Thursday, March 31, 2005
I think I know why I feel weird in London
It's because Dublin is effectively a suburb. It takes me more or less the same amount of time to get from my house to Paddington station as it does a more remote Westchesterite to make it to my house via Grand Central. The cultures are largely the same, too--the stores are similar, the weather is, too, as are the clothes and habits of the people. It's not that new. Someone who lives in Westchester, though, doesn't view a trip to New York as a tourist experience--at least, I assume he doesn't. Certainly he is not going to hostel up. He knows his way around, does not need to consult maps, or--heaven forbid--ask for directions. But I have to do these things in London. Granted, we had to spend those few nights in a hostel because all my London friends were either in Dublin, on vacation, or in the process of moving. But even so.
For Jacob, it was new. We had a great time together. But we're walking around Londers, navigating its lunatic streetplan, and he can't get over it. The leaping gothic spires of Westminster or the Royal Courts, the intricate masonry, well, everywhere--he is more or less enthralled, and for me, it's like, Oh, yeah, I hadn't noticed that. You're right, it is kind of nice. I just take the place in stride; he is actually, visibly having an experience. The place just confuses me. You walk across the Thames, over the hypermodern Millennium Bridge, the immaculately classical St. Paul's behind you, the giant former power station of the Tate Modernin front of you, and off to your left is the rebuilt Globe Theatre (site of our only real tourist experience, and personal hyperventilation), which sits next to this bizarre globular building, actually semi-spherical, while underneath your feet small tugboats and dingy barges glide around sleek, white, Damien Hirst-designed ferries. Norman Foster's wildly phallic Gherkin (as in Jerkin' the) rises on your left, spoofing stentorian Big Ben on your right. It's just goddamn confusing. There's this tug-of-war happening in London between old and new, and neither is ceding any ground. I feel caught in the middle. Dublin I have a handle on. I feel comfortable in Dublin, if not at home ("Dyoublong?" No, but who cares?). London, so long as I'm technically a tourist, makes no sense at all. Next time I go, I'm only doing it if I can live at a friend's place in the city. Hostelling, you have no sense of the city's rhythms or pace.
It was a blast having Jacob around, though. Mostly we saw shows at night. First night was a Royal Ballet Production: Walton's Tombeaux, Elgar's Enigma Variations, and, finally, the Rite of Spring (MacMillan choreography). Our tickets cost £4 and £5. Tombeaux we watched from nosebleed, in zero view. Way off on house right. Couldn't see a thing--most missed the backdrop, which was probably important--so for Enigma, we headed over to the other side, one level down. This time we couldn't see stage right worth a damn. We spent much of Enigma scoping the remaining seats in the middle. Locked in on three up, two in, and six up, nine in. Dead center, both of them. After Enigma, hustled over and slipped into the seats. The lady next to me was not pleased: "You know, you're sitting in my seat." Oh, am I. Terribly sorry, I'll move... "Yes, this is my friend's seat; she couldn't come, but that seat is paid for." Excuse me, ma'am. I'll be glad to pay you back. At this point her friend, who was rolling her eyes out the back of her head, shut her up. Oy. But am I ever glad we moved. If you ever get a chance to see the Rite of Spring ballet, run, don't walk. It's astounding, probably the most affecting piece of dance I've ever seen. And the orchestra was none too shabby neither.
The next night was Rennie Harris' Legends of Hip-Hop, featuring the original popper, Boogaloo Sam, and the original locker, Don Campbellock, Jr. Also some spectacular breakage, beatboxing and scratching. The perfect complement to the Royal Ballet. Monday night, we chanced upon an ad for Dennis McKay's National Anthems at the Old Vic, with Kevin Spacey, Steven Weber and Mary Stuart Masterson. Funny, claustrophic as hell--you really need a drink at intermission. American materialism in the 80's. Not subtle, but fierce. Pretty decent drama.
The last night, we rounded it off with the Reduced Shakespeare Company's final performance of its Complete History of America (abridged). Gut-busting. An endless string of unimaginably atrocious puns: following a hysterical spoof of vaudeville, one guy clangs his cymbals together deafeningly, over and over and over. He looks up and says: "Massive cymbalism!" and sprints off before we can kill him. Hosing down the audience with supersoakers, but planting one in the balcony so someone could fire back, was genius. Twenty solid minutes (they must have run out material) was improv, as they took random questions from the audience. Recommended.
Apologize for not attempting to give proper reviews; the Rite of Spring takes rather a lot of energy to discuss, as it takes a lot of energy to watch, and furthermore I'm sort of locked in on this one essay subject which has been dominating my thinking for a month.
Back in Dublin now, though, Jacob having returned home, and going back into essay hell for the last time. I have to gun out this Postcolonialism joint on the Jews and the Blacks (tentatively titled The Roots that Clutch: The 'Hood and the Shtetl, but that's not funny enough) by Monday, and between Heeb Magazine, a ton of Philip Roth, Benjamin Zephaniah and John Agard, Wu-Tang, Public Enemy and the Beastie Boys, Christopher Hitchens, Audre Lorde, Henry Louis Gates, Homi Bhabha, Chinua Achebe and the Ol' Dirty Bastard, I barely know where to begin. Reread The Conversion of the Jews last night, and felt wistful, remembering sitting on a bed, having it read to me. Occurred to me that the Jews, whatever we choose to do up there, are consigned to the rooftop. Once, we fiddled idly. Now, we run around it like Ozzie, demanding to be looked at. Why are we still on the roof? Because the guy on the roof, crazy or no, has an identity--he's the guy on the roof. This goes on, the roof spiel. Serious information overload. Further bulletins as progress warrants, but since we disconnected the internet in our flat (€100 a month, just wasn't worth it), we might have a little more radio silence this week. Also, as soon as I finish this one, which is promising to be a monster, I have to fire off Romance for Deirdre--no pressure there. Oy. Such a kopdrayenish, it gives me.
For Jacob, it was new. We had a great time together. But we're walking around Londers, navigating its lunatic streetplan, and he can't get over it. The leaping gothic spires of Westminster or the Royal Courts, the intricate masonry, well, everywhere--he is more or less enthralled, and for me, it's like, Oh, yeah, I hadn't noticed that. You're right, it is kind of nice. I just take the place in stride; he is actually, visibly having an experience. The place just confuses me. You walk across the Thames, over the hypermodern Millennium Bridge, the immaculately classical St. Paul's behind you, the giant former power station of the Tate Modernin front of you, and off to your left is the rebuilt Globe Theatre (site of our only real tourist experience, and personal hyperventilation), which sits next to this bizarre globular building, actually semi-spherical, while underneath your feet small tugboats and dingy barges glide around sleek, white, Damien Hirst-designed ferries. Norman Foster's wildly phallic Gherkin (as in Jerkin' the) rises on your left, spoofing stentorian Big Ben on your right. It's just goddamn confusing. There's this tug-of-war happening in London between old and new, and neither is ceding any ground. I feel caught in the middle. Dublin I have a handle on. I feel comfortable in Dublin, if not at home ("Dyoublong?" No, but who cares?). London, so long as I'm technically a tourist, makes no sense at all. Next time I go, I'm only doing it if I can live at a friend's place in the city. Hostelling, you have no sense of the city's rhythms or pace.
It was a blast having Jacob around, though. Mostly we saw shows at night. First night was a Royal Ballet Production: Walton's Tombeaux, Elgar's Enigma Variations, and, finally, the Rite of Spring (MacMillan choreography). Our tickets cost £4 and £5. Tombeaux we watched from nosebleed, in zero view. Way off on house right. Couldn't see a thing--most missed the backdrop, which was probably important--so for Enigma, we headed over to the other side, one level down. This time we couldn't see stage right worth a damn. We spent much of Enigma scoping the remaining seats in the middle. Locked in on three up, two in, and six up, nine in. Dead center, both of them. After Enigma, hustled over and slipped into the seats. The lady next to me was not pleased: "You know, you're sitting in my seat." Oh, am I. Terribly sorry, I'll move... "Yes, this is my friend's seat; she couldn't come, but that seat is paid for." Excuse me, ma'am. I'll be glad to pay you back. At this point her friend, who was rolling her eyes out the back of her head, shut her up. Oy. But am I ever glad we moved. If you ever get a chance to see the Rite of Spring ballet, run, don't walk. It's astounding, probably the most affecting piece of dance I've ever seen. And the orchestra was none too shabby neither.
The next night was Rennie Harris' Legends of Hip-Hop, featuring the original popper, Boogaloo Sam, and the original locker, Don Campbellock, Jr. Also some spectacular breakage, beatboxing and scratching. The perfect complement to the Royal Ballet. Monday night, we chanced upon an ad for Dennis McKay's National Anthems at the Old Vic, with Kevin Spacey, Steven Weber and Mary Stuart Masterson. Funny, claustrophic as hell--you really need a drink at intermission. American materialism in the 80's. Not subtle, but fierce. Pretty decent drama.
The last night, we rounded it off with the Reduced Shakespeare Company's final performance of its Complete History of America (abridged). Gut-busting. An endless string of unimaginably atrocious puns: following a hysterical spoof of vaudeville, one guy clangs his cymbals together deafeningly, over and over and over. He looks up and says: "Massive cymbalism!" and sprints off before we can kill him. Hosing down the audience with supersoakers, but planting one in the balcony so someone could fire back, was genius. Twenty solid minutes (they must have run out material) was improv, as they took random questions from the audience. Recommended.
Apologize for not attempting to give proper reviews; the Rite of Spring takes rather a lot of energy to discuss, as it takes a lot of energy to watch, and furthermore I'm sort of locked in on this one essay subject which has been dominating my thinking for a month.
Back in Dublin now, though, Jacob having returned home, and going back into essay hell for the last time. I have to gun out this Postcolonialism joint on the Jews and the Blacks (tentatively titled The Roots that Clutch: The 'Hood and the Shtetl, but that's not funny enough) by Monday, and between Heeb Magazine, a ton of Philip Roth, Benjamin Zephaniah and John Agard, Wu-Tang, Public Enemy and the Beastie Boys, Christopher Hitchens, Audre Lorde, Henry Louis Gates, Homi Bhabha, Chinua Achebe and the Ol' Dirty Bastard, I barely know where to begin. Reread The Conversion of the Jews last night, and felt wistful, remembering sitting on a bed, having it read to me. Occurred to me that the Jews, whatever we choose to do up there, are consigned to the rooftop. Once, we fiddled idly. Now, we run around it like Ozzie, demanding to be looked at. Why are we still on the roof? Because the guy on the roof, crazy or no, has an identity--he's the guy on the roof. This goes on, the roof spiel. Serious information overload. Further bulletins as progress warrants, but since we disconnected the internet in our flat (€100 a month, just wasn't worth it), we might have a little more radio silence this week. Also, as soon as I finish this one, which is promising to be a monster, I have to fire off Romance for Deirdre--no pressure there. Oy. Such a kopdrayenish, it gives me.
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