Tuesday, October 05, 2004
An hour and a half till blast-off
Because I suppose I have to go back to college sometime. I'm pretty much packed, so I figured I'd see how well, and how discreetly, I could wrap up the story. Sorry for the lack of blogging; I spent the weekend as the guest of first Ben at Brown, then Ruthie at Harvard, and I am much obliged to the both of them. Good to see Jared, too. Kay was missed.
We rejoin us on the grand tour of the Palazzo dalle Shtetl. We are shown the three or four downstairs bedrooms, the living room and media room suite (the former was the P-olit's to decorate, so there are Tibetan prayers draped from the upstairs balcony, an imperial dragon-themed banner and, centrally placed, a huge Chinese flag flanked by two equally huge Mao posters. Sinophile), with three couches and two lovely battered old recliners, and the first sun room. Also two downstairs bathrooms. Then we go upstairs. The kitchen is huge and impressively well-equipped. Lots of glasses, which always pleases me. There is fabulous, cream-colored super-deep-pile carpet throughout. The dining room, with the mahogany two-leaf table, features kitschy framed paintings, an armchair and attendant ottoman bedecked with the presidential seal, a framed photo of JFK and the most interesting placemats and coasters I have ever seen--the clearest indication so far that this is confirmedly and enforceably a bachelor pad. Then there is another sun room with a woefully misplaced futon; anyone who sleeps on it is bound to wake with the sun, which comes streaming brilliantly in the mornings, forcing the poor sleeper to relocate to the dining room next door. Mike, you need to move that futon. Down the hall, there are two more adjoining bedrooms, Dan's and Matt's, more closet space and, finally, the capper: the jacuzzi room.
The jacuzzi room warrants its own paragraph. I couldn't quite envision it before I saw it. It's basically a gargantuan oval bathtub with two thick brass faucets and a number of jacuzzi jets, which are activated by a switch on the wall. It's patron saint (and this is an even clearer indication of chronic bachelorhood than the dirty placemats) hangs on the wall: the official photograph of William Jefferson Clinton smiles down at the bather. And if everything is going well, the bather(s) smile right back. And things, they do go well under Clinton, don't they?
Enough about the fucking apartment. Hopefully, when winter hits, and the Shtetlites remember the bitterness of Chicago winters, and it's still 30°F in Dublin, they'll stop acting so smug. In any case I'm taking my year abroad there next year. For real.
So we bring in all our luggage, bum around a bit, and eventually the car from University of Michigan shows up. All good people. After a lighting-fast meal of Pad Thai and PBR (a deadly combination, even if you only have one), we head over to campus for Kol Nidre services. Perfectly nice, if swelteringly hot. The gastric atomic explosion in my belly is not enough to distract from the pleasure of familiar anthems, Oseh Shalom, Shalom Rav, Mi Chamocha. These will always be close to me.
We go home, clean up a bit and the Oberlin crew arrives and immediately sets about being useless (except for Rebecca, who was very helpful all weekend). I take a nap. We are then dragged, most of us, to the Frisbee Apartment (they've got a whole fucking house to themselves). The much hyped "O-week" party turns out to be, oh, weak, but that's just because we know no one (except for the one girl I'd met a week earlier at pickup in Dublin, who has been living in Chicago but who is moving to Dublin. Very confusing) and are also fasting--that is, not letting anything pass our lips, namely liquor. Especially shit liquor. Veto. Anyhow, Mike had fun. The rest of us piss off homeward.
The next morning, I am up too early. 8:30. The upside of this is that I get to polish off last night's Pad Thai, flagrantly breaking the fast, but it's early enough so that I'm not caught. Except, of course, by God. But hey. Eventually there are stirrings. Bodies rise from corners and couches. Industry begins slowly. But plans are gradually set in motion, lists made, positions delegated, etc. The Obies are nowhere to be found, having gone to breakfast (none but Rebecca are fasting); they will remain AWOL largely for the rest of the day. They were useless and antisocial and we wondered why, exactly, they'd come in the first place (Rebecca, of course, excepted). Nick and Naughton drive around Chicago because Nick has never been, some people head down to the Lake, and Mike drives a contingent of us to CostCo. The greatest thing America has ever made.
Even before you walk in, you see the carts. They're at least twice the size of your everyday shopping carts. The Hummer of shopping carts. Then you go inside and it takes your breath away. Anyone ever seen Turbine Hall at the Tate Modern? Yeah, way, way bigger than that. The ceiling's sixty feet up and the shelves stretch all the way up. It's bright and airy. Shrinkwrapped crates the size of boulders sit easy high up on reinforced steel scaffolds. Sacks of candy, barrels of pretzel sticks, bicycles and smoked salmon, tubs of ibuprofen and staples--it's pure America: the size, the scope, the volume, the variety, the choice, brightness and air, the brightness is surprising really, how clean and natural the lighting feels, the aisles wide as interstates, the Times Square-like bombardment of product data, crisp, clean information moving in the conditioned air, skyscraping shelves and great plains of baked goods. All with equitable labor practices. It made me proud to be American, let me tell you.
We purchased: 120 bottles of beer, 96 of which were Budweiser, 24 bagels, 18 cans of Coke, something like 188 oz. of Cranberry juice, a slab of Danishes, a bunch of things I can't remember, and, to cap it off, a big ol' tub of beer nuts. Because I wasn't having a party with no beer nuts. These were a big hit.
After a stop at the liquor store for four bottles of Triple-Sec and other necessities, we returned to the Shtetl and set about setting down how to set up. I made my bar with a big table set diagonally in front of the tv and entertainment system. This way, no one could get behind to steal liquor, meaning I had total control over distribution. The Obies, Rebecca the Oberlioness still excepted, were being magnificently unhelpful. Their height of activity came when they finally bestirred themselves from the couches, which they'd been happily planted in while everything around them was a flurry of cleaning and organizing, and went to get high. Again, they did not exactly ingratiate themselves to anyone. Even Nick was being helpful, vacuuming.
At 6:30, we broke the fast. First bagels, then hot dogs and hamburgers expertly grilled for all by P-rodigious-with-the-lighter-fluid. It was at this point that the Obies materialized, hungry. After eating they slunk back to their lair. At this point preparations began in earnest. Rebecca made signs out of construction paper, indicating where the guests had come to ("The Shtetl") and just what, exactly, it was that I was purveying ("Liquor." I wanted "Sam's Liquor Emporium," but that was too much trouble). The guests began arriving at ten. They would not leave until six the next morning. Thus began the most outstanding party of my life.
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
But you get to wait a few days to hear it, 'cause I got a plane to catch. Mike can pick up the tale, if he would like. In any case, next time you hear from me I'll hopefully be happily settling into my own Philip Roth Center for the Irish Jew. See you in December. I'm leaving in the fairest of the seasons.
We rejoin us on the grand tour of the Palazzo dalle Shtetl. We are shown the three or four downstairs bedrooms, the living room and media room suite (the former was the P-olit's to decorate, so there are Tibetan prayers draped from the upstairs balcony, an imperial dragon-themed banner and, centrally placed, a huge Chinese flag flanked by two equally huge Mao posters. Sinophile), with three couches and two lovely battered old recliners, and the first sun room. Also two downstairs bathrooms. Then we go upstairs. The kitchen is huge and impressively well-equipped. Lots of glasses, which always pleases me. There is fabulous, cream-colored super-deep-pile carpet throughout. The dining room, with the mahogany two-leaf table, features kitschy framed paintings, an armchair and attendant ottoman bedecked with the presidential seal, a framed photo of JFK and the most interesting placemats and coasters I have ever seen--the clearest indication so far that this is confirmedly and enforceably a bachelor pad. Then there is another sun room with a woefully misplaced futon; anyone who sleeps on it is bound to wake with the sun, which comes streaming brilliantly in the mornings, forcing the poor sleeper to relocate to the dining room next door. Mike, you need to move that futon. Down the hall, there are two more adjoining bedrooms, Dan's and Matt's, more closet space and, finally, the capper: the jacuzzi room.
The jacuzzi room warrants its own paragraph. I couldn't quite envision it before I saw it. It's basically a gargantuan oval bathtub with two thick brass faucets and a number of jacuzzi jets, which are activated by a switch on the wall. It's patron saint (and this is an even clearer indication of chronic bachelorhood than the dirty placemats) hangs on the wall: the official photograph of William Jefferson Clinton smiles down at the bather. And if everything is going well, the bather(s) smile right back. And things, they do go well under Clinton, don't they?
Enough about the fucking apartment. Hopefully, when winter hits, and the Shtetlites remember the bitterness of Chicago winters, and it's still 30°F in Dublin, they'll stop acting so smug. In any case I'm taking my year abroad there next year. For real.
So we bring in all our luggage, bum around a bit, and eventually the car from University of Michigan shows up. All good people. After a lighting-fast meal of Pad Thai and PBR (a deadly combination, even if you only have one), we head over to campus for Kol Nidre services. Perfectly nice, if swelteringly hot. The gastric atomic explosion in my belly is not enough to distract from the pleasure of familiar anthems, Oseh Shalom, Shalom Rav, Mi Chamocha. These will always be close to me.
We go home, clean up a bit and the Oberlin crew arrives and immediately sets about being useless (except for Rebecca, who was very helpful all weekend). I take a nap. We are then dragged, most of us, to the Frisbee Apartment (they've got a whole fucking house to themselves). The much hyped "O-week" party turns out to be, oh, weak, but that's just because we know no one (except for the one girl I'd met a week earlier at pickup in Dublin, who has been living in Chicago but who is moving to Dublin. Very confusing) and are also fasting--that is, not letting anything pass our lips, namely liquor. Especially shit liquor. Veto. Anyhow, Mike had fun. The rest of us piss off homeward.
The next morning, I am up too early. 8:30. The upside of this is that I get to polish off last night's Pad Thai, flagrantly breaking the fast, but it's early enough so that I'm not caught. Except, of course, by God. But hey. Eventually there are stirrings. Bodies rise from corners and couches. Industry begins slowly. But plans are gradually set in motion, lists made, positions delegated, etc. The Obies are nowhere to be found, having gone to breakfast (none but Rebecca are fasting); they will remain AWOL largely for the rest of the day. They were useless and antisocial and we wondered why, exactly, they'd come in the first place (Rebecca, of course, excepted). Nick and Naughton drive around Chicago because Nick has never been, some people head down to the Lake, and Mike drives a contingent of us to CostCo. The greatest thing America has ever made.
Even before you walk in, you see the carts. They're at least twice the size of your everyday shopping carts. The Hummer of shopping carts. Then you go inside and it takes your breath away. Anyone ever seen Turbine Hall at the Tate Modern? Yeah, way, way bigger than that. The ceiling's sixty feet up and the shelves stretch all the way up. It's bright and airy. Shrinkwrapped crates the size of boulders sit easy high up on reinforced steel scaffolds. Sacks of candy, barrels of pretzel sticks, bicycles and smoked salmon, tubs of ibuprofen and staples--it's pure America: the size, the scope, the volume, the variety, the choice, brightness and air, the brightness is surprising really, how clean and natural the lighting feels, the aisles wide as interstates, the Times Square-like bombardment of product data, crisp, clean information moving in the conditioned air, skyscraping shelves and great plains of baked goods. All with equitable labor practices. It made me proud to be American, let me tell you.
We purchased: 120 bottles of beer, 96 of which were Budweiser, 24 bagels, 18 cans of Coke, something like 188 oz. of Cranberry juice, a slab of Danishes, a bunch of things I can't remember, and, to cap it off, a big ol' tub of beer nuts. Because I wasn't having a party with no beer nuts. These were a big hit.
After a stop at the liquor store for four bottles of Triple-Sec and other necessities, we returned to the Shtetl and set about setting down how to set up. I made my bar with a big table set diagonally in front of the tv and entertainment system. This way, no one could get behind to steal liquor, meaning I had total control over distribution. The Obies, Rebecca the Oberlioness still excepted, were being magnificently unhelpful. Their height of activity came when they finally bestirred themselves from the couches, which they'd been happily planted in while everything around them was a flurry of cleaning and organizing, and went to get high. Again, they did not exactly ingratiate themselves to anyone. Even Nick was being helpful, vacuuming.
At 6:30, we broke the fast. First bagels, then hot dogs and hamburgers expertly grilled for all by P-rodigious-with-the-lighter-fluid. It was at this point that the Obies materialized, hungry. After eating they slunk back to their lair. At this point preparations began in earnest. Rebecca made signs out of construction paper, indicating where the guests had come to ("The Shtetl") and just what, exactly, it was that I was purveying ("Liquor." I wanted "Sam's Liquor Emporium," but that was too much trouble). The guests began arriving at ten. They would not leave until six the next morning. Thus began the most outstanding party of my life.
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
But you get to wait a few days to hear it, 'cause I got a plane to catch. Mike can pick up the tale, if he would like. In any case, next time you hear from me I'll hopefully be happily settling into my own Philip Roth Center for the Irish Jew. See you in December. I'm leaving in the fairest of the seasons.
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