Even More Insanity in Ireland + I'M ON LITHIUM
Hey there, Psychos!
Here’s the next entry in my “Insanity in Ireland” series. I haven’t done one of these in a few months (and some of you are super new to the newsletter), so you can jump into the saga here and here.
I get kicked out of the flat in Glasnevin. Not good. I’m too manic to be worried, though. I’m too preoccupied with my newfound perceived reality that I am, in fact, the spiritual embodiment of the 16th century Irish warrior, Red Hugh O’Donnell. Red Hugh is a real historical figure. He kicked the shit out the English and is a symbol of Irish nationalism to this very day. Also, WE HAVE THE SAME LAST NAME! It makes perfect sense that I should be the one to inherit all of his powers in my quest to stop the 2003 invasion of Iraq and manifest Heaven on Earth. Still, I do need to find a place to live.
I connect with my friend, Ben. He lives in Jewish student housing. In an attempt to foster community, only Jewish students are allowed to live there. The house is big and beautiful and in Rathmines, a trendy neighborhood. There’s an empty room. I want in. The landlord is Rabbi Zalman. I have to convince him I’m Jewish, which I AM! My mother’s Jewish. So I’m legit. But my last name is O’Donnell. Everybody is skeptical. I get the Rabbi on the phone with my mom. She proclaims my Jewishness. The Rabbi is thrilled. I move in. I don’t last long lol.
I’m so manic that the first night I don’t even stay at my new place. Instead, I roam the streets of Dublin singing Bruce Springsteen songs at the top of my lungs, while I search for my soulmate, Sophia. Eventually, I get bored of walking, so I hail a cab. I get dropped off at Trinity College. I don’t have any money. I swear to the driver that if he gives me his address I will mail him the fare. He believes me. I never send it. A permanent mark against my integrity. Now it’s raining buckets. I sit outside the gates of Trinity, leaning against the bars. I scream and writhe. I’m exhausted. I cry myself to sleep amidst the downpour.
I return to my new place the next day. Ben asks me where I’ve been. I tell him I was out all night singing Springsteen. Weird behavior, indeed. It only gets weirder. There’s another roommate named Julien. He’s a French hippie of sorts who loves to smoke hash. When I meet him, he’s wearing red Moroccan-style pants with patches sown along the sides. I immediately say, “Hey man, you have got to EARN those pants!” What I mean is, if he’s going to dress like an eccentric, he better BE an eccentric. Normalcy is forbidden with a wardrobe choice like that. Those pants demand of the wearer an extraordinary, kickass personality trait. At the very least, Julien better have some juicy and debaucherous stories in his social arsenal. Ben finds my comment to be hilarious. Julien has no idea what I’m talking about, which is for the best.
That night Julien has some of his fellow French friends come over. Everybody is in the living room. Julien and his friends, along with Ben, play a soccer video game. I watch. At some point, I demand to play, but I don’t know how. I just mash the buttons like a child. Out of politeness, everybody else ignores my ineptitude. As I “play” the game, my manic mind races. The thoughts bubble over. I can’t help but incessantly talk to myself out loud. I ramble about who knows what. Perhaps about my mission to stop the impending invasion of Iraq? Perhaps about my newfound responsibilities now that I’m the spiritual embodiment of Red Hugh? Perhaps about my destiny to marry Sophia so we can conceive the Messiah? I honestly can’t remember.
I DO remember that Julien passes around some extremely potent French hash. I smoke it. My insanity goes into hyperdrive. My brain is now scrambled eggs being struck by lightning. Nonsensicality manifested. It is my complete undoing. I somehow, though, cling to a shred of narrative distance that allows me to find this extreme level of bonkers to be unacceptable. I become self-aware that the craziness that has now been thrust upon me is offensive, insulting, and all-powerful. All I can do is lean into it and turn myself into a cliche. So I go into the kitchen, and I grab a pot and a wooden spoon. I put the pot on my head, and I start banging it rapidly and repeatedly. As I traverse through the house, I yell, “In a good way! In a good way! In a good way! In a good way! In a good way!” Out of sheer desperation, I have become a cartoonish depiction of a crazy person. I continue to yell, “I’m Rabbi Super J! I’m Rabbi Super J! I’m Rabbi Super J! I’m Rabbi Super J! I’m Rabbi Super J!” Ben, Julien and the French friends are all scared. They have no idea what to do. They decide to go to bed and stay away from me at all costs. They just want this to be over. But I continue to rant and rave late into the night. My energy is boundless.
Eventually, Ben calls Rabbi Zalman for help. He shows up with a doctor of some sort. They tell me to get in the car with them. I do so. I trust the Rabbi. He must be aware on the down low that I’m this special being. He must have my best interests in mind. He and the doctor take me to St. Patrick’s Psychiatric Hospital. I don’t resist. A minor miracle. I get admitted.
We’ll delve into St. Pat’s in the next entry…
Love,
JFOD
P.S. If you’re in NYC, I’m performing my new solo show I’M ON LITHIUM on Wednesday March 20th. Doors 7:30pm, Show 8pm at the Knitting Factory inside Baker Falls in the East Village (101 Avenue A, New York, NY 10009). $10 suggested donation. With special guests Janeane Garofalo and Dave Hill!!! Click the pic to reserve tickets.
Nice lineup, Red Hugh!