Loose Cans

Sitting here at the computer at my Aunt Janet/Uncle Steve's lovely large cabinesque house in Kansas, having had a massive christmas dinner the night before with my the family, plus my newly minted cousin-in-law(?) Diana's whole family, entirely affable Russians. This meant that while the food was not necessarily Russian, the presentation was: there were no less than 10 different dishes, and a minumum of three platefuls of each, to be distributed among the 20 or so people. Very good. Very full. After dinner, though, we returned to our poker game, commenced a few hours previous. And this is the new thing, see: Poker. Everybody brush up on your Texas hold-'em; the Rumblin' from Dublin's gonna hammer down your door.

Because this was woof exciting. Two nights ago, when we started, we were playing for monopoly money. Last night, it was for somewhat more real money (though obviously not casino levels; nevertheless, you should expect to give me your money when I get back): everyone ponied up about $10 and got their chips in monopoly money. We then proceeded to play God knows how many hands of Hold-'em. We started at around 4pm, I think. Dinner started around 7, 7:30. Poker game recommenced probably at 10 or 11. Went till 2:15. I went from being up a few cents (after taking a major drubbing) to being down to $5.10, to being down to a mere 50 cents, to ending, after a long, long hike, at $13.20. Which felt great. Nothing quite like winning money, however little. Almost made enough to buy a Dublin pint--in case I haven't told you, there are actually two units of currency in Ireland: the euro and the pint.

That joke (though hardly a joke; it's absolutely true) was funnier back when the Irish pound was spelled Punt. The Punt and the Pint. How all occasions do inform against me.

In any case, I propose that upon my return, a game be organized, presumably to be played chez Ashworth. Small-stakes poker ($10-15). Let me know what you think. COMMENT, you wankers! And don't get leery about losing money. If you end up down, you still haven't spent nearly as much as you would have on a movie. You rarely lose everything. Unless you're Jacob. He lost EVERYTHING.

I hate--HATE--the fact that I have gone from a country where I am considered an autonomous adult to a country where I am not.

We're in Kansas City. Everything is lovely, the whole famdamily's here buzzing about. Light but hopefully faithful blogging for the next week.

Props to Nick again!

Back at Nick's last night. Admittedly, not quite so legendary a crowd as the previous night/yesterday morning, but nevertheless a perfectly good time. Although "long-suffering flatmate" Jukay had gone and got himself a haircut sometime between 7am that morning and 11pm that night. That I even noticed makes me wonder if maybe I haven't been there a little much lately.

But before we went over, and before dinner, Mike and Sam (who have been living here, basically--and of course we are more than happy to have them) and I rented The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. And extraordinary it is. How can a movie be so totally bad-ass and so painfully, painfully stupid at the same time? Spectacularly poorly made. It was very much leave-no-cliche-unflogged sort of thing. I'm not exaggerating; watch it and see if you can think of a single cliche they didn't assassinate. It wasn't even good bad, like Legally Blonde or Terminator. It was bad bad. And plus, they couldn't even get their fucking literary references straight (of course the movie is loaded with them). Captain Nemo's first mate's first line is, "Call me Ishmael." WRONG! And then, when the vampire lady (I'm really SO worried about spoiling the ending which to anyone over the age of four has been RATHER obvious since the first minutes) has to kill Dorian Gray (which is a pity because he's the only one in the film who at least attempts wit) who is of course invincible since his painting absorbs all the damage, she could at least do it RIGHT and stab the fucking picture, like it happens in the damn book, but NO, they have to go and concoct this idiotic and entirely baseless pretense where if he looks on his painting, he will DIE. Gasp. So of course they have this very pointless sword battle with the worst fencing I have ever seen in a film, pointless because she's a fucking vampire and can't so much die either, so they just slash each other for a while, Dorian commenting drily, "We're going to be at this all day," which is true, but why should that stand in our way, and finally, after she's skewered him on his own sword and pinned him to the wall, and he's trying to get free, she extracts the painting, which more than anything else looks like a portrait of the fellow from Tales of the Crypt, and poor Dorian just fucking melts. Totally anticlimactic. None of the delicious dialectical collision of representation and reality. He just...ends. Wilde is whirling in his grave.

Furthermore, Mr. Hyde is NOT the Incredible fucking Hulk. God damn it. Every single person who worked on that movie needs to be shot. Yes, INCLUDING Sean Connery. It'd be a mercy killing and he'd thank us later.

I broke a personal record last night. I have never come HOME at 7am.

To everyone who was there: Ben, Mike, Sam, Garth, Liz, Liz' friend Dave, Blairbare, Nick, Cavita, Roofie Burglar et. al., Alana, Dre, and Nick's long-suffering flatmate Jukay who slept, or didn't, on a tatami: that's what craic means.

More later, but it's 2:30, we just woke up, lunch is ready, and we have to go get Hebrew-Hammered later. Anyone what wants to join, call me. Let's get the whole tribe reassembled.

UPDATE: Not so much with the Hebrew Hammering anymore. Maybe tomorrow. Apologize for flaking like dandruff.