or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Beer.

Welcome one and all to this recounting of an American in Ireland. I'll try to speed the story along as best I can, but this old fella's been known to ramble on. Consider yourself fairly warned. This tale is best digested with a Guinness and a grain of salt. (Feel free to read the following account with an Irish accent, or, if you're so inclined, like a pirate. Arrgghh matey)

If you're my mother, or have mother-esque sensibilities, click on the following link for the 'Mom-friendly' version.

Mom's link

Everyone else, if you're at least 18 years of age, follow the link below and I give you my word to try to avoid as many leprechaun references as possible. Oh, and please, leave you spell checker at the door.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. (well, maybe not all hope, but at least a little hope and more than a few minutes of your life)