Thursday, September 09, 2004
Left one out on the itinerant itinerary
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Planes, trains and automobiles
Minor and major ones on the horizon. We had planned to go up to the Nuncle's in the country today, but stupid ol' hurricane got in the way, meaning the rain would have kept us housebound, and what with Jacob's practicing, we would have killed one another. So I'm here till Friday, when Mike and I take advantage of our status as the last of the Mohicans to $20 Chinatown bus it up (okay, not up. Down. Or possibly across. Piss off) to Philthadelphia for the weekend. Swarthies, look out.
Then we return on Sunday night and I start throwing my life into luggage, as I have a plane to catch on Monday. Dublin bound, me hearties, homeward bound. It's round one. Expect blogging as furious as I can manage in the week while I'm away: I'll be apartment hunting. I am the Davy Crockett of the EUR1000-or-less two-bedrooms of Dublin City Centre. King of the Wild Hibernian Metropolis. It's all very exciting, mostly because I've scarcely any idea what I'm doing. I'm not even sure where I'll be staying. Not a big worry, though; push comes to shove I'll hostel up and then move into the first place I find (not really. I intend to be picky). So I'm in Dublin from the 13th to the 20th. I come home and three days later am roaring across the country in Andrew Naughton's car with himself and young master Frisch, bound for Hog Butcher for the World, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of the Big Shoulders, Chicago.
We are attending the housewarming party for Comrade Pareles' new mansion. It is a massive, sprawling estate, a six-bedroom palace on the Lake. It's an apartment, but I'm sure it hardly seems so from inside. A fittingly colossal affair is planned, with cars arriving from Michigan, New York and Oberlin (Obies, call Mike for transport advice. There's a car going, but you'd have to get in on it now). Then I'll see if I can get a lift back to Oberlin from the Obies, or Nick and Naughton can drop me there. I'll bang around Oberlin a bit, then train home. As soon as I get home, I have time a shower and then I head north to Providence and Boston. I'll be back on October 1st or so, just enough time to get all my affairs in order before I fly out for good on the 5th. I meet Sadie, who'll be waiting for me, at the airport, and we go move in to our home. Then I go find a job. Then I have a great year. See everyone soon.
Then we return on Sunday night and I start throwing my life into luggage, as I have a plane to catch on Monday. Dublin bound, me hearties, homeward bound. It's round one. Expect blogging as furious as I can manage in the week while I'm away: I'll be apartment hunting. I am the Davy Crockett of the EUR1000-or-less two-bedrooms of Dublin City Centre. King of the Wild Hibernian Metropolis. It's all very exciting, mostly because I've scarcely any idea what I'm doing. I'm not even sure where I'll be staying. Not a big worry, though; push comes to shove I'll hostel up and then move into the first place I find (not really. I intend to be picky). So I'm in Dublin from the 13th to the 20th. I come home and three days later am roaring across the country in Andrew Naughton's car with himself and young master Frisch, bound for Hog Butcher for the World, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of the Big Shoulders, Chicago.
We are attending the housewarming party for Comrade Pareles' new mansion. It is a massive, sprawling estate, a six-bedroom palace on the Lake. It's an apartment, but I'm sure it hardly seems so from inside. A fittingly colossal affair is planned, with cars arriving from Michigan, New York and Oberlin (Obies, call Mike for transport advice. There's a car going, but you'd have to get in on it now). Then I'll see if I can get a lift back to Oberlin from the Obies, or Nick and Naughton can drop me there. I'll bang around Oberlin a bit, then train home. As soon as I get home, I have time a shower and then I head north to Providence and Boston. I'll be back on October 1st or so, just enough time to get all my affairs in order before I fly out for good on the 5th. I meet Sadie, who'll be waiting for me, at the airport, and we go move in to our home. Then I go find a job. Then I have a great year. See everyone soon.
And in honor of those returned and returning for round two, especially those sharing their rooms:
In honor of my imminent apartment-hunting jaunt to Dublin
Sunday, September 05, 2004
An excellent vintage
So last night we had a party for MIke and Nick Glorious Return from the Pagan East. There were many people. There were a lot of pictures in the slideshow, which no one could see, but which was nevertheless very humorously narrated by the dynamic duo. There was also some drinking. Above all, there was Baijio.
Baijio. What to say about a substance that has had so many superlatives assigned to it already? Describing the effect of Baijio, the liquid that liquidates, must be some kind of pasttime in China. There should be competitions, reams of poetry devoted to the power of this stuff. I humbly offer a haiku (and I know Haikus are Japanese. Shut up):
"White wine" from hell makes
Throat choke, esophagus blow.
I smell death on this.
It's truly ghastly. I mean, ghastly beyond belief. I can still taste it. Like drinking liquified ghosts. Poor stupid Dan Berkovits consumed, in one slug, an amount greatly in excess of a shot. He wasn't right for twenty minutes. It's Mike's fault, really; he can't pour worth a damn. He was pouring full cups of 55%, highly flammable turpentine and expecting us to drink the whole shebang. What he was thinking, I don't know, but as the cups were passed around, and the death-smell spread, there we saw a general cringe occur. The air itself seemed to cringe. Of course, it could just have been projection: I have never encountered any thing so haunted in my life, and I have had Hackler's Poitin (Potcheen). Until last night, Hackler's was the most lethal potation I'd ever seen: �5 for a bottle, cheapest liquor in Ireland, tastes purely of headache. I took one very, very large shot once and never did it again. I was actually laid up in bed for days. But Baijio is worse. Your throat, esophagus and stomach, seeing the threat Baijio poses to the Body, ally themselves against the onslaught. Their only thought is the rejection and ejection of the enemy. Furthermore they cannot understand, the organs, why the mouth, which had hitherto been so good to them, would suddenly turn on them so. They were threatening mutiny. Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed, and concerned parties reached a compromise, which consisted of the immediate ingestion of some lactose-free ice cream. A triumph of diplomacy.
Oh, also, I lit a shot of it on fire and it burned for fifteen minutes. I'm not sure that's normal.
Baijio. What to say about a substance that has had so many superlatives assigned to it already? Describing the effect of Baijio, the liquid that liquidates, must be some kind of pasttime in China. There should be competitions, reams of poetry devoted to the power of this stuff. I humbly offer a haiku (and I know Haikus are Japanese. Shut up):
"White wine" from hell makes
Throat choke, esophagus blow.
I smell death on this.
It's truly ghastly. I mean, ghastly beyond belief. I can still taste it. Like drinking liquified ghosts. Poor stupid Dan Berkovits consumed, in one slug, an amount greatly in excess of a shot. He wasn't right for twenty minutes. It's Mike's fault, really; he can't pour worth a damn. He was pouring full cups of 55%, highly flammable turpentine and expecting us to drink the whole shebang. What he was thinking, I don't know, but as the cups were passed around, and the death-smell spread, there we saw a general cringe occur. The air itself seemed to cringe. Of course, it could just have been projection: I have never encountered any thing so haunted in my life, and I have had Hackler's Poitin (Potcheen). Until last night, Hackler's was the most lethal potation I'd ever seen: �5 for a bottle, cheapest liquor in Ireland, tastes purely of headache. I took one very, very large shot once and never did it again. I was actually laid up in bed for days. But Baijio is worse. Your throat, esophagus and stomach, seeing the threat Baijio poses to the Body, ally themselves against the onslaught. Their only thought is the rejection and ejection of the enemy. Furthermore they cannot understand, the organs, why the mouth, which had hitherto been so good to them, would suddenly turn on them so. They were threatening mutiny. Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed, and concerned parties reached a compromise, which consisted of the immediate ingestion of some lactose-free ice cream. A triumph of diplomacy.
Oh, also, I lit a shot of it on fire and it burned for fifteen minutes. I'm not sure that's normal.
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