Thursday, June 02, 2005
Ram. Page.
I don't think I write much about my social life. I don't neglect it, I think, but I certainly don't give my nights out on the town a fair share of air. That's probably because they're so few and far between, to say nothing of fairly banal. But every so often, the planets align just so, and that's when I partake of a true rager.
Tuesday night had to have been the most gobsmackingly stupendous night out I've ever had. The night before that was no trifle, either. The remarkable thing is how different they were. Monday, we were celebrating Duncan's imminent departure. We met at one of my favorite pubs in Dublin, O'Donoghue's, formerly (and forever in my mind) Thingmote, where they have this mezzanine-balcony level with a high ceiling, cantilevered out over the main floor. Gorgeous dark wood paneling everywhere, crusty empty bottles on the shelves. Time doesn't pass up there. It was Sadie, Stephen, Duncan, Caitriona, two guys from Stephen's French class, and myself. And we just went for it. From seven or eight till close, it must have been. And it was the definition of craic--good times. Nothing lagging, nothing out of joint, just a great night out with friends. Afterwards, we went for some kebabs at Iskander's, to whose name I am naturally, umbilically attached, which just about ripped our mouths apart. They need to chill on the chili sauce, Jesus. On returning home, stumbling but sated, inhaled about a gallon of water, took a deuce of advil, and hit the sack. Woke the next morning a little dazed, but nothing impairing. Basically banged around all day. Think I watched most of Star Wars. Or maybe that was the day before. The movies have started to blur together. Duncan came over for a final farewell at about 4:30.
I will really miss Dunc. I shall certainly see him again; when, I've no idea, but I can't really imagine my getting on without him for too very long. There's a line in King Ralph when John Goodman turns to his woman and says, "Veronica, you were my England." Duncan, I'm not calling you a woman, nor am I calling you mine, but there can be no doubt: you were, and ever will be, my England.
Duncan left, and shortly thereafter, I went to meet the bar staff at Milano, a restaurant across the river where last year, a bunch of us from Halls had a Christmas party. They were actually across the street at Fitzsimon's pub when I arrived, so we had a pre-dinner pint, after which we went to the restaurant. It was sort of the official goodbye dinner; Antonio was leaving for Australia Saturday, Fiachra, Dan and Kelly were leaving the next morning (God, I hope Fiachra made his flight), and a few others were either leaving the Morrison or leaving the country. Me, too. The dinner was phenomenal. We were ten at table, and the conversation was convivial with a capital Vivid. Roared through pizza and wine, Antonio insisted on picking up half the check, though we were all still in for €25 each or so (€29.50 so far, counting my pint). There was, of course, only one place to go after that: Cafe Bar, Morrison hotel. We swarmed the bar. Qiang and Elaine were there, with Andrew and Cathal on the floor. Qiang had nicked over to Milano for a minute on his break. From him I commanded his finest Martini, with Bombay Sapphire. At €11, that put me up to €40.50 on the night. It was a modest Martini, in the end; I think that there must be something metaphysical, some flavoring investment of the soul in a good Martini. You can taste the maker's spirit in it. It's such a simple blend, yet one finds such infinite variation in its flavor. Tradition is a maturing, animating agent, as though the shaker, by virtue of its ancestry, miraculously ages the mixture in moments, like a magic cask. It is some spice of the will. A bored bartender cannot help but make a bored Martini; a fascinated one will put adventure in a glass.
Anyhow, I was mercifully uncharged for the pint I subsequently consumed, as by that point I was out of money. When Cafe Bar had to close, at 11:30, we relocated to Sin, back across the river. By this time we had lost some revelers (claiming they had work or whatnot the next morning), but had picked up a guest of the hotel. Lisa, a black New Yorker in her early 30's, room 206. She and Leo had struck up a friendship a few nights previous, when he was on bar. He called her down, and she came with us. Leo, however, is the lightweight to end all lightweights, and halfway through our time at Sin we would have to bundle him into a taxi. On the way to Sin, we passed Eden, a lush, airy and quite chic restaurant to which Petra, our old halo manager, had recently relocated. We banged on the window and mugged. Told her to get her cute butt to Sin, which was two doors down (small cities, I will concede, are handy that way) right away. We took our place in the club, whose music was, pleasantly, not too loud. It wasn't a dancing club, more of a lounge. In any case it had single-malts and a late license, which is all that mattered. I ordered Lagavulin, spying it on the shelf. The bartender had no idea what it was. I had to point it out (to be fair, it's not easy to find when the label is mostly white, and plus you're an idiot). When he'd located it, he ignored the fairly prominent legend on the label reading "Single-Malt Scotch Whisky," preferring to squint and stab at the register. He charged me for a generic Irish whiskey. Not really complaining, as he wanted €6 instead of the €7.80 he should have charged me. It ended up not mattering: I offered my debit card, and he said they don't take those. Just then, Lisa sashays up next to me and insists on paying. I am very grateful, and will proceed for the rest of the night, to happily cadge drinks off of others. Petra arrives, as does the bar staff (except for Qiang, who--fool boy--went home). The party is on. Go through a Talisker off Antonio, and then some Turkey off Petra.
Finally, at 3am, Sin closes, and they boot us out. We waltz down the street, singing the Pogue's "Fiesta"--at least I think it was "Fiesta." All we really sang was, "DA DA DAA DA DA! HEY! AMARILLO WAITS FOR ME!" over and over. We come to Eden, and Petra trots over to the door and moves behind a potted plant, fiddling with something on the wall. She reemerges, unlocks the door, and lets us in. She'd disactivated the security system. All cocktails, she announces, are half off. I move right behind the bar and investigate their stock. "Woman!" I cry. "Bring me some ice!" They have Chambord, and two French Martinis are swiftly engineered, for whoever wants. I think that was followed by a communal Cosmo, mostly for Lisa's benefit. This has already become Lisa's most overwhelming night out of her life. Petra put together an Eden Bellini, with blueberries, strawberries, creme de cassis, peach schnapps, and topped with champagne. She brings out a case of Stella which, being free, I keep to. We are standing in this empty restaurant, partying away, until dawn. We were, as John Darnielle sang, the one thing in the world God didn't have his eyes on. All the walls are windows, so we see the hazy blue creep of dawn, a sight to which I am growing accustomed, though it still hasn't lost its thrill. Finally, after eleven hours of uninterrupted party, at about six in the morning, frankly flying, we wind our ways home. I come in my door, exhausted and giddy, and collapse.
I wake at 1, far, far too early. I make some breakfast, take a shower and shave, and realize I am utterly twisted still. Go back to bed. Awake again at 3, still a little crooked. Parents call, and we have a lovely chat which I hope didn't distress anyone too much. Make crepes, which I've been eating fairly constantly for weeks now. It's cheap. Laze around the house. Sadie comes home and is making potato bondas (extraordinary) when the hangover finally, finally kicks in. I go horizontal on the couch, motionless; mercifully, the delay of the inevitable has considerably lessened its impact, and I am okay to fly in short order. We watch Elephant, but fast forward most of it (mostly it's people walking long distances with the Moonlight Sonata in the background--I thought it was an incredibly intelligent movie, often beautiful, but now is not the time) because I have to go meet Jay from Harvard before he leaves the next day. No, not for drinks. God forbid. Fish and chips. We sit in St. Patrick's close for a while, then walk clear across the city to National College of Ireland, where's he's living. Hang around, watch a West Wing, which I haven't done in at least a year, and my God. My God. What a show. I can't stay for more, though, because I have to get home and watch Seven Years in Tibet with Sadie. We finish watching at 2:30am, go to bed, I wake up at 11:30, throw some chicken and korma sauce in the slow cooker, read the Guardian from two days ago, and here I am.
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
So Chicago, you ask? Exams? No word from Chicago yet. Very irritating. Nearly had a meltdown, a senior year-type thing, last friday during my Fables exam. Bad timing. I called them afterward. No word. I might call again today. But lately the stress has ebbed. People have impressed on me just how fucking cool a year in New York could be. I could start writing, work full-time, have virtually no expenses, amass a ton of cash, etc. And hang out with Columbians--of whom there is to be one more, do I hear? Congratulations of the highest order to Jonah. You dog.
As for exams, I've done three. The highlight, I think, has to have been Realism, which I did not entirely give up on. I wrote a good essay, I think, on houses in Jane Austen (drawing entirely on my familiarity with the movies). I then wrote one on subversion in Austen, NOT as it pertains to the woman question, because I am sick to death of that question, and said as much. I wrote on how she undermined the social order. I also wrote, point-blank, that Sir Walter Elliott was "a tool." Which he is, you must concede as much. This is what happens when you remove the fear of consequences. Nowhere to go but up.
I have Romance tomorrow, and should be more anxious about it than I am. After that, I have another week till my next two. I think I shall to the library presently, there to peruse the Faerie Quean.
Tuesday night had to have been the most gobsmackingly stupendous night out I've ever had. The night before that was no trifle, either. The remarkable thing is how different they were. Monday, we were celebrating Duncan's imminent departure. We met at one of my favorite pubs in Dublin, O'Donoghue's, formerly (and forever in my mind) Thingmote, where they have this mezzanine-balcony level with a high ceiling, cantilevered out over the main floor. Gorgeous dark wood paneling everywhere, crusty empty bottles on the shelves. Time doesn't pass up there. It was Sadie, Stephen, Duncan, Caitriona, two guys from Stephen's French class, and myself. And we just went for it. From seven or eight till close, it must have been. And it was the definition of craic--good times. Nothing lagging, nothing out of joint, just a great night out with friends. Afterwards, we went for some kebabs at Iskander's, to whose name I am naturally, umbilically attached, which just about ripped our mouths apart. They need to chill on the chili sauce, Jesus. On returning home, stumbling but sated, inhaled about a gallon of water, took a deuce of advil, and hit the sack. Woke the next morning a little dazed, but nothing impairing. Basically banged around all day. Think I watched most of Star Wars. Or maybe that was the day before. The movies have started to blur together. Duncan came over for a final farewell at about 4:30.
I will really miss Dunc. I shall certainly see him again; when, I've no idea, but I can't really imagine my getting on without him for too very long. There's a line in King Ralph when John Goodman turns to his woman and says, "Veronica, you were my England." Duncan, I'm not calling you a woman, nor am I calling you mine, but there can be no doubt: you were, and ever will be, my England.
Duncan left, and shortly thereafter, I went to meet the bar staff at Milano, a restaurant across the river where last year, a bunch of us from Halls had a Christmas party. They were actually across the street at Fitzsimon's pub when I arrived, so we had a pre-dinner pint, after which we went to the restaurant. It was sort of the official goodbye dinner; Antonio was leaving for Australia Saturday, Fiachra, Dan and Kelly were leaving the next morning (God, I hope Fiachra made his flight), and a few others were either leaving the Morrison or leaving the country. Me, too. The dinner was phenomenal. We were ten at table, and the conversation was convivial with a capital Vivid. Roared through pizza and wine, Antonio insisted on picking up half the check, though we were all still in for €25 each or so (€29.50 so far, counting my pint). There was, of course, only one place to go after that: Cafe Bar, Morrison hotel. We swarmed the bar. Qiang and Elaine were there, with Andrew and Cathal on the floor. Qiang had nicked over to Milano for a minute on his break. From him I commanded his finest Martini, with Bombay Sapphire. At €11, that put me up to €40.50 on the night. It was a modest Martini, in the end; I think that there must be something metaphysical, some flavoring investment of the soul in a good Martini. You can taste the maker's spirit in it. It's such a simple blend, yet one finds such infinite variation in its flavor. Tradition is a maturing, animating agent, as though the shaker, by virtue of its ancestry, miraculously ages the mixture in moments, like a magic cask. It is some spice of the will. A bored bartender cannot help but make a bored Martini; a fascinated one will put adventure in a glass.
Anyhow, I was mercifully uncharged for the pint I subsequently consumed, as by that point I was out of money. When Cafe Bar had to close, at 11:30, we relocated to Sin, back across the river. By this time we had lost some revelers (claiming they had work or whatnot the next morning), but had picked up a guest of the hotel. Lisa, a black New Yorker in her early 30's, room 206. She and Leo had struck up a friendship a few nights previous, when he was on bar. He called her down, and she came with us. Leo, however, is the lightweight to end all lightweights, and halfway through our time at Sin we would have to bundle him into a taxi. On the way to Sin, we passed Eden, a lush, airy and quite chic restaurant to which Petra, our old halo manager, had recently relocated. We banged on the window and mugged. Told her to get her cute butt to Sin, which was two doors down (small cities, I will concede, are handy that way) right away. We took our place in the club, whose music was, pleasantly, not too loud. It wasn't a dancing club, more of a lounge. In any case it had single-malts and a late license, which is all that mattered. I ordered Lagavulin, spying it on the shelf. The bartender had no idea what it was. I had to point it out (to be fair, it's not easy to find when the label is mostly white, and plus you're an idiot). When he'd located it, he ignored the fairly prominent legend on the label reading "Single-Malt Scotch Whisky," preferring to squint and stab at the register. He charged me for a generic Irish whiskey. Not really complaining, as he wanted €6 instead of the €7.80 he should have charged me. It ended up not mattering: I offered my debit card, and he said they don't take those. Just then, Lisa sashays up next to me and insists on paying. I am very grateful, and will proceed for the rest of the night, to happily cadge drinks off of others. Petra arrives, as does the bar staff (except for Qiang, who--fool boy--went home). The party is on. Go through a Talisker off Antonio, and then some Turkey off Petra.
Finally, at 3am, Sin closes, and they boot us out. We waltz down the street, singing the Pogue's "Fiesta"--at least I think it was "Fiesta." All we really sang was, "DA DA DAA DA DA! HEY! AMARILLO WAITS FOR ME!" over and over. We come to Eden, and Petra trots over to the door and moves behind a potted plant, fiddling with something on the wall. She reemerges, unlocks the door, and lets us in. She'd disactivated the security system. All cocktails, she announces, are half off. I move right behind the bar and investigate their stock. "Woman!" I cry. "Bring me some ice!" They have Chambord, and two French Martinis are swiftly engineered, for whoever wants. I think that was followed by a communal Cosmo, mostly for Lisa's benefit. This has already become Lisa's most overwhelming night out of her life. Petra put together an Eden Bellini, with blueberries, strawberries, creme de cassis, peach schnapps, and topped with champagne. She brings out a case of Stella which, being free, I keep to. We are standing in this empty restaurant, partying away, until dawn. We were, as John Darnielle sang, the one thing in the world God didn't have his eyes on. All the walls are windows, so we see the hazy blue creep of dawn, a sight to which I am growing accustomed, though it still hasn't lost its thrill. Finally, after eleven hours of uninterrupted party, at about six in the morning, frankly flying, we wind our ways home. I come in my door, exhausted and giddy, and collapse.
I wake at 1, far, far too early. I make some breakfast, take a shower and shave, and realize I am utterly twisted still. Go back to bed. Awake again at 3, still a little crooked. Parents call, and we have a lovely chat which I hope didn't distress anyone too much. Make crepes, which I've been eating fairly constantly for weeks now. It's cheap. Laze around the house. Sadie comes home and is making potato bondas (extraordinary) when the hangover finally, finally kicks in. I go horizontal on the couch, motionless; mercifully, the delay of the inevitable has considerably lessened its impact, and I am okay to fly in short order. We watch Elephant, but fast forward most of it (mostly it's people walking long distances with the Moonlight Sonata in the background--I thought it was an incredibly intelligent movie, often beautiful, but now is not the time) because I have to go meet Jay from Harvard before he leaves the next day. No, not for drinks. God forbid. Fish and chips. We sit in St. Patrick's close for a while, then walk clear across the city to National College of Ireland, where's he's living. Hang around, watch a West Wing, which I haven't done in at least a year, and my God. My God. What a show. I can't stay for more, though, because I have to get home and watch Seven Years in Tibet with Sadie. We finish watching at 2:30am, go to bed, I wake up at 11:30, throw some chicken and korma sauce in the slow cooker, read the Guardian from two days ago, and here I am.
<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>
So Chicago, you ask? Exams? No word from Chicago yet. Very irritating. Nearly had a meltdown, a senior year-type thing, last friday during my Fables exam. Bad timing. I called them afterward. No word. I might call again today. But lately the stress has ebbed. People have impressed on me just how fucking cool a year in New York could be. I could start writing, work full-time, have virtually no expenses, amass a ton of cash, etc. And hang out with Columbians--of whom there is to be one more, do I hear? Congratulations of the highest order to Jonah. You dog.
As for exams, I've done three. The highlight, I think, has to have been Realism, which I did not entirely give up on. I wrote a good essay, I think, on houses in Jane Austen (drawing entirely on my familiarity with the movies). I then wrote one on subversion in Austen, NOT as it pertains to the woman question, because I am sick to death of that question, and said as much. I wrote on how she undermined the social order. I also wrote, point-blank, that Sir Walter Elliott was "a tool." Which he is, you must concede as much. This is what happens when you remove the fear of consequences. Nowhere to go but up.
I have Romance tomorrow, and should be more anxious about it than I am. After that, I have another week till my next two. I think I shall to the library presently, there to peruse the Faerie Quean.
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