Stories by filmmaker and Webby Awards founder Tiffany Shlain on PRIDE, Kasper Hauser’s Rob Baedeker on GREED, writer Sarah Gina Jones on SLOTH, crossword puzzle maker Andrea Carla Michaels on WRATH. I will be handling the category of ENVY. Live music by The Ian Fays!

Doors at 7, show at 8pm
$15 admission
Swedish American Hall
2174 Market Street, San Francisco
Advance tickets available at ticketweb.com

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Saturday July 12
F*ck Sports!
A benefit for Litquake literary festival
Readings by:

Beth Lisick: high school long jump record holder, author of Helping Me Help Myself

Alan Black: failed soccer dad, author of Kick the Balls: An Offensive Suburban Odyssey

Jack Boulware: high school equipment manager, three losing seasons, author of upcoming punk history Journey to the End of the East Bay

Bucky Sinister: born from the fumes of NASCAR, author of All Blacked Out & Nowhere to Go

Eddie Muller: SF’s “Czar of Noir,” son of legendary sports columnist Eddie “Mr. Boxing” Muller

Jennifer Sey: former gymnast, author of Chalked Up: Inside Elite Gymnastics’ Merciless Coaching, Overzealous Parents, Eating Disorders, and Elusive Olympic Dreams

Emcee: Bob Calhoun aka Count Dante, professional wrestler, and author of Beer, Blood and Cornmeal: Seven Years of Incredibly Strange Wrestling

Music by: Naked Lady Wrestlers, legendary San Francisco punk-spoken word pranksters

Show at 9pm
Books for sale at this event
$10 suggested donation benefits Litquake 2008
Edinburgh Castle Pub
950 Geary St., San Francisco

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Thursday July 17
Inside Storytime Reading Series
presents PUNK

Readings by:

Frank Portman (King Dork), Stephanie Kuehnert (I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone), Erick Lyle (On the Lower Frequencies), Blag Dahlia of the Dwarves (Nina), and Ammi Emergency.

I will be guest MC, and tell a quick story or two about the making of the upcoming punk oral history Journey to the End of the East Bay.
Show 6.30-8.30 pm
Edinburgh Castle Pub
950 Geary St., San Francisco
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Saturday August 16
The Return of Rëzzin!

The much-anticipated triumphant return to the stage of Rëzzin, San Francisco’s premier stadium-sized stoner-rock act! Classic hits, new material, new bio on new myspace page! Arena rock like you’ve never seen or will likely again in your lifetime. Performing live, one set only, at the city’s legendary, moderately-priced, drunken-sailor bar on the edge of the world, the Bay View Boat Club!

8pm – midnight
Admission: free!
Bay View Boat Club
489 Terry Francois Blvd. (China Basin St.), San Francisco
Directions

“Depending on how you hold it,” says Steve, “it can be a smile…or a frown.”

Since I really can’t stand golf, it’s probably a frown.

This morning we’re playing the back nine holes of the Pacific Grove Municipal Course, to plumb the deeper meanings of the 1,300-member Society and discover why the popularity of a fictional character from a book has galvanized fans from 20 countries. I also am curious why these guys have started a golf program for inner-city black kids, and why on earth that would be helpful to them. But maybe another time.

Official sanctioned Shivas events are very elaborate. The group places violinists and harpists playing classical music along the course. They encourage alternative scoring. Instead of numbers, participants record each hole with an adjective that best describes one’s feelings. They make sure every player gets in touch with the historic fundamentals of the game by using antique wooden clubs and balls stuffed with feathers. And before the tee-off, Steve will often lead the foursome in some guided-imagery meditation, concentrating on specific goals each person hopes to achieve. I always thought the goal of golf was to put the ball in the cup. Apparently there’s more.

We skip the preliminaries and tee off at the 10th hole. Hopefully the spirit of Shivas Irons will make an appearance to guide us. He’d better hurry, because I’m a terrible golfer. After a couple of spastic swings that miss the tee, I finally make contact and the ball scoots a few yards along the grass. My adjective is “pissed off.” It’s going to be a long morning.

Steve gets into position, his portly 50-ish frame packed inside his tan slacks and grey sweater embroidered with the Shivas logo. His swing is fluid and balanced as he knocks a perfect drive that sails up and lands just outside the green. Several strokes later, I chip a shot that, through some insane beginners’ luck, rolls into the cup. Steve spins around, his smile radiating through his beard, and declares proudly, “I knew that was going in as soon as you hit it!”

Maybe I should have been more excited.

The next hole features a handful of deer, lounging absently along the course. Steve would rather I learn from personal experience than from advice, but he does mention I should “visualize it.” I visualize my ball entering a deer’s eye socket, the animal control ambulance arriving, the word “deerslayer” painted in red on my apartment door. My shot misses the animals, but lands miles from the flag. Steve’s shot arcs gracefully, of course, and hits the grass just to the right of the green.

This goes on for several more holes, Steve expertly placing his shots along the fairways, then waiting for me and my 17 sad croquet-like shots that barely crest the tips of the grass blades. Steve has been a teacher of disabled children, and then a Gestalt therapist at Esalen, so his patience seems infinite.

His nurturing qualities manifest in helpful comments like “98 percent of golf is between shots” or “Come into the swing — you gotta feel good about the swing because when it’s in the air it’s out of your control.” At one point Steve hits a beautiful drive that lands on top of a sand dune. Rather than become disappointed, he exclaims, “That felt so good to hit, it doesn’t matter.”

It matters horribly to me. The whole idea of golf is starting to suck. I’ve read the book, but it didn’t sink in. Shivas Irons seems to be with me only on the chip shots. He is completely ignoring me in the tee box. Steve smells my frustration and suggests that when I take a practice swing, just let go of the club. It spins off to the left, indicating my swing needs a subtle correction in the other direction. I look behind us to see if anybody is witnessing this absurd scenario. An old white-haired man in expensive pastel clothes swings and his ball skitters only a few yards. Good, I think. He’s probably been golfing for 40 years, and he’s still a spaz.

For the 16th hole, Steve says we shouldn’t speak the entire time. He says it helps get in touch with the inner game. We will hone in on our goals, and silently articulate the metaphor of golf as a reflection of life. I tee up and stare at the ball, attempting to become one with the sphere. The dimples are going in and out of focus, as if I’m really stoned. It makes me dizzy. I whack the ball a robust ten yards into a clump of ice grass. A deer grazing nearby looks up at the ball, sniffs, and goes back to eating. Same to you, Bambi.

Steve momentarily breaks the silence rule to say “I love you anyway, Jack.” I want to take my putter and smack him in the forehead.

We continue down the course, but there’s a mysterious change in the air. On Steve’s lone piece of advice, I’ve given up using most of my clubs, sticking only with the few that feel like they’re working. He’s right. My shots are sailing higher and farther. As Murphy says, perhaps I’ve won the ball’s allegiance. I want to hoot like a hillbilly. Shivas is with me. Let’s get hippy. Burn some incense. Fire up the hot tub.

The following hole, my drive soars over the lake hazard, just like one of the bigshot golfers on television. I feel confident and self-actualized, an autonomous entity in control of my own sensate destiny. Maybe I should just ditch this writing business. I’ll shave my head, move to Esalen, wear drawstring pants and teach spinal alignment classes. I’ll sit in the big hot tub with my students, and they’ll ask how I achieved such a balanced state of being, and I’ll tell them “Just use the clubs that feel right.”

#   #   #

It began slowly enough. I received a magazine assignment to cover the career of Joe Eszterhas, world’s highest-paid screenwriter, or as many critics will attest, a “schlockmeister.” Pull no punches, they said. Alright, I agreed. The guy’s a cheezeball, but it might be fun to follow his trail. Plus, he’s got more screenplays in development. I began my research by hitting the local video emporium to stock up on the mighty Eszterhas canon of work: Basic Instinct, Sliver, Jade, Showgirls, Music Box, Betrayed, Flashdance, F.I.S.T., and something in the “Cult” section called Hearts of Fire, a silly rock-and-roll fable starring Bob Dylan. It was a long weekend.

Police and ambulance lights filled my San Francisco neighborhood as I drove home from an errand. Cops and paramedics wandered around, talking on radios, carrying a body down my steps on a stretcher.

“Can’t go up there,” said a plainclothesman. “Crime scene.”

I showed him my driver’s license, which to my astonishment seemed to satisfy him, and brushed past. The action was on the third floor. Cops had sealed off my studio apartment, taking photos and dusting for prints. They were all overweight. I introduced myself to someone in a suit, a handsome assistant district attorney named Chase, who said grimly:

“Bank president. Stabbed. Kinky stuff. He was still alive when they cut off his dick.”

“No sign of sperm,” said a cop, peeling off a latex glove.

“Two-inch wounds,” reported another. “Happened about four hours ago.”

“What the hell’s going on here,” I asked. “This is my house. I’m just a writer.”

“And I’m just a D.A.,” said Chase. “Recently divorced, by the way. What kind of stuff you write?”

I told him mostly local color, Living section pieces, some travel stuff. Pretty harmless.

“Yeah, I saw your bookshelf,” he sniffed. “You better come down to the station.”

Two hours later the pieces began to fit more clearly. Acting on an anonymous tip, police had discovered the president of Wells Fargo Bank stabbed dead in my apartment, naked except for some S&M bondage gear, castrated and impaled on a wall hook. He was also editor of the daily newspaper, owner of a strip club, an attorney, a white supremacist farmer, and held a certificate to practice psychiatry. And recently divorced. I was glad I wasn’t a cop. It sounded like a mess.

I opened my apartment door and knew instantly something was wrong. I clicked on the light and–

She sat in a chair in the middle of the room, smiling and smoking a cigarette. Her blonde hair was well-coiffed, and her tight-fitting cocktail dress reeked of sexuality.

“How–how did you get in here?” I stammered.

“I understand you knew my ex-husband,” she purred in a cool voice. The diamonds looked real. “I’m recently divorced. He died in this room, didn’t he?”

“Look, lady,” I begged. “I’m just a writer and this is my apartment. I have no idea what’s going–”

“Is that so?” she smirked. “Maybe Mr. Chase knows what’s going on. Maybe I should ask him. Maybe you’d like to watch.” She crossed her legs, revealing a distinct lack of underwear. “Do I look bisexual to you?”

The bartender woke me up later that night. Apparently I’d dozed off in the men’s room. I stumbled back through the streets, brain reeling. Eszterhas…murder… a sleazy rich woman. I looked at myself in a storefront window and noticed I now had long scraggly hippie hair and beard.

It still felt like there was someone in the apartment. I turned on the light and — Another blonde woman was sitting in a chair, smiling and smoking a cigarette.

“How–how did you get in here?” I stammered.

“She nevah loved him,” said the woman. “Not like me. I knew all his tricks. It’s hot in heah. Do you mind if I take off my sweatah?”

From some hidden source kicked in the classic rock song “Bang A Gong” by T. Rex, a CD I don’t even own. I plopped into the sofa, helpless. The woman began dancing a slow strip-tease, undulating all the way down to pasties and black studded G-string, from which a small icepick fell to the floor. I buried my face in my hands.

“What’s the mattah, Hemingway?” said the bimbo. “Dontcha like my dancin’?”

She ground her hips into me like a deep-sea marlin fighting for its life. I shut my eyes, praying for the night to end.

The next morning, Chase and a pudgy cop knocked on my door. I told them about the two blondes. They’d heard of the stripper.

“She’s got a rap sheet as long as my dick,” said the fat cop. I asked him if he was divorced.

He shot me a look. “How’d you know?”

I turned to Chase, who was examining the icepick. “The ex-wife said she knows you.”

Chase grinned. “Yeah, ever since I’ve stopped seeing her, I’ve developed calluses. You better come with us.”

Within an hour we were inside a police helicopter, sweeping low over the choppy Pacific, along the San Francisco shoreline. Jesus, I thought, this is the big establishing shot from Basic Instinct. Or is it Jagged Edge?

I tapped Chase on the shoulder and shouted over the roar of the chopper:

“Let me guess. Are we going to a beach house owned by the president of the bank, where there is another wealthy businessman friend of his, also recently divorced, dead of stab wounds, lots of S&M gear laying around, and is there nearby a black studded G-string?”

Chase stared at me. “You do your job, and I’ll do mine.”

“But I don’t know what my job is anymore,” I yelled back. “Last thing I knew, I was writing an article on this guy Joe Eszterhas, and–”

“HEY!” The fat cop shoved a gun under my nose. “Shit floats.”

We landed at the beach house, and it was exactly as I predicted: the body, the S&M equipment, the G-string. I felt satisfied, yet empty. Forensics did their thing, and the chopper took us back into the city.

I drove back to my apartment, thoroughly confused. I had inexplicably gotten thrown into some kind of Eszterhas murder plot. Maybe Joe himself had put some sort of occult curse on me, as if to prove he’s not cliché, that this world actually does exist. Was Joe Eszterhas somehow writing the script of my life?

I clicked on the light. There sat Chase, smiling and smoking a cigarette. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

“How–how did you get in here?” I stammered.

“What’s the matter, you don’t believe in magic anymore?”

“I never did.” Man, this dialogue was sucking big time.

The ex-wife and stripper came out of the bathroom, both wearing lingerie. “You have nice tits,” said the ex-wife. “I like nice tits.” The showgirl replied, “I like having nice tits.”

“I like your ass,” said Chase. “Call me.”

He stood up and I made my move. I grabbed his pistol and trained it on the three.

“There’s just one thing I don’t understand,” I said, fighting back the trite lines.

“Hey, evil and deceit is all there is.” Chase gave me that smirk again. “I’m evil, you’re evil, we’re all evil. It’s brilliant! Lighten up!”

I couldn’t take it anymore, and fired blindly at the soul-less characters. The ex-wife flipped over the sofa. The stripper fell out the window, her body landing on the hood of a squad car, which happened to be on a high-speed pursuit chase through Chinatown.

Chase blinked at me, red foam gurgling from his mouth.

“What-what do you want?” he gasped weakly. “I’ll get you anything.”

I put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. It clicked on the empty chamber. He fell back, dead.

“Yeah,” I said. “Get me a beer, bitch.”

#  #  #

McGuane has lived in Montana for over 30 years, the state’s best known writer. Whenever anyone discovers that I’m a writer, and that I’m originally from Montana, I often hear: ‘Oh, I love McGuane. Have you read McGuane? Did you see his piece in the New Yorker?’

For most people, Tom McGuane embodies the image of the writer from Montana. Even though he went to Yale and Stanford, and is originally from Michigan. Whatever. Anyway, he owns a cattle ranch, and writes a lot about that world. Now my parents have operated a ranch for over 50 years. My mom has read a lot of books about the local area. So I ask her if she’s ever read McGuane.

She says, “I read one of his books. He didn’t get it right.”

So I ask, “What didn’t he get right?

And she says: “Oh, the horse stuff. The cattle stuff.”

Unbelievable. My mom has just sliced McGuane to ribbons.

So then I start thinking,
What is an accurate description of life in Montana?
What is it really like to grow up there?

No stop signs, speed limit
Nobody’s gonna slow me down
Like a wheel, gonna spin it
Nobody’s gonna mess me round
Hey Satan, payed my dues
Playing in a rocking band
Hey Momma, look at me
I’m on my way to the promised land

– “Highway to Hell,” AC/DC

I’m on a highway to hell. It’s a very slow highway, because I’m driving a tractor, doing three miles an hour around a hayfield. But it’s hell, just the same. It’s 110 degrees. I’m hung over, driving in a circle, getting attacked by sweatbees. Big Sky Country. This is it. Yippee.

The John Deere tractor is sun-faded green and yellow, with stuffing coming out of the seat. No radio, no air conditioning. My father’s too cheap to spring for a tractor with a cab. I’m pulling an antiquated mower that cuts down all vegetation for a six-foot width. In five minutes I will run over a rock and break one of the blades. I will keep going. I don’t have the proper tools to replace the blades. Nor do I have the skills. Because, for some reason, I haven’t inherited them.

All my cousins are cowboys. I never got the gene. I’m not very good at the horse and cow thing. There are a lot of things I don’t know. I don’t know that in the rest of America, it will be very important where you went to college. I don’t know that in one year an actor will become president.

And I have no idea that at this very moment, 250 miles to the west, Tom McGuane is sitting around with  neighbors like Richard Brautigan, Jim Harrison, and Richard Ford, writing books and movies about the rugged life in Montana.

I’m 18, and I don’t know much of anything. Actually, that’s not true. Because I’m 18, I know everything.

I know that rodeo clowns are never funny (even if they have a trained Chihuahua). I know that Coors beer is more expensive because they have to ship it refrigerated. I know how to make a pot pipe out of an apple. I know that if I don’t leave town, I will end up either in the military, or a drug dealer, or both.

I am also blessed with infinite knowledge about the world of music. Disco sucks. This is a provable fact. I know that KISS is for teeny boppers, and I haven’t listened to them in, like, four years. I know that the Rolling Stones are the greatest rock and roll band in the world, because that’s what the announcer says on the live album. I know that my dad thinks the Sex Pistols are disgusting, and that’s really cool. I know these facts, because it’s all I argue about with my friends.

And I am familiar with the curvy rump of Simmy Hafla, as she walked to class in those Britannia jeans without back pockets. One of God’s little gifts, or rather two gifts, placed before my eyes like twin muffins. If I were a dog, they would be kibble.

I am 50 miles from the nearest town. Round and round the field. The landscape goes on forever, a prehistoric underwater basin of fences and loping hills and droopy cows. An ice age didn’t kill off the dinosaurs here. They just died of boredom. I start singing songs, screaming over the noise of the tractor. “Seasons don’t fear the reaper.” Wait a minute. Isn’t putting up hay actually a form of reaping? There’s a coincidence.

Round and round. Slap another sweatbee.

I remember that time Tracy Lathrop bent over the teacher’s desk in science class, you could see all the way down the front of her sweater. She was a cheerleader. Did she sign my yearbook?

More hay. Hay as far as I can see. It’s a hay day.
“Hey, look me over, lend me an ear.”
“Hey hey mama, say the way you move, gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove.”
“Hay-buh you-buh guy-buhs.”

After all the hay has been cut, it could be time to move on and get some new scenery. But it’s not. I disconnect the mower, making sure to burn my hands on the scalding hydraulic hoses, and hook up another exciting piece of farm equipment – the rake. The route is now back and forth, scooping up the mowed hay and depositing it into rows called windrows.

Pull the lever. Gather and release, back and forth.

“Hey Jude, don’t make it bad.” That was a good song, but it took forever to end. Who’s that girl who works at the Dairy Queen? June Carranza. Jesus, talk about the unattainable. She goes out with that doofus who drives the Trans-Am with Cragar mag wheels. Mr. Pencil-Dick.

My body moves through space. I didn’t ask to do this. Anyone who enjoys this is mildly retarded. It would be a lot better if I WAS retarded. I do this because I was asked by my father, and this summer I’m still living in his house, and that means legal white slavery. When I demanded to be paid, he offered a subhuman wage. I know he chuckles when he writes out the check.

Back and forth, underneath the cloudless sky and angry sun, over and over. I am all alone. I will die here. What if I did? What if, say, I fell off the tractor and my arm became caught in the machinery and I was dragged across the prairie until the tractor ran out of gas? Then they’ll be sorry. My family will discover my corpse, chewed on by coyotes, belly filled with maggots. A crowd will gather. Somebody will produce a thermos of coffee. Women will cry. Neighbors will shake their heads. My brother will load my carcass into the back of a truck. My father will sneak off and check the tractor to make sure the accident didn’t damage anything. And my uncle Jake will look back at the hayfield and say, “Well…I’ve seen rows that were straighter.”

When the sun is its hottest, my father drives up for lunch. We sit on the ground and lean against the pickup tires. The radio plays “I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose garden.” That’s for sure. Lunch is same as yesterday: warm lemonade from a dirty plastic jug. Saltine crackers with a can of something called potted meat food product. Sometimes we have Vienna sausages. Today it’s potted meat food product. I look at the ingredients: beef tripe, beef hearts, partially defatted cooked pork fatty tissue, mechanically separated chicken. Natural flavorings. The label should have a photo of someone puking up their guts. I read the list aloud to my father. He stares out over the horizon, and with a mouthful of cracker, says “Then don’t look at it.”

I hate everything about this moment. The heat. The lemonade. The potted meat. The fact that I’m not in control of my life. There’s a big world out there, because I can hear it roaring in my ears. After sunset I will spend the rest of the night in a Chevy Blazer, drinking beer and listening to my friends argue about who’s the best guitarist – Jeff Beck? Or Jimmy Page?

Years later, I will read a book by Thomas McGuane. I have no idea what Montana he’s talking about. But I’ll bet he’s got a tractor with air-conditioning.

#  #  #

“Hey, this is BULLSHIT, man!” shouts a dockworker from the back row.

“Reno!” says a computer nerd. “Go to Reno!”

The bus loops around the interstate and heads back in the opposite direction to make another stop in Vallejo. Passengers look at each other helplessly.

“What the FUCK?!!” yells the dockworker. “I’ll go up there and drive this fucking thing myself!”

The festive mood is shot. The tinsel seems to hang sarcastically. Everyone stares out the windows. It’s merely a prelude for the horrors still to come.

We pull into Reno three hours late, and stop at the Silver Legacy casino. Our driver wishes everyone good luck and Merry Christmas. The gamblers eagerly spill out for a vacation of wallet-emptying frolic. I check into a cheap hotel and riffle through the entertainment guides. I have no family in California, so for Christmas I gave myself a journalistic mission – go to Reno, seek out the worst possible show and review the predictably cheesy proceedings. Wouldn’t that be ironic and hilarious. I settle on the tribute to Dick Clark’s American Bandstand, a live revue hosted by Clark via big-screen video, tonight at Harvey’s in Tahoe. The hotel assures me I can catch the last bus to Reno right after the show. Perfect.

A casino shuttle deposits me at the Reno airport, just in time to catch a bus to Tahoe. Passengers pile inside — families, ski bums, locals, tourists from Mexico — good-looking, average to upper income folks who can afford to spend Christmas in Tahoe, all buzzing with holiday spirit. Snow is falling lightly, right out of a postcard.

The route down Nevada’s 395 is uneventful, until we cut over to 50, which slices through the Carson Range of the Sierras. The bus stops and the driver puts on tire chains. He needn’t have bothered. Traffic slows to a crawl, and the continuing snowfall gives the trip that uncomfortable sensation that you are in a bad made-for-TV movie where George Kennedy dies so that Robby Benson might live. The bus finally comes to a complete halt on a narrow pass, miles from anywhere resembling civilization.

The line of vehicles stretches into the darkness. Snow drifts on either side of the road average eight feet high. Minutes turn into hours. A child keeps kicking the back of my seat. Two guys have bonded under such adverse conditions, and settle into an enthusiastic conversation about the variety of golf courses in Arizona.

“Really? I’ve played the first nine, but they’ve added another 18 recently.”

One, two, three snowplows pass us, followed by a tow truck. But still we don’t move. People are growing edgy. The driver finally agrees to let people out to stretch their legs, and the smokers race for the door. We stand shivering like fools on the sloppy, snow-packed road. Commuters are milling about like confused insects. We’re trapped in hell, on Christmas Eve. There is no Santa Claus, there is no Jesus. There is only snow and cold. And a teenage girl on a cellphone: “Shut up — let me talk to Dad! LET ME TALK TO DAD!”

Eventually the column lurches forward, and our bus finally pulls onto South Lake Tahoe’s main strip of casinos. I check the time. We had been stuck on the road for over five hours. The Dick Clark show is long closed. I book a hotel room, order three Heinekens and a steak, call my family, and look out the window. I’ve spent Christmas Eve alone before, but this seems extra pathetic.

The next morning’s return trip to Reno is uneventful. The roads have been plowed. Passengers are lively and cheerful, unaware of the near- Donner Party scenario the night before on this same route. I get back to my original hotel room, check the papers and settle for reviewing a casino act called Rubber Biscuit — a salute to the Blues Brothers band. It’s no Dick Clark show, but my deadline is tomorrow. And it’s close – just across the street at the Eldorado Cabaret lounge.

The band plays a few warm-up tunes, and I reflect on the concept – a tribute to the Blues Brothers, which was itself a tribute to Chicago blues musicians. I wonder if someday there will be a tribute to Rubber Biscuit. “Ladies and gentlemen, Jake and Elwood Blues, the Blues Brothers!” Jake and Elwood hit the stage. They’ve definitely captured the look: fedoras, shades, black suits with white socks – the chubby one even enters doing a cartwheel. It’s immediately apparent this act takes its cue from the Blues Brothers as they appeared on Saturday Night Live and not today, because the Dan Aykroyd character is rail-skinny, and the Belushi character is alive.

“We had a great Christmas, says Jake. “I gave Elwood a blowup doll!”

“I gave him a case of condoms,” says Elwood.

The crowd of pooped-out couples stares at the stage. The band kicks into a string of oldies like “Mustang Sally” and “Do You Love Me?”, with the two doing their best versions of the Akyroyd-Belushi cocaine shimmy-dance. Elwood stops for a quick impression of tennis pro John McInroe on his wedding night: “IT WAS IN!” he screams. A few more tunes, and the two dance offstage to the strains of the Blues Brothers theme. As the curtain closes, it snags on a stage monitor.

After the show, I chat with the ersatz Belushi. His real name is Brian Poirow. He’s been doing Belushi for 15 years, and this band is one of ten currently touring as a Blues Brothers tribute show. He admits tonight was a little slow: “We’re usually pouring beer over our heads, sitting on women’s laps.” It’s an easy act to maintain, once you learn the songs. Black jackets are $69 from JC Penney’s Towncraft, ties and shoes are from Goodwill, and white shirts are $6.99 from Mervyn’s. “Call me tomorrow,” says Poirow, “We’ll take the Jeep, I’ll show you around.”

The next morning, the bogus Belushi gives me a short tour of below-zero Reno: The “Bomber Club” bar, with its collection of World War II machine guns and helmets. The wall of Sammy Davis Jr. memorabilia at Harrah’s. I mention that Reno is perfect for people who can’t make it all the way to Vegas, and Poirow says, “It’s basically Concord with tits. Hey, you wanna meet my guitar player? He used to play with Eddie Money.”

We head out of Reno into a snow-covered desert, interrupted only by fence posts, an occasional car on the freshly plowed highway. It feels creepy — the kind of territory where missing hitchhikers turn up after the spring melt. Poirow pulls into a trailer park, and up to a mobile home guarded by two big barking dogs. A guy in a t-shirt comes to the door, shouts “Shut up!” to the dogs and lets us inside. Bob the guitar player lives here with his waitress girlfriend, a haggard-looking blond named Lois, who is nursing a hangover with a cup a soup and a cigarette. We scoot aside piles of dirty clothes, ease down into the tired furniture, and out come the Budweisers. Poirow and Bob start telling war stories about the casino entertainment circuit of magicians, tribute acts and oldies bands. The best gigs are festivals and Corvette conventions, they say, because the crowds are drunk and really get into the music.

Conversation returns to last night’s show, where poor Elwood, fighting a nasty flu bug, left the stage and immediately threw up into his hand. I had no idea that vomit plays such a large role in the music business, because for the next 20 minutes it’s all we talk about. Bob the guitar player remembers watching Joe Cocker spill his cookies into a bucket during a concert. Poirow once witnessed the singer for Molly Hatchet blow chunks in between verses of “Flirtin’ With Disaster.” “But Elwood,” he says. “I felt sorry for him. He throws up probably once every eight shows.”

This statistic haunts me, as I later sit in my hotel filing a story about Rubber Biscuit. How can you have a band with one of the members vomiting every eight gigs? Wouldn’t they get a reputation? Who would book them? I finish up and stand in line with the tapped-out gamblers, waiting for the fabulous Mike Lee casino bus to take us home. The bus is 20 minutes late. An hour goes by. Someone calls the office. No idea when it might show up. Weather conditions are rapidly deteriorating.

I grab a cab to the Greyhound station and buy a one-way ticket to Sacramento, where I can at least hitch a ride with a friend back to San Francisco. An announcement says the 5:25 bus has been canceled because a driver hasn’t shown up. The next departure is in two hours, which translates into three beers at a nearby casino, accompanied by a simmering hatred of Christmas, Reno, and all human beings associated with the transportation industry.

We finally board the bus, and of course every single seat is filled. A group of guys have spent the past three days on Greyhound, headed from Chicago to Oakland. They’re so punchdrunk that one has borrowed the other’s alphanumeric pager and insists on reading out loud EVERY SINGLE sports score and news flash:

“‘James Earl Ray comes out of coma.’ Didn’t he shoot JFK?”

“I think it was Martin Luther King,” says his buddy from the back row.

“Naw, I think it was JFK,” says the first guy.

One seat behind me is a hippie mountain man, who has smuggled a cat onto the bus, and beside me is his son, wearing a jester’s hat. Both have successfully avoided a shower the past few days. The cat meows every few minutes. Hey, we’re all unhappy. In the front of the bus, a fat drunk man soon pukes up dark purplish vomit all over the lap of his girlfriend, and then dozes off on her shoulder. It’s an all-vomit weekend.

This merry Yuletide scene barrels along the snow-packed Interstate 80, stopping twice, once so the driver can put on tire chains, and then another stop so he can remove them. It’s impossible to sleep. I might miss the final score of the Knicks-Trailblazers game, or get attacked by an angry cat, or be thrown up on.

Finally the bus screeches to a halt at the Sacramento station. Rain is pouring down in sheets, and the passengers nearly kick out the windows to exit. Inside the terminal, more pissed-off commuters are lining up to catch the buses, a scruffy confluence of ex-cons, drifters, runaways and others too broke to afford plane tickets. Waterlogged bums shuffle through the crowd, hitting up people for change. I page my friend for a ride home, and while waiting for her to arrive, overhear the bald, tattooed guy one phone over:

“Well FUCK you, then! I’m trying to keep out of prison, and I don’t need this shit! I swear to God, when I see you I’ll TAKE YOU OUT! I will take your head and fucking BASH IT IN!”

He continues on this theme for awhile, apparently talking to a woman, because children are mentioned. The time runs out, the line is disconnected, and he slams down the receiver. The phone rings back, he picks it up and says, “No, he’s not here.” He hangs it up with a crooked smirk.

“I’m not gonna pay for that!” he says to me with his Charlie Manson eyes. “Fucking Pac Bell can kiss my ass!”

He returns a few minutes later, puts in a few coins, calls the same number, and in a low voice says, “I’m sorry, baby.”

After all, it is the holiday season.

#  #  #

What’s more astounding, is that in order for the Jarhead to be wearing this, he actually packed it in his luggage. At some point, he had a suitcase on the bed, and said to himself, “Going off to Mexico….. socks, swimsuit, underwear – okay, where’s my “Die Like the Rest” shirt? Oh, I’m wearing it!”

This scenario strikes me on many levels. First of all, Marines are just plain crazy. They are by far the most brainwashed of all the armed forces. I know this first-hand, because my father was a Marine for about five minutes at the end of World War II, and as the stories elongate over time, I have come to realize he was single-handedly responsible for D-Day, Guadacanal, and the career of Douglas MacArthur.

It also illustrates how Americans are proudly oblivious to our reputation in the rest of the world. We have no clue about how others perceive us, from you and me, on up to the White House. While traveling overseas on assignment, I have heard plenty of feedback. A Dutch man once told me that the only time Americans learn about another country is when we start a war. A guy in France accused me and my girlfriend of being obsessed with professional wrestling. A girl in Kiev once asked me if it’s true that in the United States, only poor people eat at McDonald’s.

Wherever I go, it’s always the same: We’re the big American bullies, bombing and torturing and filling up nations with junk food and junk culture. Hey, I’m from snotty San Francisco, don’t you think I know this? Every time I think of it, I feel helpless and pissed-off. The closest emotion I can compare it to, is the feeling l get whenever my dog eats his own feces.

At some point of every day, my dog Max returns from the backyard, smacking his lips and wiggling with pride, like he just toppled Baghdad. I know the look, I know exactly what has happened. If I need further evidence, it’s all over his breath.

As with spreading democracy, there are a handful of methods my dog employs to eat his own feces. Sometimes he nibbles daintily at the turd, like an old-money socialite with a new set of dentures. Occasionally he gulps down the whole thing, like the Japanese guy in the hot dog-eating contest. And most often, he stands over the supine loaf, chewing thoughtfully and contemplating its savory goodness. It is the most disturbing thing I have ever witnessed.

I have tried all the known remedies. I have picked up all his turds in the yard. Each morning — another fresh snack. I have caught him red-handed in the act, and scolded him. He’ll stop and smile, flattered at the attention, and then sneak back later for the surreptitious junkie fix. I have tried the pills they sell in pet stores, which contain pepper extract, but to him, it’s like adding salsa to an enchilada.

Our neighbors have even said to us, “Hey, did you know your dog eats his own shit?” Obviously they think their dog is superior to ours, and it’s all I can do, to not reply, “Oh yeah, well did you know your dog barks non-stop, like a fucking idiot?”

My girlfriend tells me, “Why do you let it get to you? Why does you take it so personally?”

Because like America’s foreign policy, the shit-fest taking place in my backyard is obviously not right. Anyone can see it’s not right. There are many more civilized directions to take, more unexplored avenues, better solutions. But it just keeps happening over and over again. I’m trapped on both counts. It’s either CNN describing what we did this time overseas, or the daily scat-munch.

To learn more, I googled the term ‘shit-eating.’ The medical term is Coprophagia. Which sounds like the name of a hip new San Francisco restaurant. “Have you been to Coprophagia yet? The food is so-so — it’s like you’ve had it all before, but their wine list is fan-TAS-tic.”

Apparently Coprophagia is not uncommon in the animal kingdom. Elephants, rabbits, insects, hamsters, gorillas all eat their own feces. And most dogs, if given the opportunity, will eat the feces of other animals. It’s no coincidence that among dog owners, a cat turd, covered in litter, is referred to as “almond roca.”

My girlfriend and I try to laugh it off, and call our beagle “Shit Monkey” and “Turd Burglar,” just to add some levity to this foul habit. And I know in some ways, he can’t help it. For the first five years of his life, he was a laboratory test animal. Beagles are popular for testing because of their high threshold for pain.

In this environment, coprophagia is pretty common. When you’re being burned with blowtorches, and cosmetics and pesticides are dropped into your eyes and injected into your veins, there is some comfort in going back into your cage and eating a warm turd the precise moment it comes out of your ass. It’s like a nice cup of tea at the end of the night.

The day we got him, he was doped up, freshly castrated, and wrapped in a blanket. An accompanying sheet of paper contained a phrase straight from Mengele’s diary: “This animal is no longer of any educational use, and is therefore declared surplus.” He didn’t do anything for hours, just sat in a chair readjusting to a totally foreign situation, staring at nothing in a narcotic haze. A part of me thought, uh oh, we got a lemon here. But then I remembered — except for the castration, I felt the same way at an Aerosmith concert in 1979.

That night we happened to be watching the blaxploitation film Foxy Brown on cable. To our amazement, the beagle sat up and started watching it along with us. The movie is intensely violent – a lesbian bar brawl, shotguns and throat-slashing, Pam Grier getting raped by white supremacists, sweaty villains calling her a “big-jugged jigaboo.”

This was our dog’s first introduction to life outside of a cage. He had zero interest in us, his rescuers and caregivers. Instead, he locked into the TV screen, focusing intently on the action. We speculated on the appeal. Maybe it was the pimp-fashion plaids and stripes that caught his eye. The piercing screams, or the funky soundtrack. My girlfriend suggested he was a Soul Beagle, sympathetic to the plight of oppressed black women in 1970s urban America. He finally dozed off and didn’t wake up for two days.

We knew that in adopting a lab dog, he would be damaged. He wasn’t house-trained, he had a USDA number tattooed in his ear. He turned in circles constantly, like a con man pacing a jail cell. He had endured unimaginable horrors, just so some teenage girl could have the hot new mascara.

The next morning we went for his first walk in the park, and  being that beagles are scent hounds, this exposure to nature amounted to nothing less than a kaleidoscopic sensory overload. No more Auschwitz, every single moment another taste of freedom. This plant, that rock, the tree over there, this patch of grass, all unfamiliar smells which needed to be located, verified, and then peed upon.

I soon realized I had joined an alternative Dog World of doggy-lovers, all wearing pajamas covered in pet hair, stumbling along the dewey path for that first poop stroll of the day. Dog World is very different than conventional reality. Unlike most urban dwellers, a Dog World person is quite chatty, a relentless lawn sprinkler of over-shared information, shooting out details about their pet – the age, the breed, its favorite toys and games and treats and clothes. It’s so much, sometimes I want to ask, gee, does he lick peanut butter off your balls, too?

The more self-righteous members of Dog World will hand you a flyer about some dog injustice, or boast about their rare Uzbekistanian wolfhound, and how he was bred to not drool, and is used primarily for herding camels in the high desert, and sweats only through his tail.

Although my dog is a committed coprophage and turns in circles, in Dog World he is a trump card. A freak show survivor, the living embodiment of hateful animal testing. As soon as other dog owners learn he’s a lab dog, the conversation always turns to Max. My girlfriend and I have developed the standard response: “He was a laboratory animal for five years he lived in a cage we rescued him a year ago we think it was a lab in Palo Alto their policy is not to reveal where he’s from he walks in a circle he has a tattoo in his ear see?” It makes me sick to hear my voice repeat it over and over again. Except it always puts the wolfhound owner in his place.

I don’t mention to people that my dog eats his own shit. And I don’t talk about America when I’m in another country. Yes, they both bother me. But don’t judge me by my flag, or my dog. Sometimes I wonder, it might be a better world if my dog was President, and the government ate its own shit.

#  #  #

It had been a few years since I last visited London, and on this trip I wanted to bring my girlfriend because she’s never been. I looked forward to showing her the museums and bridges and pubs and curries and the chance to hear someone talk in that charming accent, saying something like, “Ah, ya fooking WANK-uh!” For myself, it was also a chance to once more make the pilgrimage back to my ancestral roots, to sit in the capital of the Empire, and muse upon the rich Anglo tradition, and imagine 300 years ago, my ancestors leaving on a boat for North America to get away from all of it.

The Park International Hotel in South Kensington greets its guests with gleaming brass doors and a well-polished indifference. The “restaurant” is an empty breakfast room with tables and chairs. The “bar” advertises a happy hour, but never seems to have a bartender or patrons. Our requests for a “wakeup call” are ignored. It’s obvious all the guests booked their rooms online. Because there’s no way a human being would ever stay twice at the Park International.

But that’s okay, the shower head has pressure, and there’s plenty of hot water. And in London, that says a lot right there.

I spend our first afternoon working on a magazine story, which means I get a tour of the famous Abbey Road studio. I interview the director and a few others, and tinkle the same piano used by the Beatles to record “Lady Madonna.”

A few hours later I get back to the hotel and we begin planning our first night out in Europe’s global hub of culture, art, fashion, music, and punishing exchange rate. Except I’m starting to feel queasy. Not a cold or flu, more of that “holy shit what did I eat?” sort of feeling. I think back to my lunch. Shrimp salad. More specifically, white gloppy creamy strands of shrimp bits, dribbled across a bed of lettuce. These same shrimp are now starting to churn inside my body. I’m in England — there’s no shrimp for 6,000 miles. What was I thinking?

The dreaded chills start to set in, and now comes the fever, slowing down my brain, shutting down the circuits. All I can think about is the evil white shrimp goo, with the kitchen crew no doubt exchanging glances, tossing it onto my plate with a snicker.

I climb into bed with all my clothes, and huddle up into a clammy ball. Keeping with the hotel’s theme of complete unhelpfulness, we turn up the heat in the room and discover the control switch does nothing. My girlfriend calls down to the front desk, and after some badgering, someone finally brings up a portable heater, which looks like a flat plastic board you might change a baby’s diaper on, with an electrical cord coming out the back. We tilt the thing up against the desk, and amazingly it starts producing a few wisps of actual heat.

I tell my girlfriend to go see London without me. Go down to Soho, there’s Chinatown and plenty of pubs and cafes and sex shops and stores that sell legal absinthe. There’s no sense wasting a night. And who wants to hang out listening to somebody with food poisoning?

She takes off, I turn out the lights and click on the hotel TV. Apparently this is going to be the bulk of my trip to London. One channel features a trivia game show with competing university students. Tonight it’s Cambridge versus Oxford, a scholastic smackdown of inbred spawn, giving it their all for school and family crest. Back in the US, I’m no slouch at shouting the correct answers during Jeopardy, but these questions are impossible. 12th century sonnets. Greek philosophy. Roman architecture. Obscure Latin phrases. If this show was on in America, nobody would score any points. They would just choose the winners based on their good looks.

The live proceedings of Parliament come on next, and viewed through a fevered lens, this seems like England got it exactly right. Regional politicians berate the Prime Minister with difficult questions about taxes and welfare and something to do with raising pigs. And the Prime Minister must quickly answer them, or else everyone makes a harumphing sound and he will look like an ass. Tony Blair is a genius at this, making jokes and taking the heat like a man. I try to imagine Bush in the same situation and I can’t. He would melt under the first question and hide under the table and call his mommy.

Three other stations are showing reruns of CSI, so I finally land on a channel of music videos. It’s nearing time for a shrimp evacuation, and I stumble to the bathroom for the moment of truth. We all have our own personal list of bad memories triggered by food poisoning. In my case, for example, it’s any mention of the phrase “Pasta Pomodoro.” I can now add to my list, without hyperbole, the music and career of Gwen Stefani.

Because as I’m panting over the toilet, my peripheral vision catches a glimpse of this crass entertainment she-beast in the background, her long legs crisscrossing furiously, her pancaked and lipsticked face begging for every microsecond of camera time, her soulless affected voice belting out a combination of Betty Boop and Robert Goulet.

Gwen takes me over the edge. I lean over the porcelain lip, and fluid fires out of my stomach, my bowels, my sinuses, a giant vengeful Tiger shrimp gripping me with its legs and wringing me like a dishrag. Upon the final flush, the plumbing system shoots up a a recoil splash back into my face. It’s nice to have a bidet feature, I suppose, but I’d still rather rinse off in the sink. I want to die. And take Gwen Stefani with me.

The next morning I walk slowly down to the corner market and buy a packet of Immodium, which is like buying rubbers when you’re a teenager. You want to act nonchalant and put on the face that says, ‘Oh, it’s just for a friend.’ So I add a pack of gum. I saunter away, hiding the fact my cheeks are squeezed together, and dash around a corner and gobble the tablets.

Two nights later we end up in a Cuban bar in SoHo, talking with a local couple. The man is from Sheffield, a grim industrial town made famous by the film ‘The Big Monty,’ and now works for a rich investor in London. The cliché of British politeness does not apply to this guy. When our conversation turns to the Irish, Scottish, and Welsh, he scoffs at the mention. In his eyes these people are just lower life forms because they’re not English, are they?

Xenophobia exists in every culture. The Czechs look down on the Ukrainians. The Chinese sniff at the Malaysians. Americans make fun of the Canadians. But here in my Anglo-white Motherland fantasy, I’m still a bit shocked. Because I’m also part Irish, and Welsh, and Scot. So I ask him, “Want to know where you can get some really good shrimp salad? There’s this place up on Abbey Road…”

# # #

Saturday January 19, 730 pm
Edinburgh Castle, 950 Geary, San Francisco
Accompanying my pal Chuck Thompson, who’s on tour for his new book, “Smile When You’re Lying: Confessions of a Rogue Travel Writer” (Holt), which is getting rave reviews:

“(Thompson) knows the score and he tallies it accurately. … A dead-on demolition job. … The book is a savagely funny act of revenge.”—The New York Times

“Consistently irreverent, Thompson is wickedly entertaining … reminiscent of Chuck Klosterman and David Foster Wallace. … Thompson asks the right questions about why we travel, how we travel and what we expect from the experience. The unvarnished reality in these pages might just make you more eager than ever to hit the road.”—San Francisco Chronicle

Books will be for sale at both events.

Sir John Leslie stops halfway up on the main staircase of his childhood home and points to an item hanging on the wall. The keepsake in question, a tattered red cloth within a frame, boasts a faded handwritten provenance: “Bloody shroud which received the head of James, Earl of Derwentwater, on Tower Hill.” It’s dated February 24, 1715.

Sir John describes the textile with the air of an offhand understatement, as if every home quite naturally features such decapitation memorabilia. Apparently, the man was executed for treason at the age of 27.

“I traveled to London a few years ago,” says Sir John, with a hint of a smile, “and saw the ax and chopping block.”

The 90-year-old baronet pauses a moment to let the grisly scenario sink in; then he gestures up the stairs, announces a cheerful “This way!” and adds, with perfect timing, “It’s best if I go first.”

Ireland prides itself on having a penchant for zany, cheeky humor. Its landscape is dotted with ancient historical castles, most of which typically feature some sort of contrived flavor for the tourists: medieval-themed feasts, suits of armor, actors dressed as court jesters. Castle Leslie doesn’t have to bother with props or costumes, though. It’s just naturally odd.
The hallways and rooms are filled with strange mementos, including Ireland’s largest bathtub; a quill pen once used by Pope Pius IX “during his last days”; a bronze bust of the governor general of the Philippine Islands; a 10-foot-high toilet stall, family crest included; and Winston Churchill’s christening dress, displayed in the main sitting room. And somewhere on the property, there’s a landing pad for UFOs.

This 1,000-acre estate has been in the Leslie family since 1665. The current castle was erected in 1878, with 100 rooms, and its guest list has included prominent politicians and diplomats, poets and royalty, and members of the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. Despite modern amenities like a cooking school, an equestrian center, and an award-winning restaurant, the property retains the family’s peculiar personality. Each of the 14 bedrooms is an eclectic mishmash of Victorian furnishings and unusual plumbing. The restaurant’s wine list is actually organized under categories like Homer Simpson and Ozzy Osbourne.

Although his niece Samantha now manages the day-to-day operations, Sir John Leslie still lives at the castle and conducts tours twice a week. During most of World War II, he was a POW in Germany; then he lived in an Italian monastery without electricity for 35 years. Despite his nonagenarian status, he enjoys hitting local discotheques on the weekends. He also has a rotating mirror ball in his bathroom and — I’m not making this up — before retiring for bed each night, he rings a loud gong in the castle. In comparison with the rest of his family, though, he’s actually kind of normal.

In recent years, the Irish quirkiness that once was embodied so strongly in the national DNA has unfortunately been diminishing in supply. Thanks to globalization, Ireland’s quaint traditions have become increasingly overshadowed by the Celtic Tiger economy. Beginning in the 1990s, unemployment and debt plunged, and consumer spending soared off the charts. Ireland went from being one of Europe’s poorest countries to being one of its richest. Dublin now bristles with high-end retail stores, and roads are filled with gleaming Mercedes and Peugeots.

Castle Leslie provides a welcome respite from such homogenous modernity. It is one of the few estates in Ireland that are still owned and managed by the original family — which, in this case, is a family whose lineage stretches back to Arthur Wellesley, First Duke of Wellington; Winston Churchill; and Attila the Hun.

Visitors to Castle Leslie will find it buried in a labyrinth of roads that meander through County Monaghan, two and a half hours north of Dublin. Adjacent to the tiny village of Glaslough, Leslie estate stretches through ancient woodlands and natural lakes. In addition to the main castle building, there is an equestrian center and an arena, a hunting lodge and a spa, an old church, and the family cemetery.

Although the castle has always entertained visitors, it was previously not a financially viable enterprise, and by 1991, the family considered it a liability. Samantha Leslie then took over the management from her father, Desmond, and was determined to restore the property and refashion the estate into a deluxe destination.

Furniture and books were sold in order to pay for repairs to the roof. The billiard room was refurbished. Dinner was once again served by candlelight in the family dining room. Chef Noel McMeel was brought in to create a gourmet menu and a top-drawer wine list. But the Leslie eccentricity is, thankfully, still intact.

Each bedroom is themed after a member of the Leslie family. Anita’s Room, for instance, is named for the rebellious daughter who, during World War II, drove ambulances over enemy lines to collect the wounded. She wrote several books and reportedly subsisted on only smoked salmon and Champagne. Lionel was another free spirit; he traveled on safari, wrote books, and became an expert on the Loch Ness Monster. Norman was killed in World War I, but his ghost supposedly inhabits his bedroom. Seymour was another writer and apparently was the first person in Ireland to use an X-ray machine, testing it in his bedroom on the family’s coachman. Desmond was once married to a female spy for the OSS, and he wrote several movies and books, including the best-selling UFO classic Flying Saucers Have Landed.
Castle Leslie deliberately downplays its promotion and advertising, but after hosting the ill-fated 2002 wedding of Paul McCartney, which was televised live to 800 million people, its existence is no longer a secret. Guests are strongly encouraged to make reservations in advance.

The atmosphere there is that of staying in someone’s private home — which, essentially, you are. Sheet music rests on the piano, war medals are displayed on a table, and a fire crackles in the 600-year-old Italian fireplace. You immediately consider yourself a guest of the family.
Solitude is a key ingredient of the experience. Most people wander the grounds, sip wine in front of the main fireplace, and stroll downstairs for dinner, all at no particular time. In some ways, it’s like being in a Las Vegas casino, because there are no clocks, telephones, TVs, or radios anywhere in the rooms. (According to the castle’s staff, Americans, in particular, are astonished that they can’t check e-mail 24 hours a day.)

During one of these timeless, phoneless, Internet-free afternoons, I end up in the main sitting room, eavesdropping on two American couples discussing how they baby their dogs. The restlessness builds up inside me, and a staff member apparently senses this, for she recommends a hike around the fishing lake that’s adjacent to the castle. It typically takes about an hour, and wellies (rubber Wellington boots) are available for guests at the front door.

I find the wall of rubber boots and quickly realize that I could never be Irish nobility — my feet are too big. The path departs from the entrance and soon turns into a muddy bog, and I’m wearing only trainers. Not that I’ve ever trained in them. The wellies sit in their warm racks back at the Castle.

The estate’s countryside is exactly how one might imagine seeing Ireland for the first time: lush green pastures, ancient trees, a group of horses swishing their tails. I stop to pet one of them, trying to connect with my distant Irish heritage. When the trail comes to a fork (or “ferk,” as the Irish would pronounce), I flip a mental coin and turn right. The wrong choice, as the trail promptly turns into large puddles of slop.

There’s a famous saying by Sir John Pentland Mahaffy that goes something like: “In Ireland the inevitable never happens and the unexpected constantly occurs.” After a few minutes, this quotation comes true, as the sky suddenly turns gray and a light drizzle develops — a drizzle that rapidly grows into a legitimate Irish monsoon.

It won’t last, I lie to myself and keep walking. The wind picks up, and the rain grows heavier. A herd of cows stands underneath some trees to wait it out. It can’t be good when even cows are smarter than you. I’m completely soaked, from hood to sneakers, and I have no idea of where I am or which direction I’m heading. Since turning back is not an option (I can’t remember from which direction I came), I stop and stand under some branches, surrounded by the full force of Irish weather.

Suddenly, voices shout over the howling storm. Just up the road, two ranchers are sitting in a truck, waving and yelling. “Come on in,” they holler. I splash over and climb inside to warm up.

The younger is a hired hand on a nearby ranch; the older fellow is the owner. They’re waiting out the rain so that afterward they can feed the animals. A couple of cows have stuck their heads over the fence in anticipation. I explain that I’m staying at Castle Leslie and was just walking around the lake. They inform me in a jolly tone that I’ve completely wandered off the Leslie property.

I mention that if it weren’t for them, I may well have ended up floating in the lake, and the elder man turns with a toothless grin and exclaims, “Covered in fish bites!”

As the storm roars overhead, we talk about cattle. Why not? The cows are standing right in front of the truck, after all, waiting patiently for their dinner. Apparently, Hereford was a popular breed in Ireland some decades ago, but now the preferred breed is Charolais. They are better suited to the terrain and have more meat than Herefords. I also learn that, unlike in the United States, where most cattle ranches are now owned by large corporations, all the ranches in Ireland remain independently owned and operated.

Remembering that earlier, during my little hike, I had walked past a field with only cows, and that across the road there had been a pasture containing some very curious bulls, I ask the ranchers if it’s currently breeding season. They burst out laughing: “It’s always the season!”
Since the rain isn’t letting up, they offer to drive me toward Castle Leslie. We bounce along the muddy potholes, talking and laughing as the windshield wipers flop back and forth. They let me out at a locked gate, and we say our goodbyes. Just some friendly cow conversation on a rainy Irish afternoon.

I’m hoping to arrange a meeting with Samantha Leslie, but her schedule is incredibly hectic. As luck would have it, though, while prowling around the hallways, I come upon Sir John, sitting on a leather sofa in front of a crackling fire in the library, dressed immaculately in a blue blazer, a necktie, and cuff links. He’s casually signing his name inside some books. I notice they aren’t books that he has written, but he’s just signing them anyway. This subtle yet bizarre twist on the literary ritual of book signing is reminiscent of a famous quote about the Leslie family from Dublin’s own satirist, Jonathan Swift:

Here I am in Castle Leslie
With rows and rows of books upon the shelves
Written by the Leslies
All about themselves.

We chat for a while. Sir John grew up here only half the time, commuting between the castle and another family home in London. After World War II, the castle started accepting paying visitors and even ran small ads in publications. Early guests were primarily cousins and family friends. Sir John’s brother, Desmond, and his sister, Anita, had the idea to go full-time with the business, and the decision was made to retain the castle as an old country house, surrounded by trees and complete with its original furniture and pictures. This has always been the appeal for people, he says.

Like any 90-year-old, Sir John has rich memories. He recalls playing billiards with his grandfather in what is now this room, the library — only back then it was lined with deer horns. In the villages, children once scampered about in bare feet, and there were no cars or bicycles. “You see the same boys driving by in Mercedes today,” he chuckles.

I can’t resist asking him about the UFO history, because I’m pretty sure no other estate in Ireland features a UFO landing pad. It was constructed because Sir John’s brother, Desmond, had collaborated on a book with American George Adamski, who claimed to have been abducted by aliens. Flying Saucers Have Landed was a theosophical hodgepodge of ancient Egyptian history, Indian mythology, the lost city of Atlantis, and aliens from Venus — all of which has since been thoroughly debunked.

Did Desmond ever discuss his passion for UFOs? “Continually,” says Sir John. “He would never stop talking!”

I ask if aliens have ever used the special landing pad. “I rather hoped they would, but they didn’t,” he answers matter-of-factly. “A ship would be only the size of this room. What would they do? What would they eat? It doesn’t make sense.”

So does this Leslie eccentricity come from being Irish or just from being a member of the family?

“Especially the family!” he exclaims. “My father wore a kilt everywhere — in New York, in the subway. He once walked 60 miles at one time without stopping. We took it for granted.”
And then there is Sir John’s ritual of going out to discos each weekend. When he first started doing this, at the age of 83, people told him, “Oh, don’t go — they’re very rough. You’ll come home on a stretcher.” Instead, he has become a familiar and recognized face in dance clubs everywhere from Ireland to London.

“They’re very wild,” he laughs. “The girls are making me dance; the boys are bringing me pints of beer. They are jolly. You can imagine yourself young again … the thumping music, the colored lights. You’re absolutely free.”

We walk down a hallway, and he stops at a painting of his grandmother, mother, and uncle. The interesting thing about this portrait, he says, is that “the painting is right on the wall.” He flicks the wooden frame with a finger, and it swings from side to side. The illusion is brilliant — you naturally assume that it’s a painting on stretched canvas with a frame. And then you wonder why on earth someone would do such a thing. But if he or she were a Leslie, why not?

I leave Sir John Leslie sitting in front of the fire. Around him, guests are sipping cocktails and chatting away, oblivious to the fact that the little old man in the armchair is the patriarch of the castle in which they are currently staying. Thick reading glasses are perched on his nose as he squints at the page of an open book, catching up on a little reading before dinner in Ireland’s most eccentric castle.

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(A version of this appeared in American Way magazine)