Grey's Anatomy and Michael Jackson

I have been in Ireland for exactly one week now, and I cannot remember a time when I have had this much free time to myself.  Today I purchased a little potted plant for my windowsill and am now considering getting a goldfish to put in my apartment.  Needless to say, I’m getting a bit lonely.

To ease the sting of loneliness, I made my way down to the pub next door, known as Con Dillon.  Walking in, it looked like a scene straight out of Leap Year.  There were four older men seated at the bar: one was talking on his cell phone, two were laughing loudly with one another, and the other was staring off into space.  I ordered a drink and snuggled into a corner with the book I toted along with me.  It was about that time when the bartender, a red-haired woman in her early thirties, switched the television channel over to Grey’s Anatomy.  The men all grumbled in unison.  The bartender quickly told them that if they wanted to drink, then they would have to sit through her favorite show.  Giggling to myself, I put my book down, happy to watch a bit of American television.

As the show progressed, the men became more involved, laughing at the show’s punch lines and growing upset when one of the leading ladies realized she was indeed in love, but it was too late.  The show ended with her love kissing a new girl.

“It won’t last,” one of the men at the bar said.  “It’s just lust.”

“No, it’s love, I’m tellin’ ya,” another piped in.

“Lust!” the first man argued.

The two bantered back and forth for quite a while.  I realized that Irish men are similar to American men: both claim they don’t like Grey’s Anatomy, when in reality they are quite interested.

Michael Jackson was also in attendance at Con Dillon.  One of the men at the bar politely introduced himself to me, saying that on Saturday nights he is known as Michael Jackson.  I smothered yet another laugh as I looked this man over.  He had to be in his mid-fifties (which, now that I think about it, Michael Jackson was also fifty when he died), white as could be, balding, and had a grey mustache.  I asked him if he had a white glove and could moonwalk.  He gave me a look as though I had just asked the obvious.

“Of course, love,” he said.

Soon after I said my good-byes and gathered up my belongings.

“Come back for Grey’s Anatomy next Tuesday, now,” called the bartender.

Absolutely.  I wouldn’t miss it for anything.