Loose Cans

I got my article published. Center of the page, featured and everything. And it was really well received by people, though a surprising number were bewildered by the end bit about the throbbing.

Except that the Trinity News fucking butchered it. Made the punctuation laughable--unless Irish punctuation really is that different, which is to say WRONG--chopped whole sentences, essential sentences, and then committed what must be the most savage, unforgivable act of editorial barbarity: lopped off my last line. I liked that fucking line. I thought it summed up college pretty fucking well. Last time I write for them. Assholes.

Best sport ever. To watch. Why the hell don't we get this America? It's so magnificently stupid, so powerfully brutish, so artlessly brilliant, that I cannot imagine why it hasn't got an absolute choke hold on the American consciousness. I just love it. Could watch it for hours. It rarely stops because they all pile on the ball when somebody gets taken down and then the ball squirts out of the pile (no, not the scrum; the scrum is different, it's after a foul, which I think happens if you leave the other guy with teeth after a tackle) and they're off to the races again, trampling down the field, ripsnorting, massive fleshbombs rumbling and colliding, it's terrifying, it's exhilarating, it's fantastic.

Yeah. See, this is the thing. You ask yourself, why does a stolen bike get recovered? And then you see the stolen bike. And you go riiiiight. Ah, sodeska. Because my stolen bike, like I said, was the mess. So I take it in for the tune up. And they say, we can do this. And I come back the next day and they say, yours is the black one, right? Yes. Right. Well, see, there's a problem. Come. I show you. Walk this way. And you walk that way, bandylegged-like, and they show you the bike and you take a good look at the rear gear and you see that the smaller gears are all stripped. No good. And then they say, you see? And you say yes. And they say, Yes you see that which is bad but no, you see how many gears you have on this back wheel? What? Look, you have seven gears on your back wheel, but this is only a six gear bike. And you go ohhhh. And they say that's a little more expensive, €30 to replace your back wheel. What's the alternative? You can never switch gears. But Dublin's flat? Yes. So I wouldn't really need to? Yes. Lovely, I'll take it.

And oh my lord...it's heavy, man. It's really, really heavy. I couldn't possibly type all the titles, but woof. Duchess of Malfi, Everyman, Mankind, Faustus, King Lear (yes!), Hamlet (twice), Hedda, Mandragola, Godot, Volpone (AP englishies in tha house?), Ghosts (lotta Ibsen, it's great), Long Day's Journey into Night, Pinter's Homecoming...and that's just a third...of the Theater course.

Beyond that, for the Hero, which is only a two-term course, I have the Aeneid (Ben? Are you out there, Ben?), Paradise Lost, Don Juan, Tristam Shandy, and ten others.

Romanticism I already told you about. Then Writing Ireland, which is also only two terms...well, I got a head start on that one. He he he. YES! Dubliners AND Portrait of the Artist. Yeats, Synge, Kavanagh, Heaney, Boland (got a big jump on her last year), and a few others. That's the lightest course, workwise.

Sin and Redemption looks small on paper: Piers Plowman (bluch, but apparently not the whole thing), Chaucer's General Prologue and The Pardoner's tale...something bizarre there, The Wakefield Shecond Shepherd's Pageant, never heard of it...Everyman (AGAIN?), The Faerie Queen, and Doctor Faustus, which frankly I have been just...dying...to read.

Old English! Beowulf, The Dream of the Rood, The Wanderer, and The Story of Cynewulf and Cyneheard. The goal is for us to be able to read it fluently and translate well. About which we flatter ourselves to presume we know something.

I am also leaving out the reading list for Poetry because there isn't one. Then there is Critical and Cultural Theory. The subject schedule (they say shedule here and it's driving me nuts) for CritCult (very enamored of the pun) is just a little intimidating:

(this is the week-by-week list)

The Making of "English": The Liberal Tradition
Linguistics and literature: Saussure and Formalism
Introduction to Poststructuralism/Postmodernism (Nick, you're going down)
Derrida and Deconstructionism
Practices of PoMo
Foucault (aw yeah dawg)
New historicism (i used to know what that was)
Real and imagined readers: theories of reception

Hilary Term!
Marxism I
Marxism II
Applications of Marxism
Feminism I
Feminism II
Applications of Feminism
Postcolonialism I
Postcolonialism II
take a wild guess.

Trinity Term.
Politics of Cultural Studies
The Study of Popular culture
Intro to Film Theory (very cool; I know a dude from Boston, name of Max, who's doing TSM in English and Film)
Gender I
Gender II
Consequences of Theory.

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So my question is this. What the hell do we do for the next three years?


Actually there is a thing. That you all might remember how I kept saying that this was like going to grad school. Well, as it turns out, I sort of am. The program is so murderously intensive that at the end of four years, I can just buy my masters for €1000. Fucking A tweety.

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In other news. The Gay Marriage debate was lovely. It was three gay people, an editor, an academic, and a minister (who just ripped the other side a theological new one) beating on these hapless evangelical bigwigs. Then there were the student debaters, some of whom were none too shabby, but that's of course because they had a tather simple argument. The one against were just hopeless. I'm not being hugely biased here, really. They were just sad. This one guy, a real Bush Youth type with ascot and everything, think Mark Littman but even more pompous and stupid, was giving his speech, which was just hysterically pathetic, and he gave it at warp speed, and I just went oh, shit, he's American. I had to represent. So I got up and said "Point of Infor-fucking-mation." That's the only way a nonscheduled debater can speak. And I didn't say fucking, but that was the tone of voice. He had been orating with great eloquence and spittle about the sanctity of marriage (which was literally the ONLY argument made against the motion, which was of course to support gay marriage), and I just got up and said, almost laughing out loud, "Can you point to an era, any time in history, when marriage bore the faintest shred of sanctity? From its very inception, marriages have been arranged for the purpose of acquisition. Dowrys, betrothals, kings and queens, the royal family, Darva and Rick (this is where the applause started)..." I went on for a little while about the chance to restore some of that 'sanctity' to a besmirched institution. The point of information was well received as the night wore on.

In the end the ayes had it and the Bush Youth went home with their tail between their legs. I have to say, the really hate him here. It's just virulent. But they warm up once you tell them you feel the same way.

It noon. Me hungry. Me sick. Me going to schlep over to the Penny Farthing Bike shop (which is hell of walk right now) and hope they have bike working. Then me going back to bed. Maybe Tarzan post more later on.

So my 13:00 lecture--Theater--has been canceled. I go to find out my tutorial schedule, and find that in addition to my preexisting 9am lecture (Critical and Cultural Theory), for which I was late this morning owing to the absolutely obscene traffic of Dublin, I know have the class I dread the most at 9am MONDAY: Romanticism. Gonna slit my wrists.

This morning's lecture was a disaster. That silly man plodded on about the most utterly irrelevant theories, mostly Arnold's Liberal Humanism, the main gist of which seems to be that art. Is good. Will make you good too. See, if something meets good, and it likes good, then it is good also as well. Yes. See?

There was actually more logic in that sentence than there was in his entire lecture. I mean, I've never been in a class that I can say with conviction was, very simply, perfectly irrelevant. It was a bit surreal. You kept asking youself, "Why is he bothering to tell us this?"

Tomorrow I've got poetry, the tutorial for which I am much looking forward to. My tutorials are interesting: all the previously noted classes, but between 5 and 8 people, and always the same ones. Which is good, because a familiar dynamic builds up, a habit, an intimate knowledge of the others' foibles and fortes which allows discourse to proceed without the usual inhibiting level of trepidation. Which is all to say that I'm going to run amok.

Bought a bike an hour ago. Buddy Simon and I went down to the Kevin Street Garda (po-lice) station to the stolen bike auction. He eventually elected just to bring his bike over from England (he's from around Birmingham), rather than drop €80 like I did. But hey, I got a good bike. The thing about the auction, which was rather a lot of fun, and I'm wondering if this english affect is just now creeping into my voice or was it there all along and I had hitherto never been given reason to notice it, was that nobody steals crappy bikes. So Simon was in the market for a real piece of shit, which he wasn't likely to find. On the other hand, the highest price I saw bid was €160, but that was for a €600-700 bike. Most went for €80-100. I'm going to go hike over there now and pick it up, actually. This morning's horrendous bus ride was confirmation enough that a bike was absolutely essential to getting around in this place. The traffic is unlike anything I've ever seen. So are the prices, incidentally. We're all astonished by how stunningly expensive everything is. I miss the $1.75 slice of pizza, man.

Jesus fucking Christ. I can't leave you kids alone for a minute!

Right after I saw the headline, I ran into a friend from Boston. The exchange went like so: "He won. Schwartzenegger won. I'm going to cry." "I'm going to puke." "God, aren't you glad we left when we did?"

But you sort of expected it, didn't you? Like you just knew Californians were actually that stupid.

In other news, the cold is hopefully on its way out, as it's turned into a violent cough. Which I am told means it's almost over. But my friend Reem from Dubai made me soup last night. because she's also a mess. That was nice of her.

So tonight the Hist, or Historical Society, has its debate on gay marriage. Tomorrow night, the Phil (figure it out) has some bigwigs coming in to debate the lack of merit or total lack of merit of U.S. Furrin Policy. This should be juicy.

I was floored by something again this morning. It turns out that I go to a school where the Art History lecturer assigns his students to go look at and expound on the Book of Kells. The actual Book of fucking Kells.

Now I can't hear nothing. This on top of the nose not functioning properly. I'm so sick I haven't been able to drink for two days. Which is saying something.

I forgot to mention earlier this thing that happened last night. Most of the time, when everyone's back at halls, we like to sit in the living room and listen to music. Everyone was very much enamored of the iPod (Martin wanted to know if it was called a Love Box, and I said Yes, yes it was), and in scrolling through the selections, it was discovered that I had an affinity for opera. This, shockingly, was eagerly seconded by Brian, whom I always suspected a good sort, and he pulled out the CD he had purloined from his mother's collection--Puccini Favorites. It was around midnight, and he put on track 9: the Te Deum from Tosca, which is an absolute thunderclap of a number. At certain persons' insistence, the volume was lowered slightly, as it would, I suppose, be a mite unseemly for a flatful of manly men to be caught listening to a wop'ra. This person I seem to recall was Ben. To their credit, they did all seem more or less familiar with Nessun Dorma, even if that familiarity owed itself to an ad for Cornetto ice cream.

But we were listening to Opera. And beyond that, I found that I am not the only one with a sincere affinity for trad (Celtic music). Martin, who's doing TSM (two-subject moderatorship) in English and Irish, knew his stuff pretty well, and was furthermore shocked to find that I knew who Cu Chulainn was (he's the Irish equivalent of Achilles).

So we are well. Socially. Physically we are, as stated ad nauseam, a trainwreck. This computer room is getting very very crowded, and there's rather a long line, so I should go. I think I'll go get some free soup in the chaplaincy. Because they're really very nice people, chaplains. One of them, the protestant, rides around on a bike all day with a big grin. I like him.

He was found drowned the next morning in his tea pee.

Or just totally blearyeyed and drowsy. This is apparently what happens when you drink three cups of tea between 9 and 12pm in an overzealous attempt to cure yourself of a vicious cold. You lie up in bed all night long, totally wired. I'm a mess again.

The lecture yesterday was stultifying. I can't stand boring people. It's literature and sexuality! It's funny! Make a joke! Christ, the woman's only attempt at humor was the first things she said: "Now, many of you are hoping that this class will involve lots of sex. Well, it doesn't."

HA HA HA HA HA no.

Oh my God, if that woman says "binary" one more time I'll kill her. She's not dumb, but it's just that people like that...ugh...academes. By droning on about a welter of incompatible yet plausible viewpoints, the incontrovertible legitimacy of any one of which completely dissolves that of any of the others, she basically made it abundantly clear that no one who writes about this subject has the faintest idea what they're talking about. Congratulations, lady. In just 40 minutes you managed to entirely discredit your field.

So we're starting with Pride and fucking Prejudice. Sam, stop laughing.

I said stop laughing!

We end with Orlando. AP english people, are you out there? You will be used and abused. So anyway I have to read a book a week. Per class. Which amounts to 6 books a week. Which just isn't happening. Sparknotes.com, are you out there?

In the meantime we do Villette (Gack. Yuck. Blllleeeuuuaarghh.) by that horrid Bronte woman, Return of the Soldier (read it), Dorian Gray (twice was enough), Tess of the Dunderheads, and a few others I can't or won't remember.

Today, it's "The Essay." I am dreading this one most. They're huge hard-ons about their style sheet. And anyone who's read an essay of mine know just how totally incompetent I can be. And this one's a year-long course. LitSex is just for Michaelmas (pronounced Mickelmus) Term.

The terms are, by the way, Michaelmas, Hilary, and Trinity. I like that.

I was going to take more pictures, but I couldn't stomach the idea of roaming around campus with a camera in my hand, because there are so many tourists that I live in fear of being mistaken for one. Already I have been once, but it wasn't my fault. I tend to carry around a map, au cas ou, and one day my friend Nicky was trying to get to Granny's house (for real!), but she wasn't so sure where it was. So I gave it to her, and we stood across the street from college trying to find the place on the map. Actually I wasn't helping. Just standing there. And then out of the south gate, this blueshirted blondewigged balloonbreasted horde of male medical students comes charging toward us. It turned out to be their yearly fundraiser, during which they take to the streets panhandling. Anyway, this guy comes at us, asking if we want to contribute, and figuring that I'm already paying well over ten times what E.U. students are, I say no. Then he asks us if we needed directions maybe. I wanted to hit him, and almost did. But he was pledge driving.

So I hit him.

No, I didn't. Just muttered real loud, "I fucking LIVE HERE!"

I have thought of a brilliant moneymaking scheme, though, guaranteed to pull in a minimum of €15 a shot. The Book of Kells exhibit costs the tourist €8. But it costs me nothing. Which means I can go up and see that library any damn time I please. But not only can I get in free (and I think even use the books--not Kells, but the ones in the library, these ancient Gutenberg-era manuscripts handled by people in white coats and blue latex gloves), but I can bring in 3 guest for free with me. So I figured I would just come up to three people standing outside the place, say, "Hey, I can get you in for just €5," pretend they're with me, and just clean up. €15, no problem. I have no scruples.

I think I should trundle up to college soon. It's been cold as hell lately. I'm at Halls, in the computer room equipped with decrepit iMacs and sluggish connections, but it's better than nothing. I need to hand in my rent check today. Yes, Ma, I got the bank draft and statement. I have to check in with the Gardai (the 5-O) before the 25th and show them I have enough cash to support myself, or else they'll deport me. This is fun, this living abroad thing. No, really. I'm rather enjoying it. I just wish I weren't so damn sick.

Sitting here in the mac lab at college. The computers they just installed are none too shabby, and the internet connection, which leaves scorch marks on the desk, gives me hope for the hookup Trinity Hall is supposed to receive come Christmas. In the meantime I would like it if my elevator would start working again; I'm still all sore from Ultimate.

50 minutes till my first lecture. I'm sure all of who who have been slaving for the past month are pissing yourselves with envy. I think I start with Literature and Sexualities; I admit to having been mildly surprised to hear that they actually had such a course in this most flung-open and liberal and secular of countries.

I am so goddamn sick. Uch. I got this horrendous cold, and I'm hopelessly stuffed up and hacking away in this complab. Though I suppose that's a good way of clearing the place out.

I have really nothing particularly 'throbbing' to post right now; hopefully the lecture will give me a little fodder.

This is the article that I hope the Trinity News publishes this week. It's not a total disaster, but it's no triumph either. You may recognize the ending.

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To Coital Dublin.

So it’s three pm friday afternoon and I’m sitting in college park with the Ultimate Frisbee team, recovering after a well-fought scrimmage, panting, sweating, and drinking ice-cold Bavarias. And suddenly, delightfully, it occurs to me. That I’m in college. And beyond that, I’m in Ireland.

Because this was not how it was intended. I was not supposed to find myself in an airplane, on a transatlantic red-eye, chasing the dawn across the sky as we neared the Irish coast. I was supposed to pack all my worldly possessions into a rental station wagon and drive with my parents down to Baltimore or D.C. or even fly over to Chicago, and in any case go to an American college and stay in America because this is what Americans do. There was something wrong, something devious, something villainously unpatriotic in this. Which was perfect.

The question is being asked incessantly, “Why Ireland?” It has to do with stimulus. Maximizing stimulus, keeping me thinking. A foreigner will always feel foreign, and therefore more self-aware. It has to do with experience. There is more new here than at home. Because everything is new again. This is the idea, I think. The New. But then there is Dublin herself.

I was terribly worried I’d idealized Ireland and Dublin and College. That it would be more hostile than embracing, more somber and solemn. I was worried about being flatly despised for being an American, to say nothing of Jewish. But I had so fallen in love with Dublin every time I’d come--this appears to be embarrassingly epidemic in tourists--that I decided that I had to try. And Freshers Week confirmed everything.

I found this place, this unspeakably lovely place, flung open to me. This had mostly to do with the society scrum this past week. On Wednesdays alone I have, one right after the other, Ultimate, Trampoline, and Tae Kwon Do. It’s that all-too-rare coincidence of the desire to involve and the desire to be involved.

But Trinity Hall is a similarly marvelous place (I must be excused for this protracted kvelling; I am rather enraptured lately). Everyone just bangs down doors, bearing sixes of Bavaria or Dutch Gold or cases of Rolling Rock, the ubiquity of which particularly appalls me, because damn it I didn’t come all the way to Ireland to drink Rolling Rock. The drinking has been casual, constant, and incredibly legal. And it turns out to be, as we all knew it was, a splendid way to make friends--provided they remember your face in the morning.

The beginning was difficult. The first night in Halls, I ended up walking around Rathmines at around 4 am, asking myself, What have you done? Pretty rough night, as they go. All evening I felt distincly alien, sheathed in some American husk. Like I was speaking a different language. That night I rang a friend back home, at some obscene price, just to hear an American accent. It was not home. Home was 3,000 miles away.

But then things started to turn. Acquaintances turned into friends, bit by bit, just as you never expect them to do. Friends started to multiply. I started to feel comfortable sitting down and casually chatting someone up. The American accent stopped being an impediment, though I still can’t understand a word of what my flatmate from Donegal says. I nod and smile a lot.

Then on Monday, Freshers Week began. I took my first real walk around the campus, and by the end, everything had changed. The clouds lifted. The literal clouds did too, though that was rather irritating, because if I’d wanted sun, I’d have stayed in New York. I came here for clouds and rain and have not been getting nearly enough of it. Though as I type this there’s a pleasant sun shower. Anyhow. The campus I found stunning. This great sprawling green-gray place, where stately classical stone halls sit like Olympians, and we won’t say anything about the arts bloc. This is home now. I understand this.

And at the same time, it doesn’t always seem so different from home. For instance, there’s no shame in ketchup here (try ordering it in continental Europe and see if they don’t spit in your eye). It came as a source of much delight to find that the good people at Heinz Ketchup have thrust their throbbing deep into the warm welcoming folds of Dublin’s 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?

So that’s going to be the theme of this year. Where to stick our throbbing.