill Bonner * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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