Loose Cans

Apologize for the habitual light blogging. I'm at Halls, typing in a small room on an iMac whose keyboard makes the act of writing so unpleasant that real blogging is out of the question.

Something huge happened last night, though, something to do with housing, something very serious, and I promise that the moment I have the right keyboard, as well as a more temperate disposition, it will all come pouring out. That basically means Monday. I don't mean to leave you in suspense, but I haven't really got a choice. I simply cannot write on this thing.

Just had an Old English class that made me want to scream, that's all.

I mean, it wasn't a bad class, it's just that there is only so long a human being can be subjected to the third person singular preterite indicative for a seventh group strong verb.

I can now not only spend half the ride to college with my hands off the handlebars (usually they're covering my nose, as it's -5ºC), but I can actually steer like that, too. No joke. I can weave around cars and cut through tight holes just by leaning. I can't swerve, but I can definitely weave. Big triumph.

In other news, Tony Blair has had a trying week. First, there was this huge vote on University fees--essentially permitting Universities to charge them, up to £3 000 per year (there is of course much, much more to this: more than half the scheme involved graduates reimbursing Uni's, dependent on ability to pay. It's kind of a tax-the-rich-fuck-the-middle-class deal)--which, had he lost it, would have triggered a no confidence vote similar to the one which not three months prior brought down the leader of the Tories, Iain Duncan Smith. He won, but barely: 316-311. Then there was the dreaded Hutton Report, which can be compared to the Warren Commission, and which was an investigation into the apparent suicide of David Kelly, a bioweaponry expert who was allegedly asked to "sex up" his findings on Saddam's capabilities and stockpiles. The findings were either going to destroy Blair or the BBC, which went after Blair like Tommy Lee Jone in the Fugitive. Today, Lord Hutton cleared Blair of any wrongdoing, and the chairman of the BBC resigned within hours. And that of course is the end of that story. Also Oswald acted alone. And no one ever doubts it.

So Blair survives to entertain me on televised House of Commons broadcasts another day. Good. I may not adore his politics--don't hate on him either, though--but goddamn. I mean, have you listened to him? Seen him? He's a rock star. I want to put a big poster of him up. Like Jagger in a suit, man, like Jagger in a suit.

So. Ruthie has made it, with three delightful girlfriends in tow. They are off napping while I tool around college and do silly things like go to class.

Also, the hostel reservations have been made. Unfortunately, Roz wasn't going back home, so there went the free accommodation, but I got a very nice hostel at a reasonable enough price. $18 a night for a 14-person mixed. Not great--the best was this rocking joint I was trying to get for $12, but the only thing they had left was a 4-bed mixed which, while fun, was nonetheless too steep, at $32 a night. Anyway, the place is on Borough High St, South Bank (this means something to some of you, I'm sure of it) and it got the highest score out of all the ones available. So I get a little comfort, apparently. They give you towels, I think. Also they have a hot tub upstairs--though it's probably a pay-thing, and I won't use it anyhow, but still pretty cool.

Anyway, just wanted to drop that all on you. Things bode well for the next few days, as Ruthie's buddies, Laura, Bridgid (Bridget? Bridgitte?), and Britta are all very friendly and sharp. Should be some craic.

I start with a particularly early 9am Hero tutorial, which is generally pleasant enough. I then have four hours of nothing to do but email and blog and work, then Old English at 2, another hour, and then a 4pm Sin session. I'm liking my new schedule quite a lot; with Wednesdays being almost empty, save for a Hero lecture followed by an Ultimate practice in the gymnasio, and a three-day weekend every week, I'm sort of in Heaven. Except that Mondays and Thursdays are brutal, but no more so than high school. I feel like I've done pretty well for myself.

So the big news this week is that tomorrow morning, Dublin shall be graced with the presence of none other than the Great Harvardia herself, Ruthie Birger, along with her entourage of three other minor sideshow attractions, though attractions they are sure to be (I am somewhat tickled at the thought that, thanks to Horace Mann, had I simply said "The Great Harvardia," none of you would have had the slightest idea which one I was referring to). Tomorrow morning I get to go pick them up at the hostel, and I get yet another chance to see this lovely filthy city I live in. I promise to ply all my skill as a journalist (which Tonto P-ardner--yeah, you like that--and Nick will readily agree to be immense) and report all the news that's fit to print from what should be a rollicking good week.

Also, the aforementioned P-asha P has just wired confirmation of his tickets to Dublin. We applaud him, as his fellows in travel, for taking the initiative. We also exhort you others to follow suit, as places are filling up. P-inko will be here from 17-27 March, a very workable timeframe, and I will be here from 17 March to 7 May, at which point I will be jetting off to Paris to do my studying for the notoriously bad-ass exams in peace. If any of you have April vacations, do consider Dublin; as any tourist (or, as I might be called, erstwhile tourist) will tell you, it's a famously brilliant destination. It has a way of welcoming you warmly without making you feel abhorrently touristy. Also I'm doing my part for the Irish economy. It sucks pretty bad.

So in other news, because blogging has been terribly lax lately and I feel like a neglectful parent, I've been reading me arse off. This weekend, it was Playboy of the Western World and Hedda Gabler (Linda, if you're reading this, those Ibsen collections you gave me turn out to date from 1907 or so, and are published and translated by William Archer, who was pretty major. So much appreciated), plus Benjamin and Althusser texts, both of which are unbearable:

I read Aristotle
'Twixt sips from the bottle
Of wine (it makes him intelligible),
But lacking amphetamine
I weary of Benjamin
Whose writing, alas, is illegible.
~Me, from a while ago. Anyone remember?

And then last night, it was books I, II, and IX of Paradise Lost, which turns out to be an excellent read, as long as you're not reading it for class, in which case it's deadly dull. Now I have two hours until Old English, in which I need to do some worksheets, I think, and then read Chaucer's Pardoner's Tale.

Before I go: the tickets to London are bought (thanks to der mensch mit der credit cardumschlagen), and now I have to figure out where to stay. Roz may be heading back for reading week as well, which means I could crash chez elle, which would mean I'd have to buy her another bottle of white. If she doesn't, I'll just hostel up, I suppose. I'll do my research next week, I guess.

I made Beef Teriyaki the other night. But I made my own teriyaki sauce. Took a while. It would have been good, only the beef was a slab of rubber. Oh, well, the rice tasted great. I need to go buy a cookbook. One for students who want to cook, but lack the quality ingredients, the know-how, the equipment (the recipe called for a broiler pan. I was going to just stick the pieces on skewers over the frying ban and barbeque 'em that way, and I even went out and got some skewers from the butcher, who was very nice and just gave me ten or so, but in the end it turned out that the skewers weren't long enough, and there wasn't really enough heat to reasonably simulate a broil situation anyway, so I just chucked the beef into the pan and did it the usual way), or the kitchen space for the confection of magnum opii. I'm very into magnum opii. Just last night I made a burger and, lacking my usual red wine to splash over it, slathered it in soy, teriyaki (storebought), salt, pepper, and anything else I could come by.

The bun was perfect.

Just kidding, the burger was pretty good. But the bun was bloody perfect.

Okay, I'm going to go get some lunch. Enjoy your day.

Every so often, I must prove my worth as a functional and relevant member of society by sprinkling this burgoo with pop culture seasoning, which is why today's first post takes its inspiration from the recent announcement by Ben and J. Lo. that they had terminated their engagement. Personally (and I don't think I'm alone here), my first thought upon hearing of this was, "But they're both so purty!"

So the question of the day is, How could two individuals that hot voluntarily stop screwing one another? I can't even conceive of J. Lo. being so spectacularly obnoxious, so stunningly noisome, that I would kick her out of bed. Evidently, she's inconceivably obnoxious. This question came to mind, though, in the context of Trinity Hall. I will admit that the place I am living is purty (except for that cesspool under the bridge: it's a water feature for which they completely neglected to install a filtration system, and hence has become a filthy murky sewer, and, come mosquito season, a pestilent quagmire). The walls, where we haven't flung whipped cream or potted plants (SADIE AND NICKY) or stale bread, are nice and white. The rooms are quite large, and having our own bathrooms is quite a blessing. The place may smell carcinogenic and fermented, but that's probably our fault; those apples have been there for three months. The place is well-furnished, brand-new, sleek in a boxy way, and, on the whole, livable. Certainly moreso than most of the American dorms I've seen.

Then why do I hate it so much? At what point did the total lack of facilities, the infuriating way the hot water shuts off at midnight, the remoteness of Dartry road, the security guards, the gate, the hill, and so on, make this place feel insupportable. Unlivable. Basically I've kicked Trinity Hall out of bed.

So the point of this story is: I understand you, J. Lo. I feel your pain. And if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, I'm here for you.