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"You can't put that on the Internet"


Ireland, late May 2006 —

I had a good argument the other night — part of any decent evening out.

We had been to a pub and a late bar, myself and two friends Zig and Zag, both Irishmen. (I'm American — we all live here in Kilkenny.)

A bad argument

... Less than a month later....

Ryan's pub, then Carrigan's late bar — and then failing to slip into Morrison's on time, we took a cab up to O'Faolain's, only to have the bouncer meet us at the curb and turn us away there too. No place to let us in, we made it back to my apartment.

We started in on the liquor that was extant in-house. A small remainder of Jack Daniels, gone in a quarter-hour, gave way to the Absolut — and, there being orange juice, screwdrivers. Plenty of screwdrivers.

So we'd been drinking — setting the stage for a good bit of discussion.

Zig brought up the matter of the web-page that I had written that centered upon a mutual acquaintance, a fellow within our social group with whom I'd had a dispute a few years ago. Having sub-let an apartment to me, K_ had absconded with a bit of the rent-money when he'd left town for a while. I wrote about this, and the attendant circumstances. Recently, somebody close to K_discovered that page — and in classic Kilkenny style, word of it passed around before its closing paragraph. That's okay; if I had wanted to hide it, I would not have posted it on the Internet.

And Zig held that I should not in fact have posted any such story on the Internet. Thus began our discussion. He was adamant that you can't be putting things like that out there like that.

I'd brought the lap-top downstairs for the music upon it, and so there I had a copy of the story in question.

(I had reviewed it when another friend had told me of its local "discovery;" had found it well-written, appropriate, and accurate. I added a missing "i" to the word "principle," changing nothing else.)

I read the story to Zig and Zag. Well, most of it; like I said, we'd been drinking. The gist of the tale out on the table, we got to discussing it before I reached its proper end; which didn't matter any more at that point.

Zig insisted down to the wire that what I'd done was wrong. And I can see his point.

Zag praised me for what I'd done. He appreciated that I'd written honestly. He noticed, too, the fact that I did not tell a story that makes me come off looking innocent. But, (not to paraphrase Zag or unfairly characterize what he said) the fantastic part for me was that he told me later, before going home in the early-morning light, that this had been the highlight of the whole evening. He'd really enjoyed the story and the discussion that much.


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