This Game’s Got More Flags Than The U.N. Building

The NFL should really fire their graphic designer. “XLVIII” doesn’t even spell anything.

Follow our Super Bowl coverage on Twitter @TheAndorran

Reclaiming the Territory – A Day in Bray Part One

Xavier here. Sorry for that last post, folks. Brillo tends to be a bit… abrasive. In any case, I’ve reclaimed the site, and Brillo promises he’ll be nicer next time. I made him sign a contract and everything. He has the cutest little signature.

In travel news, we went to Bray the other day. The train ride from Dublin passed through several very different landscapes, all within a relatively small amount of time. Don’t let anybody ever tell you Ireland is just grass and sheep. It’s only, like, mostly grass and some sheep.

The train runs between towers at Google’s European headquarters, which are in Dublin.
(Photo via Bloomberg News.)

Brillo also enjoyed the changing scenery.

.

.

.

Bray (Bré in Irish) is a town slightly over 30,000 people, just south of Dublin. It used to be a thriving seaside resort, with tourist spots, hotels, and amusements for weekending Dubliners and Englishfolk. When travel to the continent became more accessible, however, the town fell out of vogue, and many hotels and restaurants were turned into living space for the elderly. Sections of the town feel like Del Boca Vista from Seinfeld, but with accents and less geriatric backstabbing. Irish people are polite, dammit.

“So the other day at the pub, I meet some American tourists. They ask me where the Royal Hotel is, I tell them, and they thank me. Overall, it was a very pleasant exchange. And how are you?”

This is not to say Bray is dead (or dying of natural causes). Just the opposite. It’s the fourth-largest town in Ireland after the nation’s five cities, still receives a respectable amount of tourism, and is gorgeous both in and (I assume) out of the fog.

A clear day in Bray, Ireland.

Among the attractions Bray has to offer is a fantastic hike up Bray Head, the hill at the edge of town. The town’s name actually means “hill” or “rising ground,” though locals often refer to the feature as a mountain. As an avid skier and backpacker, I speak from experience when I say Bray Head is not a mountain.

It’s like sawing a ladder in half and calling it Everest.

Despite its status as the footstool of foothills, Bray Head is the most gorgeous and memorable hike I have ever been on. True, I was still new to Ireland, and may have been looking at the climb through rose-colored glasses. But even with the magical feeling you get on your first few days in a new country – before you’ve discovered enough irritations to remind you of home – this was a phenomenal hike.

And the weather held out for almost the entire shutter click.

We decided to take the longer, more gradual path along the face of the hill.

Bray Head gets more cloud coverage than most clouds.

Shortly after we set off, a light rain began to fall.

“Oh, it’s raining,” I said.

“Yeah, it has been for a while,” someone else replied.

“No, I’m pretty sure it just started.”

“How sure?”

“I am almost 45% sure.”

Possibly the most bizarre experience thus far in Ireland was realizing that none of us could remember if the rain had ever stopped.

—————

Coming up in Part Two: The world’s best bar, worst bathroom, and most not-lived-in former Viking house. Oh, and some strange signs, too.

And, of course, more Brillo.

Professional Losing

After my career in extreme empathy fell rapidly apart – I still say using depressed puppies is unfair – I decided upon a new sport: Professional losing. I’ve been told by numerous people that I’m a professional loser, so I figured I must be a natural at the sport.

Turns out, I’m not. Or at least, not at first. See, thanks to extreme empathy, I got so into the “gotta win” mentality that I forgot what is truly important in life: Losing. After all, you can’t spell “life” without using an “l” and an “i,” which you also need to spell “losing.” I made that up myself. It’s so weird that nobody thought of it before me.

Winning at professional losing is really difficult, which is why the sport is so easy. If you succeed by not doing something really hard, then why bother not succeeding? By not succeeding, you succeed at not succeeding, which means you haven’t succeeded, even though you have. Or so I’m told.

At first, though, professional losing is challenging. For some reason, most people play a sport to win. If that isn’t backwards, I don’t know what is. But once you figure out the secret to professional losing, the sport becomes as easy as baking a mitten. What’s the secret, you may ask? Well, if I told you that, it wouldn’t be a secret. But, since I have to lose at keeping a secret, I’ll tell you: It’s all in the wrist. And how you use the fist that’s attached.

Until next time, this is Xavier Yes. Stay classical. Meanwhile, I’m going to investigate the scent of wool coming from my stove.

The Most Extreme Sport Ever

As I am the most awesome person I know – which is really saying something, believe me – I am required by law to engage in extreme sports. You may say this is an odd law, but isn’t it against the law in Pepperbox, Delaware, to ride mice through the city streets while simultaneously singing the Bill of Rights and yelling the Star Spangled Banner? It isn’t? Well, I guess that makes sense. I mean, who’s ever heard of mice in the street?

The sport I have chosen may well be the most extreme sport of all. No, not listening to “Justin Bieber Sings Metallica Live” – available at your local K-Mart. No, I go all out and engage in extreme empathy. Yes, you heard me right. Read me. Saw me. Whatever. You —- me right – extreme empathy. It originated as torture for gladiators in the Coliseum. Romans went to see these warriors battle to the death as they felt each other’s pain and planned quote-unquote support groups. (I have to write out quote-unquote, because the apostrophe keys on my Internet-enabled typewriter are on strike after being forced to surround the Bieber album title.)

I get so extreme that I actually become one with the Force of Actual Kinetic Emotions (Really), or FAKER for short. This universal human force, with which, to achieve Enlightenment, one must submit one’s body to in the form of a three-page application, resides in a hydrogen isotope found in small amounts in the atmosphere and lower stratosphere. By becoming one with this quasi-/semi-spiritual force, I allow myself to feel the burdens of every human being who ever lived. Or, at least, who ever lived and actually believed in the FAKER. By which I mean myself and the guy who discovered the force. By which I mean myself. But that is no matter, because I’m the world’s most famous extreme empathy athlete, out of all the world’s extreme empathy athletes. Similarly, by which I mean myself. But it’s good to be the best at something. It looks good on the FAKER application or a résumé for Burger King.

Until next time, this is Xavier Yes. Stay classical. I’m going to go to my room and sulk in a corner about my own miseries.