Thursday, April 01, 2004
Wo ist Rivka?
She is gallivanting somewhere about Dublin and/or its environs whilst here I sit walloping away on a keyboard with a most reluctant spacebar. Needless to say blogging will be curt.
Anyhow, last night Rebecca and I saw Burial at Thebes, the new Heaney translation of Antigone, at the Abbey. First time I've been since I got here. I discovered that I have very little fondness for Greek tragedy. It's not that it was a bad production. It's just that at a certain point, you get get horribly tired of all the relentless howling and yowling and bitching and moaning and want them to just die already. I mentioned this to Rebecca, and she, being considerably more enraptured, did not appreciate it.
The night before, though, we went to see Brian Friel's Dancing at Lughnasa at the Gate, which is a splendid production of a wondrous play. Incidentally, the total cost of these tickets was €19.50 per person. Not too shabby.
But of course I am leaving out the biggest development (outside of Ireland's defeat of the Czech football team, who had a 20-game unbeaten streak, last night), which is of course the smoking ban, which went into effect monday. I was not sure how in favor of it I was until monday evening, when Rebecca and I went to meet her friend, who happened to be ober from Overlin, at the Globe Bar on South George's St. And we walked in. And breathed. And it was shocking. Magnificently clear. Clean. Lovely and delightful. This was helped of course by the fact that there was a short interval in the omnipresent thumping music (I HATE music in pubs, restaurants, or anywhere). It began a short ten seconds after we walked in, but for those short, silent, full-breathing seconds, it was a joy. Later on in the night, just for the hell of it, we poked our heads into the Stag's Head pub, a lovely spot which is usually chokingly smoked out. I have never been able to able to see to the far wall before.
I will leave off typing here as my thumbs are getting blistered from whapping this fucking spacebar--you really have to smack it hard--as go look for less productive enterprise. Call your mothers. It's the nice thing to do.
Anyhow, last night Rebecca and I saw Burial at Thebes, the new Heaney translation of Antigone, at the Abbey. First time I've been since I got here. I discovered that I have very little fondness for Greek tragedy. It's not that it was a bad production. It's just that at a certain point, you get get horribly tired of all the relentless howling and yowling and bitching and moaning and want them to just die already. I mentioned this to Rebecca, and she, being considerably more enraptured, did not appreciate it.
The night before, though, we went to see Brian Friel's Dancing at Lughnasa at the Gate, which is a splendid production of a wondrous play. Incidentally, the total cost of these tickets was €19.50 per person. Not too shabby.
But of course I am leaving out the biggest development (outside of Ireland's defeat of the Czech football team, who had a 20-game unbeaten streak, last night), which is of course the smoking ban, which went into effect monday. I was not sure how in favor of it I was until monday evening, when Rebecca and I went to meet her friend, who happened to be ober from Overlin, at the Globe Bar on South George's St. And we walked in. And breathed. And it was shocking. Magnificently clear. Clean. Lovely and delightful. This was helped of course by the fact that there was a short interval in the omnipresent thumping music (I HATE music in pubs, restaurants, or anywhere). It began a short ten seconds after we walked in, but for those short, silent, full-breathing seconds, it was a joy. Later on in the night, just for the hell of it, we poked our heads into the Stag's Head pub, a lovely spot which is usually chokingly smoked out. I have never been able to able to see to the far wall before.
I will leave off typing here as my thumbs are getting blistered from whapping this fucking spacebar--you really have to smack it hard--as go look for less productive enterprise. Call your mothers. It's the nice thing to do.
Monday, March 29, 2004
Sheer genius
At long last blog
Since saturday, I have consumed, in order, two pieces of toast (breakfast), a smattering of chicken pasta salad, a roll, a granola bar(lunch), half a can of beans and two sausages (dinner), a muffin (breakfast), two eggs, three sausages, two pieces of toast, and another half can of beans (lunch), a small bowl of spaghetti (dinner), and finally, just a half hour ago, a reasonable lunch of some weird curry chicken/pasta deal. But quite frankly, when you are sleeping five, then five, then six hours a night, and playing five hours of Ultimate on Saturday, plus writing a brutal paper and playing host, that is not a huge amount of food. I'm a little worse for wear from the weekend. I was so banged up on Sunday morning that I couldn't make it to the tournament, plus after I got up at 7:30 am (after getting back from UCD at 2:30am) to go get Rebecca at the airport, the flight I had been told was arriving at 9am was delayed by an hour, and furthermore, as the clocks sprung forward an hour Sunday morning, was never supposed to get in until 10am Dublin time. But of course silly me, I thought maybe the airline would account for that when printing the fucking tickets. Also I didn't know where Rebecca was flying from, whether JFK, Atlanta, or Chicago. It was the Chicago flight in the end, which finally got in at 11am, two hours after I'd showed up. So by the time she finally came through the gate, I was so woozy I could hardly stand, having had little sleep and less food. I was a little incoherent. But she's here now and I am more or less restored (not going to the Tournament yesterday was one of my rare moments of prudence; we weren't going to do too well anyhow), and everything is lovely, except that she forgot to bring her travel scrabble.
Finished my final essay an hour and half ago. I'll post the damn thing when I get a chance. It was definitely a struggle. Russian formalism, "Art as technique," involving reckless sprinklings of Postmodernism and Deconstructionism, not nearly enough of which were excised. I was banging away at it last night, getting absolutely nowhere (can't remember ever being so fuddled by a topic before, that is, never been so unsure how to go about addressing it), and finally at about 1am said Fuck this let's watch the Family Guy. And we did and it was good. So I got up this morning (a whole six hours!) at 8:30 to finish it, and finish it I did. I ripped out three pages, took a totally different tack, and think I've come out with something reasonable. And we even got a chance to check for typos! (Which is good because the Beckett essay had a shameful amount)
The essay does have a few good moments, I think, but my favorite part was when I got to introduce Don DeLillo into the mix, which is something I don't think I've done before. An affable Jesuit is talking to a young student, Nick Shay. Sick of constantly trading in "eternal verities" and so forth, he decides that a little antidote is needed. So he grills young Nick on the parts of his shoe. Poor Nick can't get any further than the heel, the laces, the tongue, and the so(u)le. It's really a fine scene and I hate to paraphrase it like this, but the point is when the teacher says:
--You didn't see the thing because you don't know how to look. And you don't know how to look because you don't know the names.
That's one of those things to write on the backs of your eyelids.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
I figure I should tell a wee bit about the days in Paris. Firstly, Michael was entirely overwhelmed. Hey Mikey! He likes it! Family friend and accomplished Batman Claude picked us up at the airport, bringing along his 93-going-on-25-year old father, Papy Andre, who was in classic libidinous and charming form. They took us out for a lovely meal at a Moroccan restaurant in Andresy, the suburb where they live. We spent that night out in Andresy, but the next morning, Claude drove us into the city, handed me the keys to his well-located, pleasant, and above all spacious Montmartre flat, gave us a tour of the neighborhood (with which, happily, I have grown very familiar over the past few years), and left us to our devices. We trundled all about on the first day, stopping in front of the Hotel de Ville du IVeme (a neighborhood called Le Marais where all the Jews and gays live, possibly the swishest spot Paris has to offer), then the really big gorgeous Hotel de Ville de Paris (city hall), and then the Palais du Louvre--to throw a frisbee around. We threw in each place for quite a while (as in a half-hour) and got decent pictures. Nor did anyone throw us out, which I'm sure they would have done at somewhere like Lincoln Center, where you can't even rollerblade on the esplanade, those fuckers.
We also headed into Shakespeare & Co., where I decided that when I come in May, I'll try to stay there instead of at Claude's, because that's where I really want to be. I talked with some people there and they seemed very chill. I asked if it's cool if people just show up to use the upstairs library as a study space, and they were like Yeah, totally. You can even reserve it ahead of time if you talk to George Whitman (owner, age 91, and yes, a descendant of Walt). That's when I decided that I needed to spend my nights there. It'd be better to be around people than being alone all the time. After the experience in London, I'm not very eager to go off all alone again. So that's a pleasant development.
The next day, I was marched to the Louvre and dragged to see the damn Mona Lisa, which is SO not worth the trouble it takes, not because it's not a great painting (it's a pretty good painting, I have to say), but because it's so small, and the crush of people crowding in to see this thing I could fit inside a pillowcase so ridiculous, that the work itself is almost an aftertwhought. No one looks at it. Appallingly, they take flash pictures. Dozens and dozens of them. It's encased in glass, but still. You can't look at her because flashbulbs keep popping. I was irritated and prohibited Michael from using flash under any circumstances. It's a nice museum, I suppose. The humongolous Davids--Oath of the Horatii, Napoleon's Coronation, etc--are probably the most excellent part. I love David. My kind of guy. Total whore.
That night we went to watch the big Chelsea-Arsenal Champions League quarterfinal at The Frog and Rosbif, a terrific English pub in Saint-Denis. A brilliant match, though in the end a 1-1 draw. English people going mad all over the place (Chelsea and Arsenal are the two main London teams, and allegiance to one or the other splits the city in two routinely. I'm for Arsenal). Afterwards, we headed over to this wonderful wine bar/bookstore I adore in Le Marais, whose name I totally forget, but I know just where it is and it's a lovely place. We sat, shared a bottle, wrote postcards, and I tried to do my reading for my essay in French (they only have French books, but it's a great selection). Wasn't really into the essaywriting mode, though (usually defined as pure unornamented panic) I did have a nice chat with the owner about Formalism. They stay open till 2am, even on weeknights, but we cut out at around 1, bought a €5 bottle of wine, had your man uncork it for us (not wishing to lose another Swiss Army Knife at security--as happened last time I went to Paris--I'd left me corkscrew at home) and recork it a bit so we could carry it, and headed over to Notre Dame. There we sat until 3am, jawing, drinking and loving the lack of open container laws.
The next day, our last, we just stayed in Montmartre. Mike got a haircut, I translated, we walked around, and at 4pm, Claude took us back to the airport. It was, in all, a lovely trip, marked by a lot of Frisbee, even on the tarmac at Dublin airport (which they didn't find very funny).
And so now Rebecca's here, but my essay's done, I can breathe again, maybe even sleep again, and so far it's looking like an absolutely delightful week.
Finished my final essay an hour and half ago. I'll post the damn thing when I get a chance. It was definitely a struggle. Russian formalism, "Art as technique," involving reckless sprinklings of Postmodernism and Deconstructionism, not nearly enough of which were excised. I was banging away at it last night, getting absolutely nowhere (can't remember ever being so fuddled by a topic before, that is, never been so unsure how to go about addressing it), and finally at about 1am said Fuck this let's watch the Family Guy. And we did and it was good. So I got up this morning (a whole six hours!) at 8:30 to finish it, and finish it I did. I ripped out three pages, took a totally different tack, and think I've come out with something reasonable. And we even got a chance to check for typos! (Which is good because the Beckett essay had a shameful amount)
The essay does have a few good moments, I think, but my favorite part was when I got to introduce Don DeLillo into the mix, which is something I don't think I've done before. An affable Jesuit is talking to a young student, Nick Shay. Sick of constantly trading in "eternal verities" and so forth, he decides that a little antidote is needed. So he grills young Nick on the parts of his shoe. Poor Nick can't get any further than the heel, the laces, the tongue, and the so(u)le. It's really a fine scene and I hate to paraphrase it like this, but the point is when the teacher says:
--You didn't see the thing because you don't know how to look. And you don't know how to look because you don't know the names.
That's one of those things to write on the backs of your eyelids.
<<>><<>><<>><<>>
I figure I should tell a wee bit about the days in Paris. Firstly, Michael was entirely overwhelmed. Hey Mikey! He likes it! Family friend and accomplished Batman Claude picked us up at the airport, bringing along his 93-going-on-25-year old father, Papy Andre, who was in classic libidinous and charming form. They took us out for a lovely meal at a Moroccan restaurant in Andresy, the suburb where they live. We spent that night out in Andresy, but the next morning, Claude drove us into the city, handed me the keys to his well-located, pleasant, and above all spacious Montmartre flat, gave us a tour of the neighborhood (with which, happily, I have grown very familiar over the past few years), and left us to our devices. We trundled all about on the first day, stopping in front of the Hotel de Ville du IVeme (a neighborhood called Le Marais where all the Jews and gays live, possibly the swishest spot Paris has to offer), then the really big gorgeous Hotel de Ville de Paris (city hall), and then the Palais du Louvre--to throw a frisbee around. We threw in each place for quite a while (as in a half-hour) and got decent pictures. Nor did anyone throw us out, which I'm sure they would have done at somewhere like Lincoln Center, where you can't even rollerblade on the esplanade, those fuckers.
We also headed into Shakespeare & Co., where I decided that when I come in May, I'll try to stay there instead of at Claude's, because that's where I really want to be. I talked with some people there and they seemed very chill. I asked if it's cool if people just show up to use the upstairs library as a study space, and they were like Yeah, totally. You can even reserve it ahead of time if you talk to George Whitman (owner, age 91, and yes, a descendant of Walt). That's when I decided that I needed to spend my nights there. It'd be better to be around people than being alone all the time. After the experience in London, I'm not very eager to go off all alone again. So that's a pleasant development.
The next day, I was marched to the Louvre and dragged to see the damn Mona Lisa, which is SO not worth the trouble it takes, not because it's not a great painting (it's a pretty good painting, I have to say), but because it's so small, and the crush of people crowding in to see this thing I could fit inside a pillowcase so ridiculous, that the work itself is almost an aftertwhought. No one looks at it. Appallingly, they take flash pictures. Dozens and dozens of them. It's encased in glass, but still. You can't look at her because flashbulbs keep popping. I was irritated and prohibited Michael from using flash under any circumstances. It's a nice museum, I suppose. The humongolous Davids--Oath of the Horatii, Napoleon's Coronation, etc--are probably the most excellent part. I love David. My kind of guy. Total whore.
That night we went to watch the big Chelsea-Arsenal Champions League quarterfinal at The Frog and Rosbif, a terrific English pub in Saint-Denis. A brilliant match, though in the end a 1-1 draw. English people going mad all over the place (Chelsea and Arsenal are the two main London teams, and allegiance to one or the other splits the city in two routinely. I'm for Arsenal). Afterwards, we headed over to this wonderful wine bar/bookstore I adore in Le Marais, whose name I totally forget, but I know just where it is and it's a lovely place. We sat, shared a bottle, wrote postcards, and I tried to do my reading for my essay in French (they only have French books, but it's a great selection). Wasn't really into the essaywriting mode, though (usually defined as pure unornamented panic) I did have a nice chat with the owner about Formalism. They stay open till 2am, even on weeknights, but we cut out at around 1, bought a €5 bottle of wine, had your man uncork it for us (not wishing to lose another Swiss Army Knife at security--as happened last time I went to Paris--I'd left me corkscrew at home) and recork it a bit so we could carry it, and headed over to Notre Dame. There we sat until 3am, jawing, drinking and loving the lack of open container laws.
The next day, our last, we just stayed in Montmartre. Mike got a haircut, I translated, we walked around, and at 4pm, Claude took us back to the airport. It was, in all, a lovely trip, marked by a lot of Frisbee, even on the tarmac at Dublin airport (which they didn't find very funny).
And so now Rebecca's here, but my essay's done, I can breathe again, maybe even sleep again, and so far it's looking like an absolutely delightful week.
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