Loose Cans

So that last post was actually written yesterday afternoon, after I crashed into bed for a welldeserved nap. Now I'm back in the cyber cafe.

Tonight we're celebrating my friend Jago's birthday, and I finally get to pull out the recipe for Irish Coffee for a crowd. Although bowing to Jago's preference I'm using Teacher's Scotch. In any case the problem is going to be making all that coffee without a coffeemaker. Thankfully this appears to be the country of instant Carte Noire. The crack has been of the highest order lately.

Not Crack crack. Craic crack. Which is the Irish word for fun and revelry. Which has swiftly made its way into my vocabulary, along with shite. Which is infinitely better than the clipped 'shit,' off of which we so often leave the T. Which drives me insane.

Bought a scrubbing brush. And that makes me glad. I should go home and write this thing for the paper. I think I'll start with the post-frisbee beers on the pitch and work backward, the adjustment procedure. As if 800 words were enough to do that. I hate newspaper writing.

And then on the fifth day, God looked down and saw all that he had made. And God said, It is not finished. It is not good. And God looked down and said, Let there be frisbee. And there was frisbee. And it was good.

So this is how, at about 3pm today, I found myself sitting on the grass in the sprawling college park, panting and sweating after two hours of intense Ultimate with a perfectly adequate team, drinking some chilly pint cans of Bavaria. Beer, frisbee, and grass. And it was good.

I think I’m going to be playing for the Irish team at the worlds this year.

More on the frisbee team, which is massively an excellent thing, later. Though my wednesday is getting real hairy: 4-5:30pm: Discus. 5:30-8: Trampoline. 8-9: Tae Kwon Do. Frisbee, Trampoline, Tae Kwon Do. I am either the coolest person ever or a humongous loser.

The student newspaper has also drafted me, writing unread, to pen a piece for this week’s section on fresher’s week. 800 words by tomorrow night. There are six people writing, I think. This should be interesting. See how they measure up to the Wreckord.

I’m all involved and shit.

I am really enjoying myself. Meeting Americans here, there. Not too many, but a comfortable amount (as anyone might have guessed, the frisbee team is just over 50% American). Despite my weakest efforts, every night this week has turned into a rocking good party, whether in town or in someone’s flat. We all just kind of rove around and buzz other people’s bells. I have little interesting to write. This occurs to me because.

Because I’m not putting much effort into it. Because I haven’t really had much downtime, thinktime. The iPod gave me quite a scare yesterday, when it appeared to skip for about eight hours. It righted itself eventually. Things have been doing this, righting themselves. I am trying to strike a balance between passivity, letting things just happen, trust to the Tao, grasshopper, or actually going out and being relentlessly congenial and friendly and accommodating and in short not myself at all, but whatever works, you know, you do what you have to. In any case the former approach has been working marvelously, peppered with a slight dash (very slight) of the latter.

All of my roommates are cutting out this weekend. Saturday night, I think I’m the only one in the apartment. They’re all going home or to relatives’ places. I must think of what to do. Order one might be clean the apartment. What a fucking hole, man. These people, I swear. First thing tomorrow, I’m buying a scrubbing brush. Also a can opener and saran wrap. The good news is that there is no shame in ketchup here. The good people at Heinz have thrust their throbbing deep into the warm welcoming folds of Dublin’s nether markets. Which is sort of what I’m trying to do. Only not quite. Maybe not. At all. Actually I don’t know what I’m trying to do. Where to stick the throbbing. This is the question, isn’t it?

Here I am again in my sweltering cybercafe. This has been quite a week. I have done everything from go clubbing (which, as anyone who knows me will understand, turned out to be a bust, what with two million people crowding the bar and twice as many on the cloakroom queue and even more on the dance floor) to ride a mechanical bull which I must say was really not up to kansas city standards, no saddle or stirrups or anything, to jump on three massive trampolines (that was today. I joined the trampoline club--I can't believe there IS such a thing). So things are real good. I'm making friends faster than I thought I was capable of doing so, which is quite a surprise, seeing as how I was planning on a good dose of solitude in the first few weeks. Some English and Canadian, and plenty of Irish. As for my accent, about the transformation of which so many of you have expressed reservation, I will be very disappointed if I come home at Christmas or the end of the year without some strange inflection tic.

Also been playing a dizzying amount of indoor soccer, much to the detriment of my underwear reserves, and tomorrow there is a frisbee exhibition game, which should be fun. Checking my email, I notice that I have been drafted by the Trinity News, up for which I signed (props to Winston) in a moment of signing-up mania. It should be noted that immediately after trampolining on mondays and wednesdays (it's also on friday) I have Tae Kwon Do. I have almost completely forgotten about academics, which is just lovely.

Speaking of mackadesmics, I have my classes:
Culture and Criticism (they're real big on crit)
The Hero: From Commoner to Tourist
Literature and Sexuality (YES!)
The Essay (Blugh)
Poetry: Theory, Language, Form
Drama: Something, something, and baaa.

I have 12 hours a week of class, and 21 weeks of school. 21 weeks. Sha-zam.

This place is absolutely deathly hot. I have to get out of here. I'll post more on the morrow, I think. Till then.

I wish to amend any and all statement to the effect that this place is not extraordinary.

Amendments to statement of previous posts:

I. The house recognizes that the University of Dublin, Trinity College, is in possession of the single most sublimely beautiful campus on the planet, with these lovely filthy blackened limestone classical buildings everywhere, and a two great wide sports pitches and pubs everywhere on campus, the hell with eating clubs, and pictures will be posted eventually whenever the house gets it together to bring its camera into Dublin proper;

II. The house recognizes also that while it was stupid to have gone to any college essentially sight unseen, as the house basically lied when it said of course it had seen the school, because what it meant was that it had seen the front square, or parliament square, and campanile, which is right behind parliament, when in reality this is a great whopping big sprawling campus, plunked inexplicably and inextricably smack in the middle of this marvelous pluvious city, it was even more lucky to have chosen right;

III. The house recognizes that the drinking, while all involved knew it was going to be good, turns out to be better than ever imagined, which is not to say grotesquely abundant, but simply constant, casual, oftentimes free, and incredibly legal;

IV. The house recognizes that the student societies are manifold and delightful, including, and here the house limits himself only to the societies that the house has joined, which is to say, paid the 2-3 euro fee for: the Philosophical Society (oldest society in Europe), or Phil (publication: the Philanderer), the Historical society (oldest society in Europe...the claim of one of these is a little dubious), or Hist, the Jewish society, though the house is quite positive that he and the guy who runs it are the only two members, and the house is a little doubtful about that guy, Tae Kwon Do, which the house has always wanted to try his foot at, Fianna Fail or the Labour Party (the house has yet to cast its vote), some publication the name of which the house has not bothered to remember, the drama club, which puts on 30 to 40 shows a YEAR, don't ask the house how, it's very sketchy on the details, oh yes, Amnesty International, because the house was obliged to at least pay them something, Ultimate Frisbee, at which the house will rock the house, which is not to say that the house will be rocked, only that the house will be rocked. By the house. Yes. Finally, the GO-KARTING KLUB. Which is so cool I have to pee.

V. The house recognizes that it is wondering if it hasn't slightly overextended itself;

VI. The house recognizes that it doesn't care;

VII. The recognizes house it that has a lovely time been having past days few the, is and more considerably optimistic the coming about year;

VIII. The house recognizes that that was a very slick pun with 'the coming about' with its sailing connotations, over seas, flying into the wind, and so forth, and the house is very proud of its cleverness right now;

IX. The house recognizes that it is 11:20 in the morning, that it is very hungry, not having had much to eat last night, and that furthermore it really should amble up to school fairly soon if it wishes to be able to dick around awhile before the International Students Lecture in the Edmund fucking Burke Theater. That is a lecture theater. The actual theater, which hosts international companies, is of course named after Samuel Beckett. The graduate writing center is the Oscar Wilde writing center. The house is starstruck. And happy. Very, very happy.

The house is coming about.

Took a few pictures this morning:

Last night was much, much better. Slept like a log, for one. Settling in a little. Also I've remembered that I sort of enjoy a measure of solitude. Some of the guys headed out to this big party at a place called P.O.D. which was supposed to be a hallwide thing, with free passes handed out to all residents. Apparently, it was precisely that, because there were about ten million people waiting for the 14A bus into An Lar, or City Center. My irish pronunciation is improving. Once you understand how Dun Laoghaire is said Dun Lerry, and Trionoide is Trinity, you're on your way.

Oh, by the way. Extremely bizarre coincidence. So I go to synagogue on Saturday morning for what turns out to be the most excruciatingly bad service in the history of bad services. It's enough to make you want to get baptized. But the point is that who should walk in the door but SARAH FUCKING SELTZER AND MICHAEL FUCKING FLEISCHMAN? This was too weird. Sarah was doing a year abroad in Galway while Mike was at Oxford, and since this is the only (ONLY!) progressive gog in Ireland, they arranged to meet here for a few nights of revelry and sanctity in Temple Bar. So that freaked me out.

I'm at this internet cafe again. I'm taking a liking to it. It's dingy and run by these two African guys who are totally chill. Their closing time is "whenever the last dude leaves."

My parents leave today. Poor kids.