Thursday, February 12, 2004
It tickles me endlessly that, as I write this at 1pm, most of you are still asleep
Just had a meeting with Dr. Patten (she of the infamous 42). We talked over the essay briefly and she explained why she did what she did. I told her I was a little surprised at having come so close to failing, and she said Well, I could very well have failed you. I could also very well have given you an 80. Oh, I thought, That clears that up. Say no more.
We tried to hash out everything about it. She said numerous times, I recognize the brilliance here (wow, thought I, I certainly hadn't), and yada yada yada but I had to do this, because it is glib and colloquial and not at all formal, and furthermore we are not asking for your opinion, and while impressively wellexecuted, it is all completely inappropriate.
I replied that I was still dealing with the eternal struggle between what I need to do academically and what I need to do personally, and since Personally spends more time in the gym, it takes a spectacular effort on Academically's part to gain any ground at all (that is to say, the adrenaline surge brought on by panic). She asked what grade I should have received. Modestly, I said Mid-fifties, because what this grade says to me is, there is absolutely no literary merit in this paper, and that is what burns me. I said that I tended to insert my own notions, however sophomoric they may be, because if I am not involving myself in the subject at hand, if I am not using the Masters as sounding boards, then I hardly see the point of the essay. I cannot, I said, just write reviews. She said she understood, and that Yes, it could very well have been an 80, but she was very sorry and said she didn't have a choice.
Personally I found it all very complimentary. She said some tremendously encouraging things, some of them intentional. Anyhow I'm having it reassessed. One of the neat things about this place (don't know if it's standard in the states as well) is that if you don't like your grade, you just submit your essay for reassessment by another tutor. And in this case, a higher grade's a guarantee; it certainly can't go any lower.
I don't feel like I'm grade-grubbing. This is prudence. All that matters in this college is how do you on your finals, and I need to know, by the time I get there, just what kind of licence I'm allowed. These essays are all meant to gauge the general disposition of the department: how stodgy do I need to be and how much fun can I have? Also, something new came up today: scholarship. That is, I've decided that I'm taking the Scholars test at the end of second year. Out of every year, there are ballpark 70 Scholars elected, a few from each department. There are a large number of advantages to being one: 1) obviously, you cruise in the highest circles, 2) I think you get funky cool robes at graduation and other events, 3) all kinds of special privileges, and 4) (and this is the main reason) free on-campus accommodation. Actually, whoa! I'm looking at the site and it's free everything, food, tuition--Jesus you even get paid! Say no more. I mean to try. Stop laughing! These grades I'm getting, 78 and 72 (I'm not counting the one I wrote on the plane), these don't just fall out of the sky. I think I have a very fine chance, given what I've discovered the average skill level in the English studies class to be. Also, now I have something to work for. This was lacking, in a way. Academically may just start pumping iron...
We tried to hash out everything about it. She said numerous times, I recognize the brilliance here (wow, thought I, I certainly hadn't), and yada yada yada but I had to do this, because it is glib and colloquial and not at all formal, and furthermore we are not asking for your opinion, and while impressively wellexecuted, it is all completely inappropriate.
I replied that I was still dealing with the eternal struggle between what I need to do academically and what I need to do personally, and since Personally spends more time in the gym, it takes a spectacular effort on Academically's part to gain any ground at all (that is to say, the adrenaline surge brought on by panic). She asked what grade I should have received. Modestly, I said Mid-fifties, because what this grade says to me is, there is absolutely no literary merit in this paper, and that is what burns me. I said that I tended to insert my own notions, however sophomoric they may be, because if I am not involving myself in the subject at hand, if I am not using the Masters as sounding boards, then I hardly see the point of the essay. I cannot, I said, just write reviews. She said she understood, and that Yes, it could very well have been an 80, but she was very sorry and said she didn't have a choice.
Personally I found it all very complimentary. She said some tremendously encouraging things, some of them intentional. Anyhow I'm having it reassessed. One of the neat things about this place (don't know if it's standard in the states as well) is that if you don't like your grade, you just submit your essay for reassessment by another tutor. And in this case, a higher grade's a guarantee; it certainly can't go any lower.
I don't feel like I'm grade-grubbing. This is prudence. All that matters in this college is how do you on your finals, and I need to know, by the time I get there, just what kind of licence I'm allowed. These essays are all meant to gauge the general disposition of the department: how stodgy do I need to be and how much fun can I have? Also, something new came up today: scholarship. That is, I've decided that I'm taking the Scholars test at the end of second year. Out of every year, there are ballpark 70 Scholars elected, a few from each department. There are a large number of advantages to being one: 1) obviously, you cruise in the highest circles, 2) I think you get funky cool robes at graduation and other events, 3) all kinds of special privileges, and 4) (and this is the main reason) free on-campus accommodation. Actually, whoa! I'm looking at the site and it's free everything, food, tuition--Jesus you even get paid! Say no more. I mean to try. Stop laughing! These grades I'm getting, 78 and 72 (I'm not counting the one I wrote on the plane), these don't just fall out of the sky. I think I have a very fine chance, given what I've discovered the average skill level in the English studies class to be. Also, now I have something to work for. This was lacking, in a way. Academically may just start pumping iron...
Finally remembered
Here's what I kept meaning to mention: some dirty fucker has stolen my bike. I'm quite sure of it. Assuming I didn't take it to Talbot street or something and lock it up there and just completely forget about it, some bastard has swiped my bike. This happened about two weeks ago, right after Ruthie left. So I've been walking a lot lately (and, as Ruthie, Nick, and Jacob can attest, that's rather a schlep to do twice a day), considerably aggravating my already burning hatred of Halls. I don't think I'll go buy another one, though. I'll see how this walking thing suits me for a while.
Also, I think I should say something. I need to repair the damage done to the reputations of my friends. The post about being screwed out of my habitation plans was written in something of a spiteful mood, and does not really do the matter any justice. It was very tough on everyone, including--and especially--Duncan. It was not a situation where I was being told Actually we don't like you so fuck off. It was something which needed to happen, and it's better that it happened sooner rather than later. We are all still friends, and good friends. If anything, it's been beneficial, since we've all been struck by the realization that we need to branch out a little. I remember one night when we were wondering where Caitriona had got to. We found out that she had gone out with "friends," and were of course appalled. We had no idea she had other friends.
So the idea now is to expand. There is still that nucleus in Sadie's flat, but we now consider ourselves electrons in search of positively charged once upon a time I knew how to make a science metaphor, really I did.
Anyhow, while I appreciate all the sympathy--and let's not pretend that all the tension is gone when it's still humming in the air--we have settled back down to normal. I do still feel somewhat shunted to one side, but then again, I am. But there's not really any blame, there's not really any acrimony, and we've all pretty much gotten over it. I do still mention it in jest, though, just to let everyone know I'm still a bit sore about it. But things are cool.
I have a half-hour left. I think I shall ruminate. I haven't ruminated in ages. Let us begin with the massive public works projects going on throughout Dublin. I've never seen quite so many cranes. Yesterday, there was a big one right outside my bedroom window, doing something to the halls roof. We don't know how the hell they got it in there, nor what it was doing. I took a picture for posterity. If I had the stinking internet I could post it.
Dublin's a city on the rise. Nearly a quarter of the population of Ireland live in Dublin's metropolitan area, and another quarter come in at least once a week. That is to say, at any given time, nearly half of the entire country's population (4 million) can be found in Dublin. And because of the recent boom, all these new projects are going up, the two most noticeable being the Dublin Port Tunnel, a massive tunnel set to go from the airport all the way to city centre, and, of course, the famous Luas.
Some of you may have heard me mention the Luas. "Luas" is Irish for speed. That is highly ironic; it's the slowest civic project ever. It's millions over budget and it's taking years. No one but me expects it ever to be finished. But what is it? It's a tram system. At the beginning of the 20th century, while the British were in charge, Dublin had the most sophisticated tram system in the world. Then, I assume, the Irish got ahold of it (ZING!). There is now no tram system. There is also no subway system. Also the roads are ridiculously poor, never wider than two lanes, even on the highway. So congestion is horrendous. So they decided to build this fancy Luas, with lines running everywhere, out to the southern coastal suburbs, to the west, everywhere. But the problem is they suck at it. For instance, after they'd laid the track over O'Connell bridge (the main bridge), they discovered they hadn't laid it deep enough, and had to rip it all up and start again. As Nick would say, "Another triumph of Irish engineering." By the way, I live here now, so I figure I get to be as abusive of the Irish as I am of Americans. But moving right along.
The other day on the radio, I heard that they had begun testing the trams themselves. Running them. The trams are built. They exist. Shock. I started to look around the city and see actual completed track here and there, track with no orange traffic cones blocking it off, track you can just walk across, which, rare though it is, is glorious. Glory in the naked rails. It occurred to me that I am watching a city build itself. One morning, I will walk down past Stephen's Green and suddenly a huge ass trolley will slam out of nowhere, blow past me, and shuttle on happily down Grafton street. Of course, that may take years, but still. It will be new. Some day, maybe after I get back from a trip to Barcelona or Amsterdam, I'll be on the Aircoach, settled in for a long bumpy ride, when all of a sudden we'll be underground, in the dark, and when we reemerge, Presto, I'll be staring at the front arch of college.
These are the things that make an expat happy. We are not involved in our new home yet. We don't matter. We're on a different plane from everyone else, a plane from which we can only look down and observe. We imagine ourselves as a camera with an endless exposure time, tracing the dazzling flit of photons shooting through the streets. It'll turn out to be a brilliant picture someday. We see a city happen.
Also, I think I should say something. I need to repair the damage done to the reputations of my friends. The post about being screwed out of my habitation plans was written in something of a spiteful mood, and does not really do the matter any justice. It was very tough on everyone, including--and especially--Duncan. It was not a situation where I was being told Actually we don't like you so fuck off. It was something which needed to happen, and it's better that it happened sooner rather than later. We are all still friends, and good friends. If anything, it's been beneficial, since we've all been struck by the realization that we need to branch out a little. I remember one night when we were wondering where Caitriona had got to. We found out that she had gone out with "friends," and were of course appalled. We had no idea she had other friends.
So the idea now is to expand. There is still that nucleus in Sadie's flat, but we now consider ourselves electrons in search of positively charged once upon a time I knew how to make a science metaphor, really I did.
Anyhow, while I appreciate all the sympathy--and let's not pretend that all the tension is gone when it's still humming in the air--we have settled back down to normal. I do still feel somewhat shunted to one side, but then again, I am. But there's not really any blame, there's not really any acrimony, and we've all pretty much gotten over it. I do still mention it in jest, though, just to let everyone know I'm still a bit sore about it. But things are cool.
I have a half-hour left. I think I shall ruminate. I haven't ruminated in ages. Let us begin with the massive public works projects going on throughout Dublin. I've never seen quite so many cranes. Yesterday, there was a big one right outside my bedroom window, doing something to the halls roof. We don't know how the hell they got it in there, nor what it was doing. I took a picture for posterity. If I had the stinking internet I could post it.
Dublin's a city on the rise. Nearly a quarter of the population of Ireland live in Dublin's metropolitan area, and another quarter come in at least once a week. That is to say, at any given time, nearly half of the entire country's population (4 million) can be found in Dublin. And because of the recent boom, all these new projects are going up, the two most noticeable being the Dublin Port Tunnel, a massive tunnel set to go from the airport all the way to city centre, and, of course, the famous Luas.
Some of you may have heard me mention the Luas. "Luas" is Irish for speed. That is highly ironic; it's the slowest civic project ever. It's millions over budget and it's taking years. No one but me expects it ever to be finished. But what is it? It's a tram system. At the beginning of the 20th century, while the British were in charge, Dublin had the most sophisticated tram system in the world. Then, I assume, the Irish got ahold of it (ZING!). There is now no tram system. There is also no subway system. Also the roads are ridiculously poor, never wider than two lanes, even on the highway. So congestion is horrendous. So they decided to build this fancy Luas, with lines running everywhere, out to the southern coastal suburbs, to the west, everywhere. But the problem is they suck at it. For instance, after they'd laid the track over O'Connell bridge (the main bridge), they discovered they hadn't laid it deep enough, and had to rip it all up and start again. As Nick would say, "Another triumph of Irish engineering." By the way, I live here now, so I figure I get to be as abusive of the Irish as I am of Americans. But moving right along.
The other day on the radio, I heard that they had begun testing the trams themselves. Running them. The trams are built. They exist. Shock. I started to look around the city and see actual completed track here and there, track with no orange traffic cones blocking it off, track you can just walk across, which, rare though it is, is glorious. Glory in the naked rails. It occurred to me that I am watching a city build itself. One morning, I will walk down past Stephen's Green and suddenly a huge ass trolley will slam out of nowhere, blow past me, and shuttle on happily down Grafton street. Of course, that may take years, but still. It will be new. Some day, maybe after I get back from a trip to Barcelona or Amsterdam, I'll be on the Aircoach, settled in for a long bumpy ride, when all of a sudden we'll be underground, in the dark, and when we reemerge, Presto, I'll be staring at the front arch of college.
These are the things that make an expat happy. We are not involved in our new home yet. We don't matter. We're on a different plane from everyone else, a plane from which we can only look down and observe. We imagine ourselves as a camera with an endless exposure time, tracing the dazzling flit of photons shooting through the streets. It'll turn out to be a brilliant picture someday. We see a city happen.
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
Every day it occurs to me that there's something I absolutely need to mention here, but upon confrontation with the computer, I suddenly forget.
Mama will be so proud: I discovered yesterday that I can sate my habitual evening hunger cheaply and nutritiously by picking up loads of fruit on the way home for half the price of a box of cookies. So between last night and this morning, I blew through four clementines, two apples, and four plums. To say nothing of a PB & J, a Guinness (a meal in and of itself), and, of course, a well-marinated steak. If I can do nothing else, I can bloody well feed myself. My newest find is Worcestershire sauce. Why, WHY did you never tell me about this miracle juice before, Mother? What other secrets have you been keeping from me?
They installed curtains in the living room two days ago. Blinds you pull shut. Good for when it's so sunny outside that you can't see the telly screen for the glare. But otherwise pretty pointless. Also our intercom still doesn't work. It never has, and it never will. And as for the internet, we've relapsed into despondency.
I'm tired, I haven't eaten lunch, and I have ultimate in half an hour. And it's hot as hell in here. But I know that the minute I walk out of this computer room, I will remember whatever it is I meant to blog about, but it will be too damn late, because it's a ten-minute wait to use a machine. Oh well. Nosebag time.
They installed curtains in the living room two days ago. Blinds you pull shut. Good for when it's so sunny outside that you can't see the telly screen for the glare. But otherwise pretty pointless. Also our intercom still doesn't work. It never has, and it never will. And as for the internet, we've relapsed into despondency.
I'm tired, I haven't eaten lunch, and I have ultimate in half an hour. And it's hot as hell in here. But I know that the minute I walk out of this computer room, I will remember whatever it is I meant to blog about, but it will be too damn late, because it's a ten-minute wait to use a machine. Oh well. Nosebag time.
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
Oh...oh...BOOYA!
Or, as they say on Telemundo, GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLL!
Just picked up my essays--the last two. Frankly, I don't know which one I'm happier about, Microcosmos (almost no one but Jacob appreciates my having abjured the Bartokian K where those C's are, which I would like to think makes it that much less pretentious), or God Wants Your Penis. And Mr. Blake Does Not Suggest You Give it to Him. The first is the HM essay; the second, of course, is the Blake.
I'll start with the Blake. It's much more exciting. See, you may remember how I actually wrote it on the plane over here? Yeah, and how it was atrocious? Well, apparently, my tutor's a pushover. Her comment on the title page sets the tone:
"An...interesting title Sam, but you really should have discussed it with me first--deviations from the set list of questions must be cleared with your tutors!"
See, it sounds like the LitSex disaster all over again, but the exclamation point belies the amusement. And this is what we're going for. When you don't know what you're talking about, always go for the laugh. Nine times out of ten, it saves your ass.
Then the essay begins. I run into trouble quickly when I call Blake a 19th century poet (she wrote, "NO! If you're going to criticize an historical era, at least make sure your chronology is correct!"). I feel sheepish again. What follow are admontions to "rephrase--a bit flippant for an academic essay" (that she wrote over the line, "This is not necessarily a call for everyone to get naked and get down.") interspersed with heartening check marks. When I mentioned parenthetically that when considering a line in reference to Jesus' crown of thorns, "one is reminded, most disturbingly, of that man in Australia a few years ago, who, for $500, stapled his personal organ to a crucifix and set it on fire. Church officials were reportedly delighted," she wrote in the margins, "An interesting, yet fairly irrelevant anecdote."
See, that would have driven most tutors up the wall. I feel all warm and fuzzy now.
I include this excerpt for Rebecca's benefit: "We critics like to loudly complain that sometimes Mr. Blake makes his poems so bloody obvious that it renders our profession quite beside the point. We have a similar complaint about Billy Collins. If they go on like this we will be put out of business, and be forced to go do something like work for a living."
I will not retype all of her final comment, but the first line is worthwhile, to say nothing of personally delightful: "Well, Sam, seldom a dull moment here..."
She actually goes on to say, "You make many interesting (and fairly well argued) assertions [what? Really?] during the course of this essay, but there is one major problem--the tone you employ is quite inappropriate for a formal academic essay."
Really? Huh. I never thought of that.
But what is the grade? I hear you cry.
62. SIXTY FUCKING TWO. That's a mighty fine goddamn grade, darling. I was, and am still, totally shocked.
And what of Horace Mann? Even better--but of course, I worked a little harder on it. It kills me that I couldn't hand it in in its entirety, but hey. Sometimes we have to shove a knife in our heart to stay alive (No, you DON'T, goddammit. Or at least you shouldn't have to). There was less playing around here. At least, there was considerably less irreverence, which I fancy to be a personal forte. It still didn't bear any resemblance to an academic essay, though, I promise. I'm not going soft on you.
The grade on this was, again, a triumph. There was a maximum of 80 points, but of course no one ever gets near that. Here's how she broke it down:
Reading/Interpretation: 18/20
Research/Accuracy: 18/20 (I used virtually no sources, but the two quotes from my dear, dear Blogonauts came to the rescue. She loved that. Bless you, Birgler and Good Listener)
Organisation/Argument: 23/25 (Hah! HAH! Eat me.)
Syntax/Language: 9/10 (she hated my penchant for parenthetical asides (which I can understand))
Mechanics: 4/5
All in all, that's a 72: a first. Boom shaka laka laka. So bite me, Dr. Patten.
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
A few other notes from today: I finally got a haircut, of which I was in desperate need. I think it's a pretty crap haircut, though, and am hoping to get it fixed when I get back to New York. For Christ's sake, I look..I don't know...Irish or something. I think that henceforth I will be flying back to New York whenever my hair gets too long.
I've been meaning to mention this for a while, for Jonah's sake in particular: I don't think our issues of Esquire are the same as yours, but if February's issue has Nicole Kidman on the cover, go check out page 36. But since it isn't likely to be the same, I'll tell you. Anyone remember Mr. Markovits?
Yup, it's the same one. And Esquire's got a brief little article on him. He's hanging from a basketball hoop. Apparently, he's been getting crazy press. Damn. And didn't we know him way back when, Percolators? Our Booming Voice of Authority?
Lastly, as I was walking down Grafton Street, I saw a mini-parade of a most peculiar nature: first there came two Garda motorcycles clearing the way. Then followed three men, one on trumpet, on on trombone, and one on banjo. Following them came a red-clad woman on stilts flanked by two beautiful women, also dressed in shiny red and gold outfits. And then--and here it gets weird--there was an armada of children in little go-karts, puttputting slowly along close to the ground. There must have been thirty of them, seven-year-olds rolling in perfect ranks. And the band was playing, and the cars were rolling, and the kids were smiling and the stiltwalkers were wobbling--there were two, one before and one behind--and there were these childrens' mothers bringing up the rear, making sure little Patrick didn't swerve into a trash can, and it was just too weird for words. I have to go now.
Just picked up my essays--the last two. Frankly, I don't know which one I'm happier about, Microcosmos (almost no one but Jacob appreciates my having abjured the Bartokian K where those C's are, which I would like to think makes it that much less pretentious), or God Wants Your Penis. And Mr. Blake Does Not Suggest You Give it to Him. The first is the HM essay; the second, of course, is the Blake.
I'll start with the Blake. It's much more exciting. See, you may remember how I actually wrote it on the plane over here? Yeah, and how it was atrocious? Well, apparently, my tutor's a pushover. Her comment on the title page sets the tone:
"An...interesting title Sam, but you really should have discussed it with me first--deviations from the set list of questions must be cleared with your tutors!"
See, it sounds like the LitSex disaster all over again, but the exclamation point belies the amusement. And this is what we're going for. When you don't know what you're talking about, always go for the laugh. Nine times out of ten, it saves your ass.
Then the essay begins. I run into trouble quickly when I call Blake a 19th century poet (she wrote, "NO! If you're going to criticize an historical era, at least make sure your chronology is correct!"). I feel sheepish again. What follow are admontions to "rephrase--a bit flippant for an academic essay" (that she wrote over the line, "This is not necessarily a call for everyone to get naked and get down.") interspersed with heartening check marks. When I mentioned parenthetically that when considering a line in reference to Jesus' crown of thorns, "one is reminded, most disturbingly, of that man in Australia a few years ago, who, for $500, stapled his personal organ to a crucifix and set it on fire. Church officials were reportedly delighted," she wrote in the margins, "An interesting, yet fairly irrelevant anecdote."
See, that would have driven most tutors up the wall. I feel all warm and fuzzy now.
I include this excerpt for Rebecca's benefit: "We critics like to loudly complain that sometimes Mr. Blake makes his poems so bloody obvious that it renders our profession quite beside the point. We have a similar complaint about Billy Collins. If they go on like this we will be put out of business, and be forced to go do something like work for a living."
I will not retype all of her final comment, but the first line is worthwhile, to say nothing of personally delightful: "Well, Sam, seldom a dull moment here..."
She actually goes on to say, "You make many interesting (and fairly well argued) assertions [what? Really?] during the course of this essay, but there is one major problem--the tone you employ is quite inappropriate for a formal academic essay."
Really? Huh. I never thought of that.
But what is the grade? I hear you cry.
62. SIXTY FUCKING TWO. That's a mighty fine goddamn grade, darling. I was, and am still, totally shocked.
And what of Horace Mann? Even better--but of course, I worked a little harder on it. It kills me that I couldn't hand it in in its entirety, but hey. Sometimes we have to shove a knife in our heart to stay alive (No, you DON'T, goddammit. Or at least you shouldn't have to). There was less playing around here. At least, there was considerably less irreverence, which I fancy to be a personal forte. It still didn't bear any resemblance to an academic essay, though, I promise. I'm not going soft on you.
The grade on this was, again, a triumph. There was a maximum of 80 points, but of course no one ever gets near that. Here's how she broke it down:
Reading/Interpretation: 18/20
Research/Accuracy: 18/20 (I used virtually no sources, but the two quotes from my dear, dear Blogonauts came to the rescue. She loved that. Bless you, Birgler and Good Listener)
Organisation/Argument: 23/25 (Hah! HAH! Eat me.)
Syntax/Language: 9/10 (she hated my penchant for parenthetical asides (which I can understand))
Mechanics: 4/5
All in all, that's a 72: a first. Boom shaka laka laka. So bite me, Dr. Patten.
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
A few other notes from today: I finally got a haircut, of which I was in desperate need. I think it's a pretty crap haircut, though, and am hoping to get it fixed when I get back to New York. For Christ's sake, I look..I don't know...Irish or something. I think that henceforth I will be flying back to New York whenever my hair gets too long.
I've been meaning to mention this for a while, for Jonah's sake in particular: I don't think our issues of Esquire are the same as yours, but if February's issue has Nicole Kidman on the cover, go check out page 36. But since it isn't likely to be the same, I'll tell you. Anyone remember Mr. Markovits?
Yup, it's the same one. And Esquire's got a brief little article on him. He's hanging from a basketball hoop. Apparently, he's been getting crazy press. Damn. And didn't we know him way back when, Percolators? Our Booming Voice of Authority?
Lastly, as I was walking down Grafton Street, I saw a mini-parade of a most peculiar nature: first there came two Garda motorcycles clearing the way. Then followed three men, one on trumpet, on on trombone, and one on banjo. Following them came a red-clad woman on stilts flanked by two beautiful women, also dressed in shiny red and gold outfits. And then--and here it gets weird--there was an armada of children in little go-karts, puttputting slowly along close to the ground. There must have been thirty of them, seven-year-olds rolling in perfect ranks. And the band was playing, and the cars were rolling, and the kids were smiling and the stiltwalkers were wobbling--there were two, one before and one behind--and there were these childrens' mothers bringing up the rear, making sure little Patrick didn't swerve into a trash can, and it was just too weird for words. I have to go now.
Monday, February 09, 2004
Hi, bye. Monday blitz.
I would love drop a big blog now, really I would, but I have to blast through more Derrida in the next half hour. I spent all morning, from 9-12, finishing Volpone and reading Saussure, Culler, and a book I have on Derrida (which mercifully cleared him up a little, the twit), and have eaten nowt but toast and tea so far today. I would have done this all last night, but Angels in America was on. Everyone must see it. It's not the best TV movie I've ever seen.
It's the best fucking movie, period. Awe-inspiring. No movie or play has ever made me cry before. This did. I can't communicate how astonishing it is. Rent it the day it comes out on video.
Also I made Fish & Chips yesterday, which, with a little perseverance and a lot of oil (but not enough, in the end), turned out pretty fine, I think.
Have just sat through the most atrocious lecture on fucking Dubliners, of all books. Your man's apparently a famous critic. Bullshit. I don't care. He's a terrible lecturer and should be retired at gunpoint. He capped it by completely inventing a fact. He didn't miscontrue it, he just made it up. "The Lass of Aughrim" is not about a military battle, you stupid git, it's about a jilted lass and her cold wet dying baby, crying for shelter outside the heartless Lord Gregory's door. I don't know what kind of crack that man is on, but I want no part of it.
It's the best fucking movie, period. Awe-inspiring. No movie or play has ever made me cry before. This did. I can't communicate how astonishing it is. Rent it the day it comes out on video.
Also I made Fish & Chips yesterday, which, with a little perseverance and a lot of oil (but not enough, in the end), turned out pretty fine, I think.
Have just sat through the most atrocious lecture on fucking Dubliners, of all books. Your man's apparently a famous critic. Bullshit. I don't care. He's a terrible lecturer and should be retired at gunpoint. He capped it by completely inventing a fact. He didn't miscontrue it, he just made it up. "The Lass of Aughrim" is not about a military battle, you stupid git, it's about a jilted lass and her cold wet dying baby, crying for shelter outside the heartless Lord Gregory's door. I don't know what kind of crack that man is on, but I want no part of it.
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