Thursday, January 22, 2004
Shopping around
Figured if I want to stay two nights, I might as well see something else; I am ever so starved for theatre lately. I just tripped over a production of King Lear being done for £7 at the Greenwich Playhouse, and seeing as how I just read it, and have a lecture on it today, I might as well go.
Also, running in London is not only the Compleat Works of William Shakespeare (abridged), but the Compleat History of America and the Compleat Bible. Do I dare? Do I dare?
Also, running in London is not only the Compleat Works of William Shakespeare (abridged), but the Compleat History of America and the Compleat Bible. Do I dare? Do I dare?
Waiting on your word
Tony, I'm trusting you to be your prompt reliable self here and get back to me soon: looking at seating in the Barbican. Going to splurge on the £10 seats, but can't decide if front of nosebleed is better than way back in nose-run. Take a look.
Oh, wait. Hold on. The LSO and Prodigal Son are on the same night. I am now over a barrel. Please advise. Would like to hear Chichester, but I think a Balanchine program wins. Except that LSO is considerably less expensive, plus you don't have to worry about partial views. All the Covent Garden seats with even a semi-restricted view are out of my price range. But then again, there are the balcony seats.
(Oh, by the way, every so often in this computer lab, someone accidentally opens a page with a sound clip in it, and suddenly something mortifying starts blasting from the computer, jerking everyone else out of their reveries. It's usually quite funny. Just now, out of this computer behind me comes a choir singing, angelically, "YOU ARE AN ID-I-OT! HA HA-HA HA HA! YOU ARE AN ID-I-OT! HA HA-HA HA HA!" Then it stopped. Then it started again: "YOU-ARE-AN-ID-I-OT! HA HA-HA HA HA!" Then it happened again. And it kept happening, and this poor girl is desperately hammering at her keyboard, trying to make it stop, and the whole room is cracking up, and clearly this is one of those nasty things that keeps popping up until you pull the plug, and she's absolutely mortified, covering her face and wishing she could disappear, and this goes on for like a minute, the angels singing YOU-ARE-AN-ID-I-OT! HA HA-HA HA HA! until finally I run over there and hit the convenient little mute button on the mac keyboard, and she is very grateful.)
Anyhow, take a look, Tony, tell me what you think. The Balanchine, I suppose, is my first choice, though it kills me that I can't see both (I must think of something else to do the night of the third). I'd like to have the trip planned by tomorrow. Duncan? Any thinks?
Oh, wait. Hold on. The LSO and Prodigal Son are on the same night. I am now over a barrel. Please advise. Would like to hear Chichester, but I think a Balanchine program wins. Except that LSO is considerably less expensive, plus you don't have to worry about partial views. All the Covent Garden seats with even a semi-restricted view are out of my price range. But then again, there are the balcony seats.
(Oh, by the way, every so often in this computer lab, someone accidentally opens a page with a sound clip in it, and suddenly something mortifying starts blasting from the computer, jerking everyone else out of their reveries. It's usually quite funny. Just now, out of this computer behind me comes a choir singing, angelically, "YOU ARE AN ID-I-OT! HA HA-HA HA HA! YOU ARE AN ID-I-OT! HA HA-HA HA HA!" Then it stopped. Then it started again: "YOU-ARE-AN-ID-I-OT! HA HA-HA HA HA!" Then it happened again. And it kept happening, and this poor girl is desperately hammering at her keyboard, trying to make it stop, and the whole room is cracking up, and clearly this is one of those nasty things that keeps popping up until you pull the plug, and she's absolutely mortified, covering her face and wishing she could disappear, and this goes on for like a minute, the angels singing YOU-ARE-AN-ID-I-OT! HA HA-HA HA HA! until finally I run over there and hit the convenient little mute button on the mac keyboard, and she is very grateful.)
Anyhow, take a look, Tony, tell me what you think. The Balanchine, I suppose, is my first choice, though it kills me that I can't see both (I must think of something else to do the night of the third). I'd like to have the trip planned by tomorrow. Duncan? Any thinks?
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Wo ist meine Maestro?
I've decided that I need a classical music fix. Bad. The Classical situation in Dublin is even worse than the traffic, if such a thing is imaginable. So I've resolved to use one of my weekends to hop over to London and tool around there. I'm checking Covent Garden right now, and what they have going this month and next is, operawise, Les Contes d'Hoffman and Thomas Ades' The Tempest (which sounds interesting), and balletwise, Giselle and this Balanchine party, including Prodigal Son, which I've always wanted to see. But I think I need to shop around a little more. I like my idea. Just popped into my head. Any thoughts?
UPDATE: On Wednesday 4 February, The London Symphony Orchestra are playing the Chichester Psalms, the Tchaikovsky 6th, and the Prokofiev Piano Concerto No. 3 (Dmitri Alexeev), with Antonio Pappano conducting. The performance is titled, "With Cymbal and Drum." It's during reading week so I won't miss tutorials. It's perfect. Except that meh, because I can't find an airline ticket under €45. So we'll see. But it's probably worth it. Add the airfare to the ticket price and price of transport to and from the airports, and it STILL wouldn't cost as much as a Broadway show. And frankly I can't think of anything better to spend my money on. Tony? I need advice.
UPDATE: On Wednesday 4 February, The London Symphony Orchestra are playing the Chichester Psalms, the Tchaikovsky 6th, and the Prokofiev Piano Concerto No. 3 (Dmitri Alexeev), with Antonio Pappano conducting. The performance is titled, "With Cymbal and Drum." It's during reading week so I won't miss tutorials. It's perfect. Except that meh, because I can't find an airline ticket under €45. So we'll see. But it's probably worth it. Add the airfare to the ticket price and price of transport to and from the airports, and it STILL wouldn't cost as much as a Broadway show. And frankly I can't think of anything better to spend my money on. Tony? I need advice.
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
Some shuffle there, some cough in ink
But first. Kerry. John Kerry. So nu?
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
Now before I begin the meat of the morning, a poem:
"The Scholars"
BALD heads forgetful of their sins,
Old, learned, respectable bald heads
Edit and annotate the lines
That young men, tossing on their beds,
Rhymed out in love's despair
To flatter beauty's ignorant ear.
All shuffle there; all cough in ink;
All wear the carpet with their shoes;
All think what other people think;
All know the man their neighbour knows.
Lord, what would they say
Did their Catullus walk that way?
--William Butler Yeats
Okay. So this morning's headline: we have essays back. And take a wild guess. It turns out to be exactly what I think we expected. The first one I picked up was "Portrait of the Artist as Toilet Bowl," the LitSex essay with the word "shit" twenty-one times. The first comment, right there on the title page, was, "Sam, this was not the set question."
In a word, "shit."
She didn't like it. Gave me a 42. That's not the same as your 42, don't worry. It's probably a II.2(Second second), which isn't particularly good, but it's not failing. I'm scouring the TCD webpage trying to find the grade scale, to no avail. She wrote, as does any solemn, congenitally academic lecturer who walks around with an icicle up her arse, "Sam, this would be a clever enough article for a student newspaper but unfortunately does not satisfy as an academic essay (Hmm, where have I heard that before? 10th grade english redux, ugh)." It is worth noting thhat this woman, who has NO sense of humor, did not make a single pencil mark between her little barb on the first page and her comment on the last. One would hardly know she read it. But let us pass over this one; it was written in three hours and probably deserved the grade it got. Let us move on to the next one: Poetry.
I would like to think you all were somewhat keen to hear how the Poetry essay turned out, as you did have a fair hand in it. Well, then. The first thing one notices upon reviewing the comments in the margins is the plethora of little check marks here and there, an average of seven per page. Also, as the actual comments go, he actually seems to have been reading it, thinking about it. He writes things like, "Depends on the context. Frederick Douglass saw it very differently..." I always liked him. He seems to have liked me. His comment at the end would certainly make it seem so: "This is a wonderful essay: witty, engaging, entertaining, spirited. You write with such good humor, passion, and (it seems) ease, that this essay was--and is, on each reading--a pleasure to read." Interestingly, the only time I seem to get this sort of glowing commentary is when I'm writing about poetry: in 11th grade, something I did for Desai on a Plath poem (which I mistakenly took for a Stevens; he'd left off the name) brought even brighter praise. I'm starting, just starting, to think maybe I have a strong point? Anyway, then at the end he says, oh, the most vindicating, validating thing ever: "Your STYLE might not always appeal to readers...but for this assignment this is an exemplary answer."
78%. I hear you gasp, appalled. 78%. Sounds like a C+, doesn't it?
It's astronomical. It's far and away the best grade I've ever received in my life. But it's a First (66% and over is an A+), a high one, and those are mighty hard to come by. So I wish to hear no bitching about the 42: the 78 came at the expense of its sibling. I am frankly immensely proud of this one: I wrote a passionate, sincere essay, and put everything I had into it, but above all, I enjoyed myself. I had a goddamn blast writing this thing, and to be rewarded for the evident joy shown a work is a major personal triumph, one I feel has been years in coming.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
Now before I begin the meat of the morning, a poem:
"The Scholars"
BALD heads forgetful of their sins,
Old, learned, respectable bald heads
Edit and annotate the lines
That young men, tossing on their beds,
Rhymed out in love's despair
To flatter beauty's ignorant ear.
All shuffle there; all cough in ink;
All wear the carpet with their shoes;
All think what other people think;
All know the man their neighbour knows.
Lord, what would they say
Did their Catullus walk that way?
--William Butler Yeats
Okay. So this morning's headline: we have essays back. And take a wild guess. It turns out to be exactly what I think we expected. The first one I picked up was "Portrait of the Artist as Toilet Bowl," the LitSex essay with the word "shit" twenty-one times. The first comment, right there on the title page, was, "Sam, this was not the set question."
In a word, "shit."
She didn't like it. Gave me a 42. That's not the same as your 42, don't worry. It's probably a II.2(Second second), which isn't particularly good, but it's not failing. I'm scouring the TCD webpage trying to find the grade scale, to no avail. She wrote, as does any solemn, congenitally academic lecturer who walks around with an icicle up her arse, "Sam, this would be a clever enough article for a student newspaper but unfortunately does not satisfy as an academic essay (Hmm, where have I heard that before? 10th grade english redux, ugh)." It is worth noting thhat this woman, who has NO sense of humor, did not make a single pencil mark between her little barb on the first page and her comment on the last. One would hardly know she read it. But let us pass over this one; it was written in three hours and probably deserved the grade it got. Let us move on to the next one: Poetry.
I would like to think you all were somewhat keen to hear how the Poetry essay turned out, as you did have a fair hand in it. Well, then. The first thing one notices upon reviewing the comments in the margins is the plethora of little check marks here and there, an average of seven per page. Also, as the actual comments go, he actually seems to have been reading it, thinking about it. He writes things like, "Depends on the context. Frederick Douglass saw it very differently..." I always liked him. He seems to have liked me. His comment at the end would certainly make it seem so: "This is a wonderful essay: witty, engaging, entertaining, spirited. You write with such good humor, passion, and (it seems) ease, that this essay was--and is, on each reading--a pleasure to read." Interestingly, the only time I seem to get this sort of glowing commentary is when I'm writing about poetry: in 11th grade, something I did for Desai on a Plath poem (which I mistakenly took for a Stevens; he'd left off the name) brought even brighter praise. I'm starting, just starting, to think maybe I have a strong point? Anyway, then at the end he says, oh, the most vindicating, validating thing ever: "Your STYLE might not always appeal to readers...but for this assignment this is an exemplary answer."
78%. I hear you gasp, appalled. 78%. Sounds like a C+, doesn't it?
It's astronomical. It's far and away the best grade I've ever received in my life. But it's a First (66% and over is an A+), a high one, and those are mighty hard to come by. So I wish to hear no bitching about the 42: the 78 came at the expense of its sibling. I am frankly immensely proud of this one: I wrote a passionate, sincere essay, and put everything I had into it, but above all, I enjoyed myself. I had a goddamn blast writing this thing, and to be rewarded for the evident joy shown a work is a major personal triumph, one I feel has been years in coming.
Monday, January 19, 2004
Honey, I'm home!
It's good to be back. You know, I always feel like these weekends apart put some kind of strain on our marriage. I worry that I'm not there for you enough. I mean, the children need a father, and you...well, I think I need you as much as you need me. It's hard on both of us, I know. I'm doing my best. But the good news is, it's only for another few weeks. Really! I talked to my boss and I think he's going to let me work from home. He said he'd set me up with a connection from our bedroom, and I can just telecommute. Isn't that wonderful, honey? I know. I love you too.
This touching moment has been brought to you by IS Services at Trinity College Dublin: saving the Accommodation office's arse at the last minute.
Anyway, it's Monday afternoon here, and I've got an hour between classes which I really should be spending at lunch. But here I am. Isn't that funny. Fancy finding me in the computer lab.
Just had one of those spirit-crushing Writing Ireland lectures. I must say, it seems like that they've really outdone themselves this term. Every single lecturer is a bust. The Writing Ireland guy is especially disappointing, not because he's the worst (he isn't, but he's close), but because you figure that if there's one subject this college should do really, really well...
Oy. He's supposed to be lecturing on Yeats, and there he is, gasping (he doesn't talk. He gasps) on about this one talk Matthew Arnold delivered at Oxford in the 1860's, a talk which tells us nothing about the Celt, only the patently bullshit English conception of him, and that is really not the point of this course. He goes on about Arnold for half an hour, leaving him only twenty minutes for Yeats. Finally, when we get to Yeats, it's totally impossible to follow. He's just a very bad lecturer: no stage presence, no energy, an genuinely unpleasant voice which he uses to punctuate all the wrong points, and a hopeless style of delivery. Frankly, I think that all lectures should be typed up and handed to a drama professor. Let an actor read it. Or at least sort out the professors with some flair. Is that really too much to ask?
Have decided to make this a quiet week. Going to do some work, going to cook, going to take it easy. I finished King Lear last night; apparently Paddy Shakespeare could write a little. I'm splitting what little leisure reading time I've allotted myself between The Ginger Man and a book I just picked up, partly because it was €4.50, but mostly because it's called Lake Wobegon Summer 1956. Yes, it's Garrison Keillor's latest, and it's a delight. I've been using it as a reward. Putting it down is painful. I think I must go collect more of him. I'm worried I might get work done otherwise.
Oh, one more thing: I saw Lost in Translation, and it's everything they said it would be. It's kind of a perfect movie. You never want it to end. Even the parts that could turn out excruciating end up being so well-handled that you gasp in awe. I gasped through the whole movie. Literally. Ask Nick; I was actually gasping. Go see it. You'll thank yourself.
This touching moment has been brought to you by IS Services at Trinity College Dublin: saving the Accommodation office's arse at the last minute.
Anyway, it's Monday afternoon here, and I've got an hour between classes which I really should be spending at lunch. But here I am. Isn't that funny. Fancy finding me in the computer lab.
Just had one of those spirit-crushing Writing Ireland lectures. I must say, it seems like that they've really outdone themselves this term. Every single lecturer is a bust. The Writing Ireland guy is especially disappointing, not because he's the worst (he isn't, but he's close), but because you figure that if there's one subject this college should do really, really well...
Oy. He's supposed to be lecturing on Yeats, and there he is, gasping (he doesn't talk. He gasps) on about this one talk Matthew Arnold delivered at Oxford in the 1860's, a talk which tells us nothing about the Celt, only the patently bullshit English conception of him, and that is really not the point of this course. He goes on about Arnold for half an hour, leaving him only twenty minutes for Yeats. Finally, when we get to Yeats, it's totally impossible to follow. He's just a very bad lecturer: no stage presence, no energy, an genuinely unpleasant voice which he uses to punctuate all the wrong points, and a hopeless style of delivery. Frankly, I think that all lectures should be typed up and handed to a drama professor. Let an actor read it. Or at least sort out the professors with some flair. Is that really too much to ask?
Have decided to make this a quiet week. Going to do some work, going to cook, going to take it easy. I finished King Lear last night; apparently Paddy Shakespeare could write a little. I'm splitting what little leisure reading time I've allotted myself between The Ginger Man and a book I just picked up, partly because it was €4.50, but mostly because it's called Lake Wobegon Summer 1956. Yes, it's Garrison Keillor's latest, and it's a delight. I've been using it as a reward. Putting it down is painful. I think I must go collect more of him. I'm worried I might get work done otherwise.
Oh, one more thing: I saw Lost in Translation, and it's everything they said it would be. It's kind of a perfect movie. You never want it to end. Even the parts that could turn out excruciating end up being so well-handled that you gasp in awe. I gasped through the whole movie. Literally. Ask Nick; I was actually gasping. Go see it. You'll thank yourself.
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