GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #799: RIP THE SILVERADO

 

Today I drove past the remains of probably the best place to get a burger in Elmhurst, the Silverado. They closed down a while ago, which saddens me because they made the best steak I've ever had, and I'm never going to have it again. I held out hope that someone else might take over, and I could once again sit at the table where Rooster Cogburn looks down at you.

Nope. They tore the building down. All that remains is a fenced in empty lot. I fucking swear to fuck, they'd better not put something stupid there, like yet another fitness center. Or another goddam learning center with a bullshit Italian name to make it sound fancy and scholarly. The one that irritates me the most is Montessori. It used to be called Raggedy Anne, and two of my cousins actually went there way back when. But then it turned out that the people running it were so racist they ended up on Last Week Tonight with John Oliver. Whoops! Guess it was time for a rebranding. Let's slap some Eye-talian name on there. Eye-talian names are synonymous with the Maf--er, I mean, Catholicism! Because never forget, THE MAFIA DOESN'T EXIST. Capice?

I am getting waaaaaaay off track here. I meant that the Silverado was very special to me, and I don't want its place to be sullied by another fucking microbrewery because HOLY FUCKING SHIT we don't have enough of those in Elmhurst. Or in the surrounding towns. Or fucking everywhere else. It would be great if it was another no-bullshit burger place. I shan't hold my breath, though.

It's getting harder and harder to find a good place to eat in Elmhurst. The Pizza Palace was another great place, and if you needed to drink an afternoon away, they had a very short bar there if you and a friend wanted to hang out and have a few Jamesons. I usually sat in the booth that had Josey Wales looking down at me. Seeing a pattern, here?

Beerhead was a pretty good place, but it vanished almost as quickly as it opened. Fitz's Spare Keys (or whatever they were calling it near the end; they changed names a few times) was good if you wanted watered down booze and overpriced shit, but it was good shit. They were shut down for selling booze to high school students.

There are a lot of places to eat in Elmhurst. They're all priced out the dickhole. And I won't go in them on principle. Just give me a goddam bar and grill, don't put on airs and call yourself a gastropub. Microbrewery is bad enough as it is. Do I really need to spend fifteen bucks on a cheeseburger? If that trend keeps happening, I'm going to have to make my change from Randy to Smokey and hit the streets, selling myself for cheeseburgers. Eight bucks is reasonable. Bring it to me medium-rare with nothing but cheese on it. No need to fancy it up. I'm not looking for a dining experience. I'm looking for an affordable good cheeseburger I don't have to drive far to get. But in Elmhurst? That's asking too fucking much.

All right, yeah. I got something stuck in my craw. I meant this to be a fond farewell to a kickass burger place, but instead all I've done is mourn for a lost world.

Holy shit, am I having a midlife crisis? Is that what's going on? I thought I'd gotten that out of the way when I was 20. (I figured I'd be dead by now, so I went into existential dread mode pretty early.)

OK. If this is a midlife crisis, I'm going to need your help. Do not, under any circumstances, let me buy an expensive take-me-back-to-my-youth car. Unless it's a Skyhawk. I can probably afford that, and it would be nice to have a car without any computer chips. Also, I'm pretty sure I don't have any interest in women half my age. I've always skewed for older, and now that I'm older, I look for same age. But if this is a midlife crisis, all bets are off. Don't let my other head do the talking for me. And if I start bitching about kids today and how kids when I was young had respect for their elders, please take me behind the barn and tell me I can tend the rabbits, George.

I'm going to miss the Silverado. It was a hell of a vision. Hell of a vision.

WHEN I HAD FIRE WITHIN MY BLOOD: CHAPTER FIVE

JUNE 14, 2000.  8:45 PM.  KILLARNEY.  KILLARNEY RYAN HOTEL.

Just about the only interesting thing we did today was go to the Cliffs of Moher.  At the top of the hill opposite of the cliffs stood O'Brien's Tower, and I swear I felt like I was in a Hammer film as I walked up the hill toward it.  The cliffs are enormous, and they're covered with sea gulls, although you can't tell without the telescope on the tower.  They look like a part of the rocks from a distance.

While the tower has been turned into a type of museum, it's actually pretty old fashioned and hard to climb.  The spiral stairs are too tight and steep for big people, but it's worth it to get to the top.  There's no other feeling in the world quite like walking the battlements of a castle, tower, city, etc., the way the wind whips your hair back as you gaze across the land.  Maybe, just maybe, my Irish ancestors felt and did the same things.

I finally walked where an international myth walked.  Granted, this mythic figure wasn't that great of a human being, but still . . . I saw King John's castle.  King John, as in Prince John, the mortal enemy of Robin Hood.

By the way, we talked more of the wee folk today, and of travelers.  I liked the ghost stories the most.  Everyone's heard of the banshee, but what about the succubus-like demoness who seduces men and leads them astray?

JUNE 15.  5:00 PM.  KILLARNEY.  KILLARNEY RYAN HOTEL.

A strangely eventful day.  We started out on the jaunting car, like in THE QUIET MAN.  I've never gone on a ride in a horse-drawn cart, so it was pretty cool.  The driver wasn't the old, charming Irishman that I expected.  His name was Brendan, and he looked no older than 20 and had two earrings in his left ear.  He spoke with a deep accent, and his speech sounded scripted and well-rehearsed.

As soon as we got out of the car, we got on a boat by Ross Castle.  Lough Leane was huge, surrounded by mountains laden with mist.  The ride on the lough was the most relaxing thing I've ever done.  I stretched out on the back of the boat and rocked with the waves, watching the mist creep over the mountains.

Afterward, we went on the Ring of Kerry, which was pretty much the same thing as watching the rest of the Irish landscape with one exception.

Today, we rode up into the clouds.  Literally.  Since the clouds hang so close to the mountains, and we drove through the mountains, we were deep into the clouds.  It's so thick up there that it looked like the world ended just a few feet below us.

In addition, the whole time I've been in Ireland, I had this strange feeling of deja vu, as if I'd seen this land before, because it looked a lot like the land I saw in BRAVEHEART.  It's no surprise, considering how the movie was filmed here, and not in Scotland.  Geraldine met Mel Gibson in a store while he was filming the movie.

Also, the D-Day sequence in SAVING PRIVATE RYAN was filmed here, using the Irish army as extras.  Apparently, Ireland is a favorite place for a lot of filmmakers, from John Ford to Steven Spielberg.

JUNE 16.  11:00 PM.  KILLARNEY.  KILLARNEY RYAN HOTEL.

I've finally found something the Irish can cook:  steak.  The best meal I've had in all of Ireland was at the Old Mill down the block from here.  The steak was wonderful, but more importantly, their fries were ambrosia--the best in Ireland!

JUNE 16.  11:00 PM.  WATERFORD.  MARINA HOTEL.

We had a very exhausting beginning at Blarney Castle.  Let me tell you, that castle is high as hell.  We climbed up 200, 300, 400 steps, I don't know.  Those were the three figures I heard, but I was too tired to count.  The steps were very narrow (I had to walk sideways) but steep.  After climbing up the castle, we had to lean out on our backs, upside down and backwards, to kiss the Blarney Stone while some rickety old guy holds on to us.  Scary as hell.  Many people chickened out.  I toughened up and kissed the damned thing.  They put bars up so that if you slipped and fell, you'd break your skull, but you probably wouldn't die.  It's better than falling to certain death . . . .

(And yes, I've heard that the locals go up to the Stone every night and piss all over it because they hate tourists, and judging from how it looks, it might be true.  But so what?  Urine is sterile, more sterile than rock.)

The walk down was even harder.  We had to go down those same steps with nothing but a rope to support us.  When I got to the bottom, I saw that you could buy a certificate that says you kissed the Blarney Stone.  Much to my surprise, I found that anyone, regardless of whether or not they actually did it, could buy the certificate, signed by the undoubtedly revered Sir Richard La Touche.

Blarney Castle tired me out so much I slept through County Cork.  Well, dozed sounds closer to the truth.  I saw Cork through sleep-dulled eyes.

I also saw the Waterford Glassware place, but it was just like Belleek all over again.

The peak of the day was the Waterford walk with local guide, Jack.  It started out with a semi-staged history of Ireland (in which I played the Norman mercenary, Strongbow; I was married off to a middle-aged professor from Melbourne during the course of this play). After that, we looked around the town, seeing places like Reginald's Tower (the only Viking building still standing and in use in Ireland today) and many stunning cathedrals, like Blackfriar's and the French Church.  Concerning the French Church, the king of Ireland gave the church to monks for free so long as once a day, the monks hold a mass for the king's soul forever.  Eventually, Henry VIII closed it and allowed it to be turned into an old folks home . . . so long as once a day, the everyone prayed for his soul forever.  I saw the place where King John lived for a while.  He visited Waterford three times.  When he was prince, he visited Waterford and built a wooden house.  He invited everyone over to his place for a big party, but when they all got drunk, John started insulting the Irish leaders until until they retaliated by burning his house to the ground.  He fled back to England only to return as king to rebuild his house (this time in stone) and to kill everyone who so much as saw his house burn down.  He actually returned again later to live there for three years, but he was eventually run out again.

Waterford, like Derry, is a walled city, but unlike Derry, it was actually taken by the Normans.  The walk ended just inside this wall at the oldest pub in Ireland (for over 300 years, T&H Doolans has served Waterford proudly).  It looked like all the other pubs I've seen in Ireland--small.  Of course, the first drink was free, so I had some Jameson, which was pretty strong.  While Guinness will put you to sleep if you're not careful, Jameson will make you stumble about like a fool.

I found a McDonald's on the walk, but when I set out to find it again (the hotel wouldn't make me a cheeseburger tonight), I couldn't find it.  I walked all over Waterford, but I couldn't find the damned place.  I got lost three times, and I would have stayed lost if not for a spray-painted swastika on a wall near the hotel that I had originally noticed on the walk.

I'll miss Irish television.  THE VILLA was strangely entertaining, and NAKED IN WESTMINSTER was kind of funny.  That show was kind of an AMERICAN UNDERCOVER-ish thing (without the sense of doom) that looks behind the scenes of a strip club, Sophisticats, owned by the Catman (although I call him the Ratman because he looks like a rodent, and he has a ponytail you could flick off the back of his bald head).

Tomorrow is the last full day in Ireland, so I'd better get some rest.

TO BE CONCLUDED!