Monday, February 21, 2005
Need to get cracking on Chicago
Because after watching Method Man (Mef!) and Redman in How High last night (awesome--actually a decent movie, in addition to being piss-yourself funny, as opposed to Soul Plane, which was funny, but sucked blunt), in which they get into Harvard, the delusion that I might do the same faded: I'm just not cool enough to follow Mef. So not worthy.
Although the film was definitely not shot at Harvard; the set bore no resemblance whatsoever to the actual college. So there's a little hope. But onto Chicago. The stigmata are spreading already. Here's the essay question I'm answering:
Question 3: "People often think of language as a connector, something that brings people together by helping them share experiences, feelings, ideas, etc. We, however, are interested in how language sets people apart. Start with the peculiarities of your own personal language— the voice you use when speaking most intimately to yourself, the vocabulary that spills out when you're startled, or special phrases and gestures that no one else seems to use or even understand—and tell us how your language makes you unique. You may want to think about subtle riffs or idiosyncrasies based on cadence, rhythm, rhyme, or (mis)pronunciation."
Having no shortage of experience with the language/accent barriers, I think I'm uniquely suited to answer that question, no? Over a year in France, French-speaking ex (never again), two years in a place where English is occasionally no more than a lingua franca...yeah, this should write itself. Only problem will be keeping its short.
Actually, that's not the only problem. Crunch time is here. There are two other "short" answers for Chicago. I also need to finish Book 1 of the Faerie Queen by Thursday, which is, given that I'm working 6pm-3am Wednesday, a tall goddamn order. I'm also working Thursday (huge meteor awards after-party, 330 pax, huge service charge, if I meet Snoop Dogg I'll lose my shit) and Friday. I begged off for Saturday, though they needed me, because Mama flies in 8am that day (yes!) and I drag my ass out of bed after two, three hours of sleep. We have fun for many days. Also editing. She leaves the 2nd, then I have four days to bang out at least one essay before Sam and Seema fly in the 6th (yes twice!). We leave for Paris the 9th.
Oh, they also want me to read Middlemarch--the whole fucking thing--in a week and a half, along with Things Fall Apart (tomorrow), Dracula (next Monday), The writings of Frederick Douglass (Thursday), and Jack of Newbury (Friday). Guess what's not happening. The thing is, I really need to read Douglass and Newbury--an obscure, useless 16th century prose text, but since I've done fuckall for that class thus far, I need to do something for it. Also I promised Deirdre I'd do the Faerie Queen, but it's slow going. Maybe I shouldn't rent three movies again tonight. Last night it was How High, South Park:Bigger, Longer, Uncut, and Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, which lives up to its billing. If I were a history teacher, I'd totally show my class that movie. Genghis Khan takes an aluminium bat to a mannequin in a sports store, Napoleon goes nuts on a waterslide, and Socrates (pronounced SO-crates) throws a Nerf football around with Billy the Kid. Beethoven (Beeth-HO-ven) rocks out to Bon Jovi. How did I go so long without seeing this? And how is it that Keanu Reeves ALWAYS plays the savior of the universe? Bill and Ted, Siddartha, the Matrix, Devil's Advocate, Constantine? Your own personal Jesus.
Got a nice text from der vater last night: "Well, am sitting at a bar at a Ramada hotel in Pittsburgh and having a poorly made Manhattan. I ordered it straight up but he failed to put any ice in the shaker. Oh well. Your mother upstairs fast asleep after a very nice performance of part of her bassoon quintet by members of the PSO. Hope you are well. Love, W."
A few things come to mind: one, kudos to Mammeleh. I'll get you the text in a few days, but we should probably just work on it while you're here. Two, it's nice to know that even American bartenders can blow. I have this conviction that despite being really good for Ireland, I'm nothing for New York. My inventive abilities are significantly limited by three things: one, I'm still underage in the US(how IS that?), I can't waste liquor at work, so I can't experiment (they're as tight-fisted as a vengeful hooker), and I don't buy liquor in Ireland because the selection sucks and the prices are worse. So I'm limited to what I have in the house, a selection which is dwindling dangerously. The Wild Turkey expired the other day to the Mozart Requiem, and the last of the Bombay Sapphire is scheduled for euthanasia this evening. That said, I did improve dramatically on that Zubrowka/Green Tea thing from a few weeks back. I changed the grapefruit juice to apple juice, a known partner to Zubrowka, and upped the Chartreuse (which I've been drinking a lot lately, as Sadie gave me her cold, and Chartreuse with a bit of sugar is better than Echinacea), and combined with the loose green tea, the basil leaves (one in the shaker, one to garnish), the bottled, sweetened green tea, and the Zubrowka, we have a spectacular cocktail. The Chartreuse and apple juice give it the delicious, and the basil and green give it complexity. I'm terrifically proud of myself. At work, they've told us that if we invent a cocktail, and they like it, they'll put it on the menu. So that's another project now. This one, of course, isn't viable: we only have one of the ingredients involved (apple juice), and aren't about to get the others. So I have to work with what we have, but have to do so without tasting it. Which is just stupid, sorry. I'm thinking Calvados and champagne somehow, a base for a major variation on the Champagne Cocktail. Keep the sugar cube, lose the bitters. Dry vermouth? Garnish with an apple? Just throwing ideas out. Wedding Southern Comfort and Galliano somehow will likely sell better. I just have to be able to taste it, damn it. They're getting dumber and dumber lately, they really are. I am dying to work in a bar where, at closing time, you don't have to remove all the liquor. That does make sense, I concede: we're in a hotel, where we can't close off the bar to guests altogether. But now it's the glasses, too. It's insane. We have to take all of our highballs and hide them from room service. Furthermore, not only have they cut the hitherto-ritual Saturday after-club drink, but we can't even have a drink if a customer buys one for us--which is ridiculous, and just plain bad service. It has to do with being hospitable and convivial. It's not like we're going to get trashed on one little drink. These people just don't know a damn thing about service. Though I think I'm going to fill a bottle of Jameson with iced tea or something and keep it behind the bar, so when they buy one for us, we take the money, have us some "whiskey" and throw the cash surreptitiously in the tip jar. This is standard practice. And have I mentioned we're not even supposed to drink JUICE? Coffee, fine, stuff from the gun, fine, but no juice. They buy the juice for about 50-60 cent a litre, sell 4oz. for €2.85, and they can't let us have a glass? Holy shit.
Lastly, for some bizarre reason, after returning home from work at 5am (early, actually) on Sunday morning, I fell out of bed at 11:30am. I hate that. I can't sleep till noon lately. Anyhow, it was the first time in months I'd been up early enough, and felt awake enough to go to 2pm pickup Ultimate. Remember Ultimate Frisbee? That sport I used to have time for? I don't even go to Trinity practice now because I now have a tutorial during our one hour of weekly practice time. But it was a bright, sunny day, and I decided, what the hell. It turned out also to be very fucking cold. Despite the cheery, evident sunshine, by the time I made it out to Albert College Park, it was snowing. Dandruffing, more like it. White shit leaving the sky. The sun was out and the ground was dry but there were unmistakeable white bits landing on us. In Ireland it is best to ignore these things because they bake your head. We had enough for 5-on-5. As usual, the first half hour was just people throwing around, and I was glad to find that my throwing was as good as ever. I also found I was winded just from throwing. When we started the game, it became very clear that I was in possibly the worst shape of my life. I couldn't run worth a damn, three, four points and I'd stagger off the pitch. We had no subs--Iron Man, savaging it, call it what you will, I call it hell--so I was heaving like a fat kid running wind sprints. It was pretty bad. I was rusty as an iron drainpipe, too. Once we started playing, my hucks went to shit entirely. I'm appalled with myself. No, I hadn't slept, eaten or drunk fluids, but still. It was embarrassing. I can happily stand up for eight, ten hours at a stretch, but I can't run at all anymore. I have to get into shape, and would go to the gym upstairs in my building, only it's closed. Thank you, Premier Property Management. You useless bastards. Long, too long, Ireland, I have lingered here under your hoarfrost and low-slung sky. Bring on the continent. ESPANA!
Although the film was definitely not shot at Harvard; the set bore no resemblance whatsoever to the actual college. So there's a little hope. But onto Chicago. The stigmata are spreading already. Here's the essay question I'm answering:
Question 3: "People often think of language as a connector, something that brings people together by helping them share experiences, feelings, ideas, etc. We, however, are interested in how language sets people apart. Start with the peculiarities of your own personal language— the voice you use when speaking most intimately to yourself, the vocabulary that spills out when you're startled, or special phrases and gestures that no one else seems to use or even understand—and tell us how your language makes you unique. You may want to think about subtle riffs or idiosyncrasies based on cadence, rhythm, rhyme, or (mis)pronunciation."
Having no shortage of experience with the language/accent barriers, I think I'm uniquely suited to answer that question, no? Over a year in France, French-speaking ex (never again), two years in a place where English is occasionally no more than a lingua franca...yeah, this should write itself. Only problem will be keeping its short.
Actually, that's not the only problem. Crunch time is here. There are two other "short" answers for Chicago. I also need to finish Book 1 of the Faerie Queen by Thursday, which is, given that I'm working 6pm-3am Wednesday, a tall goddamn order. I'm also working Thursday (huge meteor awards after-party, 330 pax, huge service charge, if I meet Snoop Dogg I'll lose my shit) and Friday. I begged off for Saturday, though they needed me, because Mama flies in 8am that day (yes!) and I drag my ass out of bed after two, three hours of sleep. We have fun for many days. Also editing. She leaves the 2nd, then I have four days to bang out at least one essay before Sam and Seema fly in the 6th (yes twice!). We leave for Paris the 9th.
Oh, they also want me to read Middlemarch--the whole fucking thing--in a week and a half, along with Things Fall Apart (tomorrow), Dracula (next Monday), The writings of Frederick Douglass (Thursday), and Jack of Newbury (Friday). Guess what's not happening. The thing is, I really need to read Douglass and Newbury--an obscure, useless 16th century prose text, but since I've done fuckall for that class thus far, I need to do something for it. Also I promised Deirdre I'd do the Faerie Queen, but it's slow going. Maybe I shouldn't rent three movies again tonight. Last night it was How High, South Park:Bigger, Longer, Uncut, and Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, which lives up to its billing. If I were a history teacher, I'd totally show my class that movie. Genghis Khan takes an aluminium bat to a mannequin in a sports store, Napoleon goes nuts on a waterslide, and Socrates (pronounced SO-crates) throws a Nerf football around with Billy the Kid. Beethoven (Beeth-HO-ven) rocks out to Bon Jovi. How did I go so long without seeing this? And how is it that Keanu Reeves ALWAYS plays the savior of the universe? Bill and Ted, Siddartha, the Matrix, Devil's Advocate, Constantine? Your own personal Jesus.
Got a nice text from der vater last night: "Well, am sitting at a bar at a Ramada hotel in Pittsburgh and having a poorly made Manhattan. I ordered it straight up but he failed to put any ice in the shaker. Oh well. Your mother upstairs fast asleep after a very nice performance of part of her bassoon quintet by members of the PSO. Hope you are well. Love, W."
A few things come to mind: one, kudos to Mammeleh. I'll get you the text in a few days, but we should probably just work on it while you're here. Two, it's nice to know that even American bartenders can blow. I have this conviction that despite being really good for Ireland, I'm nothing for New York. My inventive abilities are significantly limited by three things: one, I'm still underage in the US(how IS that?), I can't waste liquor at work, so I can't experiment (they're as tight-fisted as a vengeful hooker), and I don't buy liquor in Ireland because the selection sucks and the prices are worse. So I'm limited to what I have in the house, a selection which is dwindling dangerously. The Wild Turkey expired the other day to the Mozart Requiem, and the last of the Bombay Sapphire is scheduled for euthanasia this evening. That said, I did improve dramatically on that Zubrowka/Green Tea thing from a few weeks back. I changed the grapefruit juice to apple juice, a known partner to Zubrowka, and upped the Chartreuse (which I've been drinking a lot lately, as Sadie gave me her cold, and Chartreuse with a bit of sugar is better than Echinacea), and combined with the loose green tea, the basil leaves (one in the shaker, one to garnish), the bottled, sweetened green tea, and the Zubrowka, we have a spectacular cocktail. The Chartreuse and apple juice give it the delicious, and the basil and green give it complexity. I'm terrifically proud of myself. At work, they've told us that if we invent a cocktail, and they like it, they'll put it on the menu. So that's another project now. This one, of course, isn't viable: we only have one of the ingredients involved (apple juice), and aren't about to get the others. So I have to work with what we have, but have to do so without tasting it. Which is just stupid, sorry. I'm thinking Calvados and champagne somehow, a base for a major variation on the Champagne Cocktail. Keep the sugar cube, lose the bitters. Dry vermouth? Garnish with an apple? Just throwing ideas out. Wedding Southern Comfort and Galliano somehow will likely sell better. I just have to be able to taste it, damn it. They're getting dumber and dumber lately, they really are. I am dying to work in a bar where, at closing time, you don't have to remove all the liquor. That does make sense, I concede: we're in a hotel, where we can't close off the bar to guests altogether. But now it's the glasses, too. It's insane. We have to take all of our highballs and hide them from room service. Furthermore, not only have they cut the hitherto-ritual Saturday after-club drink, but we can't even have a drink if a customer buys one for us--which is ridiculous, and just plain bad service. It has to do with being hospitable and convivial. It's not like we're going to get trashed on one little drink. These people just don't know a damn thing about service. Though I think I'm going to fill a bottle of Jameson with iced tea or something and keep it behind the bar, so when they buy one for us, we take the money, have us some "whiskey" and throw the cash surreptitiously in the tip jar. This is standard practice. And have I mentioned we're not even supposed to drink JUICE? Coffee, fine, stuff from the gun, fine, but no juice. They buy the juice for about 50-60 cent a litre, sell 4oz. for €2.85, and they can't let us have a glass? Holy shit.
Lastly, for some bizarre reason, after returning home from work at 5am (early, actually) on Sunday morning, I fell out of bed at 11:30am. I hate that. I can't sleep till noon lately. Anyhow, it was the first time in months I'd been up early enough, and felt awake enough to go to 2pm pickup Ultimate. Remember Ultimate Frisbee? That sport I used to have time for? I don't even go to Trinity practice now because I now have a tutorial during our one hour of weekly practice time. But it was a bright, sunny day, and I decided, what the hell. It turned out also to be very fucking cold. Despite the cheery, evident sunshine, by the time I made it out to Albert College Park, it was snowing. Dandruffing, more like it. White shit leaving the sky. The sun was out and the ground was dry but there were unmistakeable white bits landing on us. In Ireland it is best to ignore these things because they bake your head. We had enough for 5-on-5. As usual, the first half hour was just people throwing around, and I was glad to find that my throwing was as good as ever. I also found I was winded just from throwing. When we started the game, it became very clear that I was in possibly the worst shape of my life. I couldn't run worth a damn, three, four points and I'd stagger off the pitch. We had no subs--Iron Man, savaging it, call it what you will, I call it hell--so I was heaving like a fat kid running wind sprints. It was pretty bad. I was rusty as an iron drainpipe, too. Once we started playing, my hucks went to shit entirely. I'm appalled with myself. No, I hadn't slept, eaten or drunk fluids, but still. It was embarrassing. I can happily stand up for eight, ten hours at a stretch, but I can't run at all anymore. I have to get into shape, and would go to the gym upstairs in my building, only it's closed. Thank you, Premier Property Management. You useless bastards. Long, too long, Ireland, I have lingered here under your hoarfrost and low-slung sky. Bring on the continent. ESPANA!
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