Wednesday, June 02, 2004
Air America
Oh, yes. I've had it on all day. I had forgotten about it until I was walking to the shuttle at Grand Central, and suddenly, I was surrounded by these big ol' hairy librul adverts! I was very very excited. So now I'm listening to Al Franken's "The O'Franken Factor," which is brilliant. Everyone tune in: 1190 AM.
Franken just called Chalabi "a shonda for the goyim."
Furthermore the call-in number is: 1 866 303 2270
Yee haw.
Franken just called Chalabi "a shonda for the goyim."
Furthermore the call-in number is: 1 866 303 2270
Yee haw.
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Pickup Ultimate
Just added there on the side a link to a messageboard post on the NYC Public Ultimate League webpage which gives up-to-date details on all pickup games around New York. I also signed up for summer league ($35, but you get a disc, a shirt and a party, and the discs they're giving you are likely better than a crappy Wham-O) the other day, and anyone who wants to stay fit in July and August should do the same. Anyone not willing to commit to that, or pony up the cash, should still come out to some pickup with me. Manhattanites, there's a session in the Dust Bowl in Central Park (97th st, east side) tuesday-thursday and and the weekend which I intend to hit a lot. The level of play always varies, but even at the highest levels, no one will ever get shat on for not having a flawless flick. That's the great thing about the sport: no one ever shits on anyone, because even the most experienced handlers remember when they used to whip their forehands right into the ground, too. You might get poached off of, but taking advantage of a poacher is the best way to distinguish yourself.
I was going to head up to the Dust Bowl this evening, but it's likely to be a bit wet. Probably I'll go to the 8:30 pm session on the astroturf at East river Park, billed as very high level of play. Hope it's happening. I haven't played in nearly a week and my legs are stiffening up.
I was going to head up to the Dust Bowl this evening, but it's likely to be a bit wet. Probably I'll go to the 8:30 pm session on the astroturf at East river Park, billed as very high level of play. Hope it's happening. I haven't played in nearly a week and my legs are stiffening up.
Monday, May 31, 2004
Whoa, doctor!
In trying to find a way to sate my soccer urges, that is, find out how I can watch Euro 2004 (starts in 12 days, and it's brilliant) in this ridiculous country (the answer turns out to be, go to pubs. That, or go back to Ireland), I stumbled on something spectacular. Last year, some of us managed to make it up to Giants Stadium to see Manchester United take on Italian giants Juventus. I remember it as being a hell of a match, even if those fuckers at security did take my umbrella. Well, anyhow, in my cyberramblings I tripped over mention of a possible DC. United v. Liverpool match. This prompted me to go check out what ticketmaster had on offer, and the pickin's are gorgeous, just gorgeous:
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
Celtic v. Liverpool---------East Hartford, CT 7/26/04 (Celtic, from Glasgow, are the reigning Scottish champs)
Manchester Utd. v. Celtic--------Philadelphia, PA 7/28/04
Chelsea v. AS Roma--------Pittsburgh, PA 7/29/04 (very cool)
MAN UTD. v. AC MILAN------GIANTS STADIUM 7/31/04 1PM (They're only in it for the money)
Porto v. Galatasary-------Giants Stadium 8/1/04 2:45pm (A chance to see Porto, the new European champs, in action)
CHELSEA v. AC MILAN------PHILLY 8/2/04 8pm (#1 choice; I've seen Man U., plus Jacob will be back in town)
Liverpool v. AS Roma-------Giants stadium 8/3/04 7:45pm
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
My only complaint is that Arsenal aren't coming; if they were, I would drag some of you bodily to go see them. But I have every intention of venturing up to Filthadelphia to see Chelsea take on Milan. It'd be a gas. Shouldn't be too hugely pricey. Anyone who's interested, let me know.
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
Celtic v. Liverpool---------East Hartford, CT 7/26/04 (Celtic, from Glasgow, are the reigning Scottish champs)
Manchester Utd. v. Celtic--------Philadelphia, PA 7/28/04
Chelsea v. AS Roma--------Pittsburgh, PA 7/29/04 (very cool)
MAN UTD. v. AC MILAN------GIANTS STADIUM 7/31/04 1PM (They're only in it for the money)
Porto v. Galatasary-------Giants Stadium 8/1/04 2:45pm (A chance to see Porto, the new European champs, in action)
CHELSEA v. AC MILAN------PHILLY 8/2/04 8pm (#1 choice; I've seen Man U., plus Jacob will be back in town)
Liverpool v. AS Roma-------Giants stadium 8/3/04 7:45pm
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
My only complaint is that Arsenal aren't coming; if they were, I would drag some of you bodily to go see them. But I have every intention of venturing up to Filthadelphia to see Chelsea take on Milan. It'd be a gas. Shouldn't be too hugely pricey. Anyone who's interested, let me know.
Sunday, May 30, 2004
Home like Hamlet for the Hols
It was early morning yesterday
I was up before the dawn
And I really have enjoyed my stay
But I must be moving on
Goodbye stranger
It's been nice
Hope you find
Your paradise.
Listened to that song something like ten times yesterday morning in Dublin Airport. It's a pretty damn fine song, made considerably more potent by the fact that it's 8am, you're almost insane with hunger because your last meal was 12 hours ago, two burgers at McD's, royally pissed because those fuckers at Aer Dingus just charged you €50 to check your third bag, the shit pots, and quite unhinged, by which I mean emotionally fragile because you have been up and active, to say the very least, since 7am...
...yesterday morning. Oh, aye, 'twas a fine old last day, so it was, so it was.
Began with the final exagmination round my factification for incamination of Critical and Cutlery Theory, where I have found--this is true tragedy--that they do not enjoy essays about how poor an idea it is to wash serrated knives with scouring sponges because it's bad for both. They say I would do better to address something like the interrelation of Louis XIV's introduction of the fork to the court at Versailles and "play" in the work of Rabelais. I, like Wellington at Waterloo, when asked if he wished to surrender, say "Merde!"
So I forged on, balancing a spoon on the tip of my nose, which I can do, you know, as I ventured clumsily into a minefield of a question on the ahistoricity of Formalism, a school which is resolutely and purposefully ahistorical. The problem is, I found myself defending that ahistoricity as integral to the Formalist mission of creating a science of poetics, a mission which, while noble, unfortunately happens to be really, really dumb. Okay, maybe not dumb, but not too sharp, either. Because it'd be lovely to have structured poetical science, you can't, because the value of a science is entirely dependent on the solidity of the definition of the object being studied: you can study the penguin, and have penguin science with penguin tables and charts, because you know what is and what isn't a penguin. Since you can't do the same with Poetry (which doesn't exist), you can't have a science devoted to it; that science has nothing to go on. But that's not what the question asked, so I had to sidestep the small matter of Formalism's inevitable collapse and try to dredge up from its depths whatever virtues I could. These are, in brief, its acceptance of and applicability to most of the other critical schools (where Deconstruction, Marxism etc. say My way or the highway, Formalism understands that it doesn't have all the answers), and its use as a pedagogical tool. Its stated mission, though, the abstrusion of "meaning" from a text, is unfortunate and misguided. We sort of look back on that part and sigh wistfully, remembering the days when we thought "meaning" existed.
After that came a swift and efficient article on Deconstruction's most important implications. I said cardinal among them was the new practice of decentering, by which process (the squaring-off of binaries) Derrida ripped the axle from the wheel of occcidental philosophy. The only fun part about that one was the last line: we were in the gorgeous exam hall, which is decorated with these big ol' portraits of people, most of them connected with the college (Queen Elizabeth I, unfortunately, is not--except maybe she was the one what had it built...oh right, she was), like Swift, Molyneux, Berkeley (under whom I sat) and Ussher. They all look regal, even Swift. But so the last line of the essay had to be: "And Swiftly, a Molyneux error is Usshered in." It's deconstruction. I had to.
Finally, I caught a break when the last question (how has CCT influenced your experience in any other course this year) enabled me to repeat, word for word, my poetry essay on canon and axiom, only streamlined and more focused. That was fun. And then, like poof, I was done!
I went home, finished packing, the sun came out, and I hiked back up to college with Sadie and Caitriona to go party at the Pav pub. We all sat on the grass for hours, I getting up all the time to go say goodbye to whomever, and it was lovely. We trundled back to Halls eventually and partied more. By more I mean all night long.
The night lasted until yesterday evening, when I finally laid my head down here, where I belong. I am happy here. Happy to be in America again: friday morning, when I got up, the traffic report was on the radio and I swear to God she said, "Loose cattle on the N25 highway." Loose fucking WHAT? And I thought Get me out of here.
It's 6:30am, I've been up since 4:45 (you damn tooting I'm jet lagged) and it's too early to get rhapsodic about the past year. It doesn't seem like anything special. Really, it doesn't. It's just where I go, where I live. Happens to be a bit farther away than Chicago. And different. Very, very different. Cattle on the highway.
I was up before the dawn
And I really have enjoyed my stay
But I must be moving on
Goodbye stranger
It's been nice
Hope you find
Your paradise.
Listened to that song something like ten times yesterday morning in Dublin Airport. It's a pretty damn fine song, made considerably more potent by the fact that it's 8am, you're almost insane with hunger because your last meal was 12 hours ago, two burgers at McD's, royally pissed because those fuckers at Aer Dingus just charged you €50 to check your third bag, the shit pots, and quite unhinged, by which I mean emotionally fragile because you have been up and active, to say the very least, since 7am...
...yesterday morning. Oh, aye, 'twas a fine old last day, so it was, so it was.
Began with the final exagmination round my factification for incamination of Critical and Cutlery Theory, where I have found--this is true tragedy--that they do not enjoy essays about how poor an idea it is to wash serrated knives with scouring sponges because it's bad for both. They say I would do better to address something like the interrelation of Louis XIV's introduction of the fork to the court at Versailles and "play" in the work of Rabelais. I, like Wellington at Waterloo, when asked if he wished to surrender, say "Merde!"
So I forged on, balancing a spoon on the tip of my nose, which I can do, you know, as I ventured clumsily into a minefield of a question on the ahistoricity of Formalism, a school which is resolutely and purposefully ahistorical. The problem is, I found myself defending that ahistoricity as integral to the Formalist mission of creating a science of poetics, a mission which, while noble, unfortunately happens to be really, really dumb. Okay, maybe not dumb, but not too sharp, either. Because it'd be lovely to have structured poetical science, you can't, because the value of a science is entirely dependent on the solidity of the definition of the object being studied: you can study the penguin, and have penguin science with penguin tables and charts, because you know what is and what isn't a penguin. Since you can't do the same with Poetry (which doesn't exist), you can't have a science devoted to it; that science has nothing to go on. But that's not what the question asked, so I had to sidestep the small matter of Formalism's inevitable collapse and try to dredge up from its depths whatever virtues I could. These are, in brief, its acceptance of and applicability to most of the other critical schools (where Deconstruction, Marxism etc. say My way or the highway, Formalism understands that it doesn't have all the answers), and its use as a pedagogical tool. Its stated mission, though, the abstrusion of "meaning" from a text, is unfortunate and misguided. We sort of look back on that part and sigh wistfully, remembering the days when we thought "meaning" existed.
After that came a swift and efficient article on Deconstruction's most important implications. I said cardinal among them was the new practice of decentering, by which process (the squaring-off of binaries) Derrida ripped the axle from the wheel of occcidental philosophy. The only fun part about that one was the last line: we were in the gorgeous exam hall, which is decorated with these big ol' portraits of people, most of them connected with the college (Queen Elizabeth I, unfortunately, is not--except maybe she was the one what had it built...oh right, she was), like Swift, Molyneux, Berkeley (under whom I sat) and Ussher. They all look regal, even Swift. But so the last line of the essay had to be: "And Swiftly, a Molyneux error is Usshered in." It's deconstruction. I had to.
Finally, I caught a break when the last question (how has CCT influenced your experience in any other course this year) enabled me to repeat, word for word, my poetry essay on canon and axiom, only streamlined and more focused. That was fun. And then, like poof, I was done!
I went home, finished packing, the sun came out, and I hiked back up to college with Sadie and Caitriona to go party at the Pav pub. We all sat on the grass for hours, I getting up all the time to go say goodbye to whomever, and it was lovely. We trundled back to Halls eventually and partied more. By more I mean all night long.
The night lasted until yesterday evening, when I finally laid my head down here, where I belong. I am happy here. Happy to be in America again: friday morning, when I got up, the traffic report was on the radio and I swear to God she said, "Loose cattle on the N25 highway." Loose fucking WHAT? And I thought Get me out of here.
It's 6:30am, I've been up since 4:45 (you damn tooting I'm jet lagged) and it's too early to get rhapsodic about the past year. It doesn't seem like anything special. Really, it doesn't. It's just where I go, where I live. Happens to be a bit farther away than Chicago. And different. Very, very different. Cattle on the highway.
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