A Short Intermission

This post is also currently published on The Wand of Wonder, but is mirrored here for those who only read this blog. My trip to Ireland will resume with the next post (up in a few days), but this is important enough (to me at least) that I felt I should make my readers aware of it.

First: thanks bunches to Sara Sue. You’ll find out why in a minute.

About two years ago, I did a review of Peter Schaffer’s Equus for my site. You can read it here if you like; it’s not long. My motive for writing this review—indeed, my motive for writing all my reviews—was to inform and recommend literary works that I personally find enjoyable, thought-provoking and worthwhile. I did this in the hopes that the reviews would spark interesting conversation. I also did it for free.

I was blog-hopping this weekend, and I swung by Sara Says like I always do on or around Friday. While I was disappointed that I didn’t find what I look for every week (it’s been postponed), I did find a link to this post, all about content theft, copyright infringement, and how to protect yourself from same. So, thanks to Sara for posting the link; and thanks to Mike, whoever he is, for sending it to Sara, so she could pass it on to everyone looking or free boob pictures.

I remember Malach had an issue a year or so ago with someone displaying his artwork without his permission. I decided to take Lorelle’s advice and see if anyone had been ripping me off, so I went to Copyscape and started typing in webpage URLs from Angrypiper.com. I went through about nine or so, until I found what I was looking for. You see, it seems that last year, on the island of St. Thomas, USVI, a production of Equus made the rounds. It fell to the St. Thomas Source to cover the story. Based on what I’ve been able to determine, the “Source staff” who was assigned to do the job lifted a little less than a hundred words from the book review originally posted on Hill TV, word for word, without my permission. You can see for yourself here.

I find it very easy to imagine this job being handed off to someone who doesn’t normally cover entertainment news, perhaps an intern; someone who probably had no idea what the play was about but had to write a review. Hence the generic “Source staff” byline. Rather than read the play himself (something that would probably take the average literate person a whole two hours to do) or even rent the movie (again, two hours max with no reading invlolved), he decides to hit the web for a synopsis. “Source staff” Googles “Equus review” and gets my site. He figures Angrypiper.com for a small vanity site (which it more or less is), and he figures the traffic is probably low (actually, it’s higher than you’d think), so the chances of discovery are minimal. He’s right; I probably never would have noticed it if not for Sara Sue’s link.

It should be noted that I am ignoring Lorelle’s advice right now by posting anything about this before attempting to resolve this issue. But I don’t expect much in the way of resolution. The St. Thomas Source probably has a small circulation (not counting, obviously, the Internet). Besides, the page is full of dead image links and probably isn’t visited very often, and since the production ended a year ago, it hardly seems relevant, does it?

It does to me. Understand: when I first started posting book reviews, I pretty much expected “uncredited excerpts” of them to wind up on term papers and stuff like that. What really bothers me about this is not so much that “Source staff” stole my work without asking and published it as his own. (Although that does bother me a lot; if he had asked, I probably would have given permission, and contacting me is easy. My mailto link is on every page of my website.) What bothers me is “Source staff”, last time I checked, implies a job description, kind of like “staff reporter”. Which means that in all likelihood, he got a paycheck for the review, a significant part of which I wrote. Call me wacky, but I feel that if anyone should get paid for my work, it should be me.

Here’s what I’m going to do. First, I plan on emailing the editor of the St. Thomas Source to inform him that whoever “Source staff” is, they are guilty of plagiarism, as they have falsely misrepresented another’s work as their own and have profited by it. He did mention the “essay” at Hill TV, but said it was written by the playwright, which is not only completely wrong, it displays a level of irresponsibility and amateurism shocking in a newspaper, even a small one (especially a newspaper who calls itself ‘The Source’). Hopefully even small newspapers have a zero-tolerance policy on that.

I don’t expect or even hope for any financial reimbursement. I just want them to be aware of it.

Second, “Source staff” has ensured that I will never, as I had previously planned, publish one word of my fiction online. I refer to my serious writing endeavors. I will still, from time to time, publish various Tales of the WoW on the Wand of Wonder, so don’t fret. But if I put my heart and soul into a story only to have it stolen and posted as someone else’s, I’ll turn into the Hulk, and I’m already angry enough.

One more thing. I only got through about one-third of my web pages before Copyscape wouldn’t let me search anymore. They limit you to ten searches per domain per month, unless you pay for more. I didn’t search for any of my blogposts. I’m not even sure how to do that, since my blog is still hosted by Blogger. I didn’t get through all my Book Reviews, and I didn’t even start searching for my Angry Rants. But I will.

I wonder how much more of my stuff—and yours—is out there.

8/3/07 Day Five Part One: Cork to Killarney

Over breakfast the next day (the worst breakfast of the trip; the hotel in Cork really sucked), we told Dad all about the Hi-B. He told us he would have liked to have been with us, but that he was unconscious very soon after retiring to his room. Our drive ahead was nowhere near as long as the one yesterday, so that morning we decided to see what we could of Cork before we left for Killarney. After all, although Cork hardly impressed us, it was unlikely we would get back there anytime soon. Not taking the time to at least look around a bit would be really dumb, kind of like not packing enough socks for the trip.

“I need socks,” Dad said. “I only brought three pairs.” He caught the look Seth and I gave each other. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Despite our quest for socks, there still wasn’t a whole lot to see in Cork, at least not first thing in the morning. One cool thing we did find, though, was an indoor market, full of butcher stalls, fresh produce and cheeses. We watched as men butchered the carcasses of sheep and pigs and sides of beef, arranging their cuts in display cases for the patrons. This was fresh stuff. As a guy who loves to cook, I wished I had access to such a wide variety of fresh ingredients on a regular basis rather than making do with the grocery store. I wanted very much to buy some of the cheeses I saw, but I knew we were going to be on the road soon, and I didn’t really have any place to store it. I guessed that a ripe cheese would rapidly lose its charm in a Ford Focus.

Something had been nagging me since that first breakfast buffet. I approached a young butcher. “Hi there,” I said. He nodded in greeting. “I was wondering if you could tell me what black pudding is made of?”

“Pig’s blood,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” I said. I suspected as much. Blood pudding isn’t anything new to me. It’s quite popular in the Portuguese community where I live. I don’t like it. On my first day in Dublin, I tried the Irish buffet variety and it had the look and texture of a small veggie burger. I don’t remember what it tasted like, but it was pretty bland. I figured it for a mass-produced frozen variety. “What about white pudding?” I asked.

“Pig’s blood,” he answered, “but with fat as well.” I resolved not to eat any more pudding on my trip.

We wandered around the shopping area, where we were still unable to locate a silver bangle for Mom, or at least not one that didn’t look like you could buy it at any cheap accessory store in the mall. Dad bought his socks. The antique stores I came across were either closed or didn’t have what I was looking for, namely straight razors and old books. (In fact, it seems that in Ireland, “antique store” is merely another name for “old shitty silverware store.”) Soon enough, we checked out and hit the road, bound northeast on the N22 towards Killarney. But first, we had a stop to make.

Just a few miles up the road directly north of Cork City is the small town of Blarney—home to the flagship location of the Blarney Woolen Mills. This is a huge place filled with both machine-woven and handmade Aran Sweaters, as well as a wide variety of apparel and other merchandise ranging from cheap musical instruments, bookmarks, Guinness stuff, postcards and, of course, all manner of knickknacks and souvenir crap. Aside from the outstanding woolen and tweed clothing, there wasn’t much there that I wanted, and Aran Sweaters aren’t cheap, even in Ireland. I took a while to walk around and browse, but Dad and Seth lost interest quickly. When I caught up to them outside, Dad was eating an ice-cream cone and looking pissed.

“Want an ice-cream?” he asked. I said no. “I’ll buy it,” he offered. Again I said no, thanks. “Try it,” he said, thrusting the cone in my face. “It’s good!”

Until that moment I did not know how deep my father’s passion for ice-cream ran, but I realized that if I didn’t at least pretend to consider getting some, he would physically assault me with the cone until I gave in. I wandered over to the ice-cream counter and went through the motions of deciding on a cone. Dad told me why he was annoyed. It seems while I was inside looking at sweaters, Dad was behind an American couple in the ice-cream line—a very loud, obnoxious American couple who arrived on a tour bus. The wife proceeded to berate the ice-cream counter girl because the counter didn’t offer Reese’s pieces as an ice-cream topping. “You’ve never heard of Reese’s?” she reportedly asked, as if the counter girl had the intelligence of a corn-fed mule. When she was told no, she walked away in a huff, along with her husband. “And we wonder why people think Americans are assholes,” Dad said.

The Blarney Woolen Mills are right next door to Blarney Castle, at the top of which is the world-famous Blarney Stone. You may have heard of it before. But you may not know that the Blarney Stone isn’t actually much of a stone at all. It’s more like a wall. You’re supposed to kiss it, as the stone is rumored to bestow the gift of eloquent speech upon any who do so. I’m not concerned about acquiring eloquent speech, because I know lots of big words already. I was more concerned about kissing a stone that millions of people have kissed with their herpes-spotted lips. Without question, Blarney Castle was the touristiest (yes, that’s really a word) place we visited on the entire trip. However, it’s not like you’d travel all the way to Ireland and then all the way to Blarney Castle, pay your admission fee and then not kiss the stone. Who the hell would do that?

“Jesus Christ—look at that line,” Dad said. “Screw this, I’m not waiting.”

After Seth and I informed Dad that yes, he was going to wait and yes, he was absolutely going to kiss the fucking stone, we wandered around the grounds of Blarney Castle and took in the beautiful landscaping and natural rock formations half-hidden in the surrounding woods.

Seth was amazed at the age of some of the trees, while Dad, for some reason known only to him, was fascinated by the swampy pools that periodically dotted the castle grounds. Finally we made our way to the castle, and began our ascent to the top.

Although we were all keen to kiss the stone, I have to tell you that climbing to the top of Blarney Castle was not an easy thing for me to do. I tend to not do well with tight spaces. The trip up is through one of the original circular towers, on a spiral stair with uneven, hand-cut stone steps and nothing but a rope as thick as my arm for support. There is no room to move, and you’re packed in this space with dozens of people ahead and behind. Every once in a while a corridor will branch off the staircase into a chamber, which means the line stops for a while as people take pictures. I was stuck on the staircase for about five minutes, but it felt like hours. Despite my usually cool exterior, both Seth and Dad could tell I wasn’t having an easy time, and when we finally exited the tower into the fresh air on top, it wasn’t a moment too soon.

The view from the top is, as you can see, quite something. The line to reach the stone stretched along the ramparts, so we had a lot of time to take it in as we waited our turn. Off in the distance, a large structure which I’m sure was a part of the castle grounds could be seen through the trees.

“Dude,” I said to Seth, “look— it’s Dracula’s house!” Seth rolled his eyes.

I considered dazzling my brother with my literary knowledge and telling him that Bram Stoker, the author of Dracula, was, in fact, Irish; but instead I opted for another subject of discourse. “Hey Seth, you remember Count Chocula?”

“What about him?” Seth asked, obviously regretting it instantly.

“I bet if Count Chocula was real, he would live in a house like that. But it would be made of chocolate, of course, because that’s what he eats; not blood. Count Chocula is another one like the Hamburglar. You remember abut ten years ago some genius decided the animated Count Chocula had to go, and they put some fucking dude in Count Chocula make-up instead?”

“No, I don’t remember that,” Seth said. He looked at me, then glanced pointedly over the side of the castle wall, measuring the distance to the ground.

“Well, they did. I’m not surprised you don’t remember. I think he was in one commercial. He was way too creepy, and his big, prosthetic chin looked like a pair of elongated, hairless balls.”

Seth was about to reply (or throw me off the roof—I never did find out which) but at that moment we arrived at the Blarney Stone. Kissing the stone is a bit of a procedure. You must lie on your back and hang backwards, kissing the wall upside-down. You’re supported by one of the castle staff, who is there to make sure you don’t fall off the castle, I suppose, but also to help you line up your lips with the wall. They’re very fast and efficient and keep things moving very quickly. They do, however, take their time helping women with big boobs, but hey, who can blame them? I would, too.

I wish I could show pictures of the fateful kiss, but I can’t. You see, although they allow you to take as many pictures as you want, you don’t really have time to take any. Hardly is one person done with his smooch than another is laying down to slide into his spot. In addition, the best angle for taking a photo (i.e. directly above the subject) is already covered by the Castle’s own camera, which takes two pictures of each person kissing the stone. The operator gives you a ticket, and you’re allowed to purchase these pictures for the low, low price of €10.00 each (about $14.00). We all forked over the dough, of course.

The trip down the castle was much faster, down an obviously newer stairway than the one we ascended. This was a relief as I would have taken a fire-pole rather than go down the same way I went up. After a final walk around the grounds, we left Blarney; once again taking the N22 towards Killarney—where hopefully, at long last, I’d find some pipers.

Or maybe not.

8/2/07 Day Four: From Dublin to Cork

We got up early, ate our last breakfast in Dublin and hit the road. We were heading south to Cork City, a trip along the east coast of Ireland that would take most of the day. We retrieved the rental car from the underground garage and took up the positions we would keep for the rest of the trip: I rode shotgun (on the left), and Dad was in the back seat, probably because he thought it would be harder for us to toss him out of the moving car if he was back there. Seth drove.

How this decision was reached is a story worth repeating. Seth met Maria, my travel agent, the day we decided to book this trip as a Father’s Day present for the old man. While discussing what we wanted to do on our trip, Seth and I interacted like we usually do. Maria would later confide in me that she thought we really hated each other, and that one of us would not be returning from the trip. She seriously considered asking us to find another travel agent. At one point, Maria asked us about our rental car preferences.

“Automatic or standard transmission?” she asked. All three of us drive stick, so Seth and I agreed on standard, figuring we could take turns driving. “One driver is less expensive than three,” she said. Turns out much less expensive; one driver would save us about thirty bucks a day. We considered it for a moment. Then Seth, with all his customary decorum says to me, in the presence of this woman he has just met: “Well, fuck you. I’m driving, then.” (You see, even though I’m three years and eight days older than Seth, and even though I’ve been driving three years longer than Seth, and even though I have driven a standard for eighteen-plus years, Seth thinks I’m a complete noob who doesn’t know how to drive.) And you wonder why she thought we hated each other?

Driving on the wrong side of the road, on the wrong side of the car, with the shift on the wrong side of your body probably takes some getting used to, but Seth had matters well sorted by the time we reached the southern limits of Dublin. Once out of the city, we took the N11 south along the coast, through the Wicklow Mountains. Although considered a major highway in Ireland, the N11 would be scoffed at by anyone who drives the major highways in the U.S. I drive through Boston almost every day, so the “traffic” on the N11 was a complete joke. It was, however, a much more scenic and easy ride.

One of the coolest things about driving in Ireland is the lack of highway exits. Rather than major roadways being built around towns and cities, roads often lead right through the center of every town, big or small, along the way. One such place was Fern. We rounded a bend in the road and found ourselves in the middle of a small town, which looked to be no more than a gas station; a convenience store that sold, among other things, bundles of peat; a post office; a couple of pubs and a church. It was the church that caught our eyes: old, stone, and home to a few ruined buildings and an old graveyard. It was probably the oldest buing we saw on the entire trip, havin been built in the eighth century! We parked next to a lady selling fresh fish out of the back of a truck and got out to take some pictures.

After a quick stop at the convenience store, we continued on our trip south. We drove through County Wicklow and County Waterford, through towns like Enniscorthy and New Ross (where the N11 turns into the N30), and a few hours later we stopped for lunch in Waterford City, home of the famous Waterford Crystal Factory. None of us gave a shit about crystal, so we didn’t bother stopping at the factory. Instead we went straight to the waterfront shopping district and parked the car next to a very weird guy who was deep in conversation with himself. An hour and a half later we had pretty much seen all Waterford had to offer, which was not much, as you may infer from my lack of Waterford pictures. We ate sandwiches from a local deli, looked at all the closed and empty shops, and left.

As Seth was now quite used to driving—and doing a bang-up job of it, I might add—I figured it was time to have some fun. I’d been quiet long enough.

“Hey, Seth,” I said. “You know who I could never understand?”

“Who?” he said, not really interested at all.

“The Hamburglar. You know, from McDonald’s.” My brother remained silent. “You know, ‘Robble, robble’. That guy.” Seth said nothing. “I mean, what the fuck does ‘robble, robble’ mean, anyway? It’s not even a word! It’s fucking nonsense!”

Seth stared straight ahead, only the slightest involuntary twitch of his cheek indicating he heard me at all. I continued. “A lot of kids were afraid of the Hamburglar when I was a kid; that’s why McDonald’s redesigned his look about twenty years ago. It wouldn’t do to have your Happy Meal spokesman scaring the shit out of the little kids, know what I mean?”

If Seth knew what I meant, he was keeping quiet about it.

“Although I guess you can’t really be called a ‘spokesman’ if all that comes out of your mouth is crap no one can understand, right? Come to think of it, I was never scared of the Hamburglar, I was scared of Grimace. Still am, as a matter of fact. That guy’s a freak. I mean, what the hell’s he supposed to be? He’s a big purple thing, for Christ’s sake—“

“Shut the fuck up!” Seth exploded.

It was our plan to push on to Cork, possibly stopping in Youghal (pronounced ‘Yawl’, not ‘Yoogle’ as Seth would say), a famous seaport town celebrated in many an Irish tune. That was the plan, anyway. But before we could reach Youghal, we went through the small seaside town of Dungarvan. And there we stopped.

We arrived during low tide, which takes on a whole new meaning in Dungarvan. On nearby pylons, we could see the dark line that indicated the water level when it as high tide. It was about fifteen feet off the ground, currently where most of the boats rested. We strolled along the harbor, taking photos of the grounded boats, frankly wondering why anyone would moor their vessels in a place that turned into (semi-)solid ground twice a day. “That can’t possibly be good for the boats,” Dad said, indicating a small craft perched on its keel, sinking slowly into the mud. Next to it were a few boats on their sides.

We made the circuit of the harbor, where were pleasantly surprised to discover that Dungarvan was a castle town that offered a nice view of the surrounding landscape. We took a few pictures in front of Dungarvan Castle before we looked at our watches and realized that if we wanted to get to Cork before dinner, we’d best get a move on. We’d have to skip Youghal.

“I don’t suppose anyone knows where the hotel is?” Seth asked.

I looked at the reservation. “Says ‘Anderson’s Quay, Cork.’”

“Where the hell is that?”

“Well, let’s see,” I said, “the last time I was in Cork City, which was never, I’m pretty sure Anderson’s Quay was near the river. Quays, by their nature, usually are.”

Despite Seth’s predictable reaction to my sarcasm, it turns out I was right. Anderson’s Quay, along the River Lee, is smack in the center of Cork City. Our hotel was on the corner of St. Patrick’s bridge. That ship in the picture was moored right outside my hotel room window. Without getting too much into the particulars, let’s just say our accommodations in Cork were the worst we would have on the entire trip. After parking in an underground lot two blocks away, lugging our stuff to the lobby and checking in, it was early evening and everything in the city was closing. Seth asked the guy at the front desk what there was to do in town. Although we didn’t know it, we were actually close to the city center. Front-desk guy provided Seth with a small map of our side of the river, with shops and bars highlighted. He also told Seth, in no uncertain terms, that there was nothing for him on the other side of the river, and that he “didn’t want to go there.”

For all its claims to being “Ireland’s Second City”, none of us were very impressed with Cork. The locals, while not unfriendly, certainly weren’t very welcoming, and it made us think Cork was a tough town. We walked around the shopping district for a while and got some dinner at an upscale restaurant that seemed to cater to the after-work crowd. I tried to get a martini for the first time and was pretty much told there was no cocktail service. I settled for a pint of Guinness instead. The food was expensive and not particularly memorable (I had to ask Seth where we ate for this post). Soon after dinner, we went back to the hotel. Dad told us he was tired and was going to bed. Seth and I tried to find something cool about Cork before tomorrow, when we were due to leave town.

And find it we did.

The Hi-B (short for Hibernian Bar) is a hole-in-the-wall on Oliver Plunkett Street on the second floor of a hairdressing academy. (Just ignore those two clowns in the picture above, they wouldn’t get out of the way.) We walked into a shabby place about the size of my living room. On one end, a bar surrounded by a dozen or so stools; the rest of the place was taken up by tables and couches. There was no place to sit. The place was packed. We took one look around and left, disgusted.

I made it into the hallway before I realized my brother hadn’t left with me. He was talking to the bartender, a cute brunette of about thirty, who had come out from behind the bar to chase us. Seth beckoned me over.

“You’re not leaving because there’s no place to sit, are you?” the bartender asked. We nodded. “Wait a minute,” she said. She walked over to a group of six or so college-age kids, clustered around a group of small tables. “You’re not ordering anything else, are you? Then take off. We need the table.” The group shuffled out, looking sullen. “These kids come in every night, order one round between the six of them and then order water for the rest of the night. Then they take up space for a few hours. Go, sit down. What can I get you?”

We ordered a couple of rounds and sat down. The exhaustion of the day set in, and by our second drink, we were both pretty tired, and more than a little let down by Cork. Seth started to scold me. “Dude, you’re letting all the little shit get to you. So this place sucks. We’re leaving tomorrow, anyway. Just relax.”

I was about to reply, but all of a sudden this guy at the bar started singing. And I don’t mean singing softly. He began really belting it out, without accompaniment of any kind.

T'was on one bright March morning I bid New Orleans adieu

And I took the rode to Jackson town, me fortune to renew

I cursed all foreign money, no credit could I gain

Which filled me heart with longin' for the Lakes of Pontchartrain.

The rest of the pub quieted down while he sang. He was unquestionably drunk, but had a powerful, gravelly voice. He loved to sing, and the pub loved to hear him. My eyes started to well up. “Christy Moore,” I said to no one in particular. “Lakes of Pontchartrain.”

He finished his song and everyone in the Hi-B, including us, applauded. He was a regular, and soon the other locals began calling on him to sing another song. He obliged, and halfway through the next song Seth turned and looked at me. “Dad should be here,” he said.

We really considered running back to the hotel and waking Dad up, but we both figured by the time we returned, our seats would be gone, and so, possibly, might be the guy singing. We stayed for a while, had a few more pints and listened to him sing a bit more until it was time to leave. We each had a parting glass for the walk home, and I gave the bartender enough for one more. “Whatever that guy wants, it’s on me” I said.

“It’ll be Guinness,” she said, turning toward the tap.

“Then make it a Guinness. And, hey..." She looked at me. "Thanks for coming after us.” She smiled at us both, and we left the Hi-B. “I think this just made Cork worthwhile” Seth said.