#9

Day 116: An exciting new discovery. I can actually turn on my heater myself. It’s not controlled by the administration. I never bothered to check. I’m an idiot.

The exciting thing about realizing you were an idiot, for example the slow realization that you were an idiot when you were younger, is it’s an annual ritual, repeated every year on the grounds of the previous. You’ve all known me when I was an idiot. Friends yet unmet, same biz. Sorry.

On to Irish things.

They’ve finally installed vending machines in our part of campus…or, I should say, finally filled the ones that have been here longer than I have. This would be much more exciting, since it’s a five minute walk to any kind of snack and since (tiny fridge) I can’t keep much food in the apartment, except for the fact that…haha…you can’t actually get food out of it. See It just has this little design flaw where it responds neither to cash nor coins. And if you’re wondering whether there’s some kind of card, like a trinity key card or something, with which you can get at the delicious things inside, well no, actually, there isn’t. The full vending machine is purely aesthetic. And very pretty she is.

And when they fix it, the first candy bars that will be coming out of that thing will be a month old. Yum.

I had another of what I consider a purely Irish experience recently. I ended up at a pub for dinner which, while an uncommon experience for me, is actually pretty normal. There are certainly far more pubs than restaurants in the city. I don’t go to pubs to eat because I don’t go to restaurants either. But sometimes it happens.

Anyway, we were finishing up when suddenly this older couple, with their grandson, comes in to the bar. The old folks sit down the kid, about three I’d guess, immediately starts running around like a mad person. Why aren’t they paying attention to the child? WELL, it’s because grandpa is, as we say in Victorian England, about seven sheets to the wind. And grandma’s not happy. So they’re a bit preoccupied. The precious little child comes over to our table and offers me some plastic coin he got at a toy store or somewhere. No thank you, I say politely, you should keep that. So then he drops it in my drink.

This is actually a capital offense in Ireland, punishable by being kicked to death by a leprechaun (tiny feet of fury)but that’s beside the point, he’s a minor. Grandma notices, finally and apologizes I say no big deal, no big deal, whatever. He offers one to my friend. She says no. He throws the coin in her face. Grandma, nerves on the raw evidently, promises he’ll be brutally beaten by grandpa just as soon as he gets back. But grandpa doesn’t really care, because he’s smashed. So whatever, we quickly pay our bill and leave, except that I notice my hat isn’t in my pocket. So I search around the table for it, it’s not there. I remember we were sitting somewhere else earlier, before a better table opened up, go back, it’s not there. The girl sitting at that table now asks me, was it a black hat? Why yes, I say. That kid has it, she says.

Why so he does. And that’s how I ended up wrestling a three year old for a hat in the middle of a bar.

I did win in case you’re curious. And as a proper finial, as I more or less run out the door, grandpa’s coming after me, I assume to apologize. But no, he actually wants to buy the hat from me. The price he offered was good, but I decide that at least one of us should teach the kid its not fantastic to act like a little shit. He follows me out into the street. I can’t believe this scene literally refuses to end. Ah, the future of our planet.

The big news, so far, is that owing to a number of the better players (I should say, the better known players. No, I shouldn’t.) having not returned from their holidays yet, I did finally get into a basketball game as a player, which means I have now officially represented a university in its athletics, even if it is roughly Div. CMVI (Division 906 for those few of you who aren’t latin scholars. No, it doesn’t exist. I was parodying American sports arrangements; if their worst is Div. III, then….very clever, I’m sure you’ll agree). More importantly, I did creditably! In about six minutes of action I was 2-3, with a three pointer. And the third shot was what I would refer to, if I were standing in front of you and talking rather than typing to a word processor far away, as “this close.” No, I don’t actually mean that the shot itself was “this close” to going in—would that it were-- I mean I was standing “this close” to the basket when I shot it. Oops. Maybe there’s a reason they don’t let me out there too often…

On the plus side, as I’ll probably never play again owing to the return of other players, I may finish the season with a 100% shooting percentage from three point range which even Steve Kerr would admit is pretty good, and given that I also grabbed about four rebounds and dished out a few assists, I’m willing to be my PER (ignore this joke if you’re not an espn.com reader) is through the roof. And as we all know, that’s the only measure to judge anyone at anything ever. God bless you John Hollinger, and your nerdy, short-sighted ways. Also, damn you, since your whole system was invented to place the Mavericks lower than they deserve, you bastard.

Everything in life is about picking which parts of your battles you choose to report.

My teammates are very kind, however, and when referring to my incurious absence from the starting roster cite, for example, that earlier in the year I rarely made it to both practices in the same week. They’re lying, of course. Not that I did make it to both practices in the same week, but about that being the reason. How do I know? quatralogue (think of it as two dialogues if neologisms make you uncomfortable) with the coach:

Me, after game: Frankly (although thoroughly trounced by a Filipino team) I’m just happy to have gotten a chance to play today even though we lost. It was fun. My first time

S: Well you remember early in the season you weren’t on the roster because you never made it to both practices

Other person: Yeah, and, blah blah blah

Coach: And then there was the time (after I missed two weeks of practice because I was in Istanbul, and then because my sister visited) when you came back and it was like you’d been doing nothing but eating for two weeks straight.

Ah yes. That time I couldn’t play well because I was very fat. We appreciate it, but believe what you actually mean is “slow,” a condition much more chronic than temporary…. Other things that might have been plausibly cited, well before obesity turned up: my lack of “hops,” lateral speed, ability to make layups, grace, unhappy childhood, THE HANGING GARDENS OF BABYLON, foundational sense of right and wrong, etc.

But I’m a terror playing against small children.

On the earnest request of my father I have purchased an Irish radio. He was right, it seems. In just the last 10 minutes I’ve heard two commercials advertising cheap property in Egypt, and experience an almost existential enjoyment of the weather reports, a sentence of which I give you now just as I heard it: “Blah kind of weather tonight, yucky stuff tomorrow.” Thank you too , sir. I’ll be sure to wear my Yucky Stuff boots.

The other day some friends and I were on the way to one of our more common watering holes, which we don’t like at all (actually hate), but which shows the American football games when we came across a place much closer, much nicer looking, and also showing the game so we went in. It looked fancy. As time poured on, the reason became clear: that it was, in fact, also a club. And every hour or so, the whole experience got sexier. The lights got lower, the music got louder, and the flashing strobe cranked up to epileptic seizure levels. It was a slippery slope. By the time the Cowboys broke my heart, for the fourth time in Dallas sports in the last two years, leaving me entirely unable to trust, believe, or expect anything but inevitable failure and destruction for all that I believe in and love, like a giant black widow, perched on a silver thread, also holding up a glimmering sword of Damocles over not only my head but the heads of all that I care about, with the red star, Nemesis, simultaneously flashing dully in the lower black reaches of a nefarious, ghastly, nocturnal empyrean….we were all in danger of breaking the dress code. And somehow my collar had, all on its own, turned up. (also, dogs howling, the black ship of human nails setting sail, Haley’s comet, snow day in hell, THE HANGING GARDENS OF BABYLON, and what appears to be some kind of diseased crow whispering something about buying him a drink first. Etc.).

Neat.

I don’t know, lads. It’s a good year, but some parts of sure ain’t easy. They never are, eh? A new one now, I suppose, and that’s pretty hopeful. What’ll we want to be when it’s over? What’ll we be allowed to keep?

. Integer vitae scelerisque puris/ non eget Mauris iaculis

(A clean life and a pure…I don’t know, I can’t remember now, spirit maybe, heart…has no need of Moroccan javelins.

I don’t know what Moroccan javelins have to do with it, to be entirely honest.)

A

P.S.

Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis
arbor aestiua recreatur aura,
quod latus mundi nebulae malusque
Iuppiter urget;


pone sub curru nimium propinqui
solis, in terra domibus negata;
dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
dulce loquentem.

(put me alone, on a barren plane

Where no fresh breeze refreshes the trees

A bitter plain of the world oppressed by Jupiter

And an evil star

Put me underneath the wheels

Of the chariot of the sun, on an Earth devoid of life

Still will I love my Lalage, sweetly laughing

Sweetly speaking.

See, it gets better.)

P.P.S Look ma, I translated latin.

#8

I habitually approach Chicago O’Hare airport these days as small, crunchy mammals, with a certain sense of fatalism, do jungle cats. With dread, but also with a sense of wry curiosity about just how it’s going to go down. I have spent, to date, four separate nights on the floor of O’Hare airport. As I have told many a friend, in my life, the cheeseburgers at the McDonalds they have there literally taste of long delays.

And yet, after all this time I can still report that the gods are not only crazy they are fiendishly creative. The cause of my five hour delay—post-getting on the plan—this time? Well, it’s cold in Chicago. As it always is, this time of year, making you wonder why exactly someone decided that the perfect thing for one of the world’s worst weather cities was a huge international transport hub. And in the process of putting fresh water in the plane’s latrines, the hose froze solid to the tank. So they had to get a heater out, and then, since the hose hadn’t completed its grisly task by the time it went de-com, get another out there. Of course, if you thought that was the end of the airplane’s troubles, you don’t know me and Chicago.

Considering hose dethawing, hose replacement steps 1, and 2:

Step 3: Pull away from the gate!

Step 4: Engine light goes on. It’s probably nothing but we have to go back to reset some control panel stuff. Kind of peeved, but recognize that “engine warning light” and “seven hour flight” don’t sound so good no matter how you write the sentence.

Step 5: This one’s actually to congratulate myself: I begin to wonder, as we reset, how much fuel we’ve spent wandering around the airport like some kind of giant, collective Jimmy Valvano. Turns out a lot, and we need to refuel

Step 6: Pull away from the gate!

Step 7: Engine light comes back on. We’ll go back and get that thing fixed.

Step 8: Ragnarok, end of times, dogs and cats living together.

Everything up to step 7 was 100% true, step 8 about 85%.

I had a wonderful break. In certain senses made so by circumstances which I will not mention by name but now leaves me in some sadness, if bitter sweet for the sincere happiness it occasioned me, one of the least complicated or mixed I’ve known. It is very hard, sometimes, as a young person in a transitional stage that sometimes a more complete happiness is something you must simply believe to be waiting down the road, rather than be allowed to keep. Memory is a wonderful thing, and a useful balm, but if it was the same as holding in my hand there would be no pause to happiness, and there’d be nothing at all to be afraid of.

Still, emotion and convenience are not things that either do go hand and hand or should, inasmuch as the latter relies upon time and we never know what will happen. So courage, friends! Love what you cannot keep. And to anyone curious, if I got hit by a bus tomorrow, I’d have absolutely no regrets except for the little one about walking in front of that goddamn bus.

That’s mine. For yours, a number of Humorous and Diverting Incidents which Occurred, including:

-The continued adventures of Shadow the Dog, the most photographed creature on facebook, whose new 9 pm bedtime (in my parent’s bed) is not to be trifled with. Coupled with my parents’ new midnight bedtime it made for a somewhat disconcerting break. I’m pretty sure I used to have play chase with SOMEONE around 1 AM each night. Maybe it was the ‘rents after all.

-Learning that naps will often be punctuated (indeed, terminated) by expedient of high-speed canine-to-crotch impact

-The purchase of a new camera with exclusive “you tube” feature, creating perfectly formatted and sized videos for uploading to youtube! But you’ll never find the tapes, copper….

-A New Years reenactment of Steve’s most recent arrest, where we all showed up at his apartment dressed like midgets. No, not really. But now you people not in the know are wondering what exactly he did with midgets.

-A Guinness drinking competition with Steve which I lost soundly (6 to…8?)

-A Hamburger grilling competition with Steve which I won slimly (3 to 2. Don’t complain about the adverb, I’m neologism certified).

-Both Christi and Maggie wondering why Steve and I can’t just be friends

-Me salting the earth of Steve’s garden, so nothing will ever grow again

-Being outside, because it’s Texas and you can do that kind of thing in December

-Ragnarok, end of times, dogs and cats living together

My first day back I went to a riveting Mavericks game where, despite it being about 5 am Dublin time and my having been awake for around 30 hours straight, I definitely recall some kind of sport happening. Now the break seems to have passed in the same way: a very pleasant whirl; and still certainly one of the best games of the year. I’ll leave it short this time because this is technically supposed to be an Irish correspondent and I’d hate to be accused of straying from my balliwick (1, it’s nice and cozy, 2, I have no idea what one is), but deep love and warmest New Years greetings to all and off we go again. Our hands around the old bull’s throat.

Resolutely, tearfully, manfully,

A

Study questions: At what age do people stop asking you questions about what was your favorite this or that about an experience? For some reason I feel like adults don’t have to answer that kind of thing. It’s not that I really mind, it’s only that what X offers, with its similarly-sized drawbacks, can’t really be measured against Y because of its different texture (although one certainly has an extra fun-sized straight line).

No, seriously, why can’t children modulate the volume of their voices? Is that why voices crack? So self-loathing will teach you to keep it down once in a while?

#7

Deearrrr frrieendddsss (that one was for Paul),

Although I save almost the entirety of my personal bile for the dreadful state of American journalism—that, in its most dangerous new trick, it has learned all the noble attributes that characterize the American citizen and now threatens to destroy it utterly by pandering every single story, however, miniscule, so as to tug at the American heart, thus destroying both the heart’s instincts and the newspaper’s value—I must admit that perhaps the newspapers in these British Isles are even worse. Not as soul-destroying, since they don’t take them nearly as seriously—that is, they don’t have the Woodward and Bernstein myth to ceaselessly pervert with every wretched breath they take—the articles are beyond the Lohan line for ridicularity. As evidence, I give you only the front page headlines from a nameless magazine which calls itself the “smart, sophisticated on-the-go magazine.” #1 “A shark tried to bite off my face.” #2 “I drink my own wee! (cheers).” I kiddeth you not (that was for Mark. Although not really, since this is a family-minded dispatch). Smart and sophisticated indeed.

Deborah, my sister, stopped by here on her way to France last week. We went to the museum and saw the BOG PEOPLE…which are people who somehow managed to get themselves thrown into bogs some thousand or three years ago and are now quite creepily preserved, with fantastic tans. It’s like a Hollywood over-70 convention, except with missing limbs. Bogggg people….Frankly, I just like the term. We also went to Glendalough, where St. Kevin once had a monastic community before becoming the inspiration for the hit television series “The Wonder Years.”

The only other real news is that, while out one night with certain of my Anglo-Irish literature coursemates it was brought up that I was the only male in the class without some kind of facial hair (although I could never hope to imitate Eric’s glorious, Joycean moustache) so I resolved to show them why, a decision Guinness had absolutely not influence on. So I had a beard for about a week. I shaved yesterday, as it was my last day of classes. I know, I was disappointed to see my face again too.

I’m enjoying my program-although I must say I was surprised at how, in terms of academic rigor, it really compares in no way to my undergraduate program, where I feel it should be the other way around-and I’m enjoying my time, but once a week, for one hour, I’m pretty unhappy. We have what’s called “a research seminar,” which can be loosely translated from the Irish to “sometimes people take masters programs that don’t know how to use computers. ” The first class was by far the most useful, as it was on the library, but it still could have been condensed to 15 minutes and a handout. Since then, it's like there are bunch of people wandering around Ireland with pre-fab speeches on subjects that are neither interesting or useful and Trinity's performing a charity by bringing them in to talk to me.

Last week, for example, it was on "editing", and not like proofreading, but composing finished volumes of other people's works. You know, just in case somebody shows up and says "hey, we need someone to put together a modern edition of John Milton, and you, with your masters degree, are our man." And then we got our assignment, which was to “edit” a poem of Samuel Coleridge’s. Because yes, for Samuel Coleridge is pretty good, but you know what he needs? My expertise.

We all failed. Seriously. I got an 18 out of 50, and the kids I was sitting next to got a 21 and 23 respectively. And one of them has a line from Coleridge tattooed on his neck, and I am not at all kidding about that. To be fair, he did get the 23.

(I can hear my mother freaking out from here. It’s okay mom, we don’t really get a grade for that course anyhow. And I passed the other assignment creditably. AND, basically, we don’t even actually get a gpa. Just a masters degree.)

I just can’t help but wonder what was actually expected of me.

Classes finished up for the semester yesterday, finished an essay this morning, so I have officially completed my first semester of Anglo-Irish literature. I haven’t gotten any kind of essay grades back yet so whether or not I have PASSED my first semester of Anglo-Irish literature is another question entirely. But at least I have: made the Trinity JV basketball team (more or less), visited Glendalough, Howth, Tara, Newgrange, Dun Laoghaire, and Istanbul, come to love the taste of Guinness, worn a fake beard and hat to advertise a klezmer concert, grown a real beard and shaved it (THANK GOD IT’S GONE IT WAS SO ITCHY GOOD LORD), read thousands of pages, written 50, locked myself out of my room several times, fought a bear, and performed “Take me Home, Country Roads,” to a room of drunken Irish people.

It’s still hard, sometimes, to be an Anglo-Irish lit masters student when so many of my other friends are i-bankers, consultants, or engineers, but of course it has its perks. Someday I’ll be able to answer “and what do you do with that degree” with something other than “use it as a placemat.” I’m young yet. And the other day I was at a Chanukah party when someone approached me for help with an essay on Yeats they were writing. I was shocked: something I was actually qualified for. It does happen people. It does happen. And I never came here for the in class education so much as to become, by degrees, myself. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: my thesis on studying abroad is that if you remove yourself from the company of people who expect you to say certain things, you can finally hear yourself talking. After a certain amount of years of the same scene, it’s nice to check in and see where you are.

It’s 1 am, I’m waking up at 7:15 to get up to the airport to get on home. I’ll be back just after New Years. Don’t cry for me, Dun Laoghaire,

A

This’ll be the last you’ll hear from me for a little while as Saturday I’m coming home for Christmas break (there is no sense, in Ireland with its 2000 Jews, of even pretending to call it Holiday Break). For those of you who are in Dallas and haven’t been told yet, hey, guess what, I’m coming home. Free your calendars accordingly.