Loyal friends and readers have commented more than once on my choices of musical quotations peppering my writing. Dropkick Murphys, The Chieftains, The Pogues—these are the bands to whom I have been listening with the greatest frequency and enjoyment in the past year. Some of their music has undoubtedly crept its way into my writing.

Tuesday night, Whirl, Liz, and I attended the Dropkick Murphys’ concert at the Vic Theatre. I have always enjoyed going to the Vic, and Tuesday was no different in that regard. The Vic is an intimate and intriguing space, full of history and character—and not particularly big: it has room for about 1500 people. Wherever you sit or stand in the Vic, you will see and enjoy the show. Dropkick Murphys are essentially a punk rock band. They formed in 1996 in the Irish Catholic working class neighborhoods of South Boston. They blend punk, Irish folk, rock, and hardcore into their own unique sound. One apt description voiced it as a combination of the Pogues and the Ramones. They share their experiences and beliefs in working class solidarity, friendship, loyalty and self-improvement in hopes of bettering society. They play fast, aggressive rock ‘n’ roll infused with Irish folk influences. Bagpipes are nearly as prominent as guitars. In the true spirit of punk rock we view the band and the audience as one in the same; in other words our stage and our microphone are yours.

The set at the Vic was incredible.

Dropkick Murphys have become more popular in the last couple years, although I have yet to hear them played on the radio. They were mentioned at least a couple times in Faithful—the fascinating journal written by two Boston Red Sox about being Boston Red Sox fans, Stephen King and Stewart O’Nan. King and O’Nan picked an incredible season: 2004. They were not alone. Dropkick Murphys released the EP, Tessie, in 2004. The album features the Murphys’ version of the official Boston Red Sox anthem, “Tessie” . The original “Tessie” was a Broadway tune. Boston fans adopted “Tessie” during the 1903 World Series. Fans sung it regularly until 1916.

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I have returned. I spent the last twelve days in Europe. My work sent me there. And at the end of the day it was work that dominated my time. Despite the best of intentions I did not spend a great deal of time sightseeing or experiencing the culture. True, I got a few opportunities. Nevertheless, the most of my time was spent inside various office buildings, hotel rooms and airplane cabins working on stubborn problems and curiously tenacious projects.

You ain’t got no problem, Jules. I’m on the motherfucker. Wait for the Wolf– who should be coming directly.
You sendin’ the Wolf?
Oh, you feel better, motherfucker?

Before departing I considered that work was sending me in to solve a litany of problems: similar to the way Marsellus Wallace sent in the Wolf to deal with Vincent’s and Jules’ tricky set of self-induced problems in Pulp Fiction. I fashioned myself a professional troubleshooter: the Wolf. This trip would be my way to redeem myself. It would be my way to rise to a challenge and succeed: alone, in foreign lands, and against unforeseen adversity.

And now I am back.

I will discover Monday how successful I was in completing my set of tasks. They were many and varied—and without going into recriminating detail—allow me to say that the promises of unforeseen adversity were more than well-fulfilled. Despite my planning and preparation, I had my share of surprises. “ No battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy.” My experience was no different in this regard. I either overcame these surprises or found a way to work around them. I am proud of my accomplishments.

For those of you faithful readers who may not know the details, my itinerary consisted of three stops in Europe to our three locations there: London, England; Newcastle upon Tyne; and München, Germany. As I mentioned above, the overwhelming majority of my time was spent working. My humorous anecdotes and observations are mostly limited to the margins of my stay. I have a few pictures of England—unfortunately I have none of Germany.

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Sé mo laoch mo Ghile Mear
‘Sé mo Chaesar, Ghile Mear,
Suan ná séan ní bhfuaireas féin
Ó chuaigh i gcéin mo Ghile Mear

I have had a demanding month. The loudest voice making demands has been my workplace. We continue to lurch along at an awkward gait. The declared goal is: put together a cohesive set of studios around the world. Up until recently we operated only as a loosely affiliated hegemony. We shared a common stock symbol. We did not share much of anything else.

Even within a given studio location the balkanization was fierce— remains fierce. My work is often strained or blind-sided by these competing factions. I am overstating when I say competing. I do not believe that to be the case. What I believe is that the various principalities, baronies and fiefdoms are almost entirely ignorant of anyone else. In the end, they unwittingly make war upon one another. And like a poor free lance trapped in a post-Modern feudal system, I fight for and then against each liege lord in our Kafkaesque empire.

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I was speaking to my friend, Farmboy, yesterday. After a peculiarly arduous turn of events at work I had reached a more-or-less comfortable steady state. I had time to take a breath and look around. I had time to think about what had been going on all day. The act of reflecting prompted the question:

Which problem do you prefer to tackle—the difficult technical problem with concepts you know very little about or the difficult social problem with the people you know very little about?

For several minutes I thought only about that particular question. I had asked it; Farmboy had answered it providing his opinion on the matter. When my turn came to do likewise I hesitated some more and then weakly conceded to the answer Farmboy had given. I did not like my answer. I do not know why I did not like my answer—I did not like it. I attributed this distaste to the wide variety of problems with which over the course of the day I had had to contend. I was sullen. I was churlish.

I wanted to answer, “Fuck off!”

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