As usual, I never get around to writing about the end of the trip once I'm home. But don't fret, readers: it's coming soon. It's been a very hectic and exhausting couple of days since getting back, but I'll soon be spinning tales of both Irish Jam and The Ballinasloe Death March.
If you're curious about such things, and want to hear me moderate a public forum for school board candidates, feel free to click here. Riveting stuff, I tell you.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Final Destination
My last stop in Dublin is always the most depressing: the U.S. Customs and Border Patrol line, followed by the windowless, shopless, pub-less waiting area. You make your way through the usual duty free shops and last-minute-souvenir stands and descend into this last, pitiful stop. It's as if the place wants to make sure your visit ends on a depressing note.
Had fun in Ireland, eh? Drank our pints and listened to the auld Oirish music floating out from the pubs and bought the sweatshirts and tramped across our countryside and had a blast? Well, don't get too comfy, Yankee. Here's one little bit of crushing, soulless reality to remind you that your holiday is at an end.
Aside from this bit of mental torture, my trip was a blast. The days in Dublin will be recounted soon. Just need to get home and decompress a bit. Work is tomorrow, and right now my system as no earthy idea what time is.
Represent!
Limelight-wear in the Wicklow Mountains, Ireland.
Flight's in a few hours. The rest of the story will be told in due time...
Flight's in a few hours. The rest of the story will be told in due time...
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Reading Dylan in Dingle
I think people have this idea of what a place is going to be like, and when they travel there, sometimes they’re disappointed by what they see. Hotel doesn’t look like it did in the brochure. Town isn’t as picturesque, locals aren’t as welcoming. Sometimes places hand you the myth, play the part you want them to play. Fill the walls up with touristy bric-a-brac.
I used to think of rolling green hills, warm pubs, and good Guinness when I thought of what Ireland might be like. And all the times I’ve been here, it’s been a slow, purposeful process of stripping away that expectation of things, and trying to figure out the truth behind the myth.
When I arrived in Dingle I had spent an hour riding through some of the most incredible scenery I’ve ever seen in Ireland. The green hills gave way to taller mountains which opened up onto the bay and then the town of Dingle. Small place, just a few main streets and a quay and plenty of hotels and B&Bs.
Hotel was huge and fancy, not something I’m used to. Felt like being on the Titanic, with long hallways and lounges and restaurants that looked out onto the harbor and the bay.
Took a long walk along the harbor until I reached an empty lighthouse. Stared out and wondered if I could see the Atlantic beyond the bay.
Ate lunch in a place called the Goat Street Café. Had the best seafood chowder I’ve ever eaten in my life. Went back the next day and had it again. Just sat there and read Dylan and soaked it all up. Couple next to me wear jeans and black sweaters and seem to be in the middle of an argument. Girl reads her guidebook and occasionally throws out a choice remark while the guy wonders what basmati rice is. Mostly they just sit in silence. It’s only Wednesday and they’ve run out of things to say to each other.
Talked to a woman who works at the café. California woman, early forties. Started visiting Ireland about five years ago and never vacationed anywhere else after that. Moved here two years ago. Something about Dingle, she says. It’ll grab you.
Had a quick pint in a bar called Dick Mack’s. Used to be a cobbler’s shop. Now it’s a place the locals guard like Cerberus before the gates. A German man sits at the end of the bar, American couple enters and the locals start in on them. Tourists aren’t wanted in this one.
Wound up in another pub down the road, a big one that caters to the crowds and gives them what they want. Dancing lessons and burning peat and some trad music by a couple of young guys. Talk to a Galway woman and her English husband. She’s just moved back after three decades of living in San Francisco. We talk about the Roisin Dubh, how it’s not the same place any more. Used to be the crossroads of the world to me, a place where you could meet a Dublin farmer, a South African banker, and an Asian girl with an Australian accent.
Later on a group of teachers from a town thirty miles away from me arrive and declare me a gentleman.
Last day was spent taking a walk out of town, heading towards the mountains, never getting any closer. Wondering what’s up there, like the kid from The Red Pony. Sunshine gives way to rain while coming back, so I duck into the nearest pub to wait it out. I pull back my hood, order a beer, and have a seat by the fire. Seems like something out of a book, or a song. The Lonesome Wanderer finds shelter from the storm.
I sit and read by the fire, enjoying the warmth and the smell of burning wood. Start thinking that this is all feeling a bit cliché. The quiet pub and the fire and the rain. Then, I kid you not, a small, pot-bellied dog wanders over and sits down at my feet.
I give her a scratch behind the ears, and she looks up at me with kind, dark eyes. I order another beer and ask to see a menu. The dog lies down to sleep for a bit, before the crowd comes in.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
photos are a picnik
I've been writing plenty over the past few days, but mostly I've been walking, eating in cafes and restaurants, a pub here and there. I've done lots in Dingle, but I think I'll wait and write up the full account while I'm on the train tomorrow. For now, I've uploaded a few more pictures, and have worked on cleaning up some of the ones I put up already. Flickr now has this great editing software called picnik that does the same basic things that I use Lightroom for.
Picture album is still a work in progress, and the full story won't be finished until I'm back home, but if you're into that type of thing, you can watch the photos develop from their raw form into something else. For instance, I took a picture that looked like this:
And turned it into something that looks like this:
Time for bed, and a long trip tomorrow.
Picture album is still a work in progress, and the full story won't be finished until I'm back home, but if you're into that type of thing, you can watch the photos develop from their raw form into something else. For instance, I took a picture that looked like this:
And turned it into something that looks like this:
Time for bed, and a long trip tomorrow.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
The Road to Dingle
Dingle feels like a real place to me, even though the tourist trappings are a bit more obvious: Fungie the dolphin and woolen mills stores. Place is small, mountainous. Lots of green and open skies. Walk an hour along the harbor and you see the Bay, and the big Atlantic after that. Lots of cows and sheep. Haven't seen them up close much, probably since Wales in '06.
When you travel around by train or bus, you see the cities more. High Streets and hotels, Dunnes Stores and buskers.
Spent most of Tuesday riding a bus south from Galway, stopping in Limerick for an hour then 20 minutes in Tralee for the third transfer of the day. Gave a poet a couple of Euro for some tea; he gave me his Guardian.
When I got on the bus in Galway a short English woman and a little girl got on too and sat behind me. Girl talks a lot, peppering every sentence with "MaMA!" How do you spell "OoooooOOOOoooh! MaMA?!"
"O-H-H."
No, MaMA! "OoooooOOOOoooh! MaMA!"
She starts singing to herself after giving up on MaMA, and I wonder if she's gonna ride the whole way to Dingle with me. "It's all right.....it's all right....Here we are....far from home....It's all right....it's all right..."
Little Caitlyn and MaMA depart at a stop on the outskirts of Galway, and the bus is quiet after that. Red-headed woman in front of me reads a soap opera magazine; guy with tears and patches on his white jeans sleeps across the aisle. Later I hear a couple of American girls talking behind me:
"And then I went through a really bad breakup, which, you know, is the worst feeling in the world."
"I think it's because I have such good friendships, that I love seeing good friendships. Like, I love friendship."
Then she starts talking about weddings. "My mom said I could only have eight bridesmaids, but I just want everyone to be part of the wedding, you know? It's going to be such a good time. And I love having a good time, I don't know if that's something you know about me."
She's like Charlie in High Fidelity: completely full of shit and impossible to shut up, just talking about nothing all the way to Limerick.
I catch references to Toronto, London, then finally, Ottawa. Wait--she's Canadian. Hey, America is cool again.
I finally arrive in Dingle, and it quickly becomes of the most perfect places I've ever visited. I immediately decide to stay an extra day. Dublin will have to wait until Friday.
When you travel around by train or bus, you see the cities more. High Streets and hotels, Dunnes Stores and buskers.
Spent most of Tuesday riding a bus south from Galway, stopping in Limerick for an hour then 20 minutes in Tralee for the third transfer of the day. Gave a poet a couple of Euro for some tea; he gave me his Guardian.
When I got on the bus in Galway a short English woman and a little girl got on too and sat behind me. Girl talks a lot, peppering every sentence with "MaMA!" How do you spell "OoooooOOOOoooh! MaMA?!"
"O-H-H."
No, MaMA! "OoooooOOOOoooh! MaMA!"
She starts singing to herself after giving up on MaMA, and I wonder if she's gonna ride the whole way to Dingle with me. "It's all right.....it's all right....Here we are....far from home....It's all right....it's all right..."
Little Caitlyn and MaMA depart at a stop on the outskirts of Galway, and the bus is quiet after that. Red-headed woman in front of me reads a soap opera magazine; guy with tears and patches on his white jeans sleeps across the aisle. Later I hear a couple of American girls talking behind me:
"And then I went through a really bad breakup, which, you know, is the worst feeling in the world."
"I think it's because I have such good friendships, that I love seeing good friendships. Like, I love friendship."
Then she starts talking about weddings. "My mom said I could only have eight bridesmaids, but I just want everyone to be part of the wedding, you know? It's going to be such a good time. And I love having a good time, I don't know if that's something you know about me."
She's like Charlie in High Fidelity: completely full of shit and impossible to shut up, just talking about nothing all the way to Limerick.
I catch references to Toronto, London, then finally, Ottawa. Wait--she's Canadian. Hey, America is cool again.
I finally arrive in Dingle, and it quickly becomes of the most perfect places I've ever visited. I immediately decide to stay an extra day. Dublin will have to wait until Friday.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M.
I'm in Dingle, and it's just about perfect. Town is quiet, food is good, hotel is huge and comfortable and full of old people. (Ok, that last part isn't part of the perfect, but they don't make a lot of noise.) I think I'm going to stay an extra day. Dublin may have to wait until Friday.
More to come later. Now, if I could only sleep for more than five hours at a stretch. The title isn't just another folkie shout-out to my mother. It's the current time, after I fell asleep around 9 pm.
More pictures up tomorrow. For now, the view from my hotel room:
More to come later. Now, if I could only sleep for more than five hours at a stretch. The title isn't just another folkie shout-out to my mother. It's the current time, after I fell asleep around 9 pm.
More pictures up tomorrow. For now, the view from my hotel room:
Monday, March 23, 2009
Jade Goody
This is from a 2002 journal I kept when I was touring Britain for the first time by myself:
Ok, let's talk Big Brother.
Britain seems obsessed with it; much more than America. I must admit – I’m pretty hooked right now, too. It’s 9:40 and I want to get back so I can watch tonight’s episode on Channel 4. Kate, Alex, Jonny, and Jade. Media seems particularly obsessed with Jade. She’s basically a dumb fat [Brit?], and the tabloids play her up like that. Kate’s quite attractive. She wears this England shirt all the time, and looks really good on her.
Now, aside from the fact that I've come a long way when it comes to travel writing, I do have to admit that I was really hooked on the 2002 Big Brother. I'm not one for reality television, but there was just something so odd, so perfect, so British about this show. And Kate was pretty hot in that shirt.
Jade was a weird one, though. And the fact that she was all over the British tabloids taught me a lot about that supposedly refined island. They love crap TV and obnoxious celebrities just as much as we do.
I bring this up because as I'm traveling around again, I find that Jade Goody has died of cervical cancer this week. She went from a tabloid mainstay to someone who earned quite a bit of sympathy and respect for the way she dealt with it. From what I hear. I guess cervical cancer screening awareness is up quite a bit now.
Anyway, I didn't know her, nor was I ever particularly interested in her, but it's still sad nonetheless. And odd how stories you hear seven years ago come 'round again in the most unexpected ways.
Ok, let's talk Big Brother.
Britain seems obsessed with it; much more than America. I must admit – I’m pretty hooked right now, too. It’s 9:40 and I want to get back so I can watch tonight’s episode on Channel 4. Kate, Alex, Jonny, and Jade. Media seems particularly obsessed with Jade. She’s basically a dumb fat [Brit?], and the tabloids play her up like that. Kate’s quite attractive. She wears this England shirt all the time, and looks really good on her.
Now, aside from the fact that I've come a long way when it comes to travel writing, I do have to admit that I was really hooked on the 2002 Big Brother. I'm not one for reality television, but there was just something so odd, so perfect, so British about this show. And Kate was pretty hot in that shirt.
Jade was a weird one, though. And the fact that she was all over the British tabloids taught me a lot about that supposedly refined island. They love crap TV and obnoxious celebrities just as much as we do.
I bring this up because as I'm traveling around again, I find that Jade Goody has died of cervical cancer this week. She went from a tabloid mainstay to someone who earned quite a bit of sympathy and respect for the way she dealt with it. From what I hear. I guess cervical cancer screening awareness is up quite a bit now.
Anyway, I didn't know her, nor was I ever particularly interested in her, but it's still sad nonetheless. And odd how stories you hear seven years ago come 'round again in the most unexpected ways.
Glitches
I'm not happy with the way Blogger translates stuff I've written in Word. Fonts are messed up and formatting this stuff correctly is a real pain in the ass. Forgive the blog for not looking quite right--I'll go back and fix things later.
A few photos are up at the Flickr site, by the way. I've been here several times, so there's not much to photograph at this point, but I found a few things. More to come...
A few photos are up at the Flickr site, by the way. I've been here several times, so there's not much to photograph at this point, but I found a few things. More to come...
Galway, 9 A.M.
The thing that surprises me is how I’m not hung over.
Did that thing I usually do, where I sleep for a while and then wake up right at 5 in the morning. Laid in bed for a couple of hours, watched some tv, and then got up.
I was out solid, though, for about five hours, and woke up forgetting I was in Galway.
After grabbing some dinner at McDonagh’s chipper last night, I wandered across the river to the Roisin Dubh, a favorite pub of mine. They’ve redone everything to cater to the late bar crowd, which means no one’s in there at 6 pm except a few guys sitting at the end of the bar, talking movies. The music’s good, though, so I stay and have a few pints.
The guys move on, and then it’s just me, listening to The Decemberists and Bon Iver, and the band setting up in the next room, so I move on. I wander towards Salthill, and think seriously about going into The Old Forge, the old man’s pub where Glen and Clare and I hung out back in ’04. I’m not an old man yet, and so I finally decide to check out The Crane, just a few doors down.
Walked by this place numerous times, but never walked in ‘till now. The Crane’s known for its live traditional music, so I’m surprised I’ve never gone in there before. The only time I listened to some trad players was in Temple Bar in Dublin, which is more or less the same experience you get watching Disney robots performing in one of their theme park re-creations.
The live music’s upstairs, but before I walk up the stairs I have a seat at the bar and order a pint. A guy in a paisley vest and yellow Oxford shirt leans over to me and asks what part of America I’m from. Chicago, I tell him.
"What part?"
Aurora, sort of.
"Ahh, Aurora. Wayne and Garth and all that?"
Yeah...
"Good place, Chicago. It’s cool to be an American again, innit?"
I guess.
His accent is London. Vaguely Ricky Gervais-ish, but he looks like Christopher Hitchens. His topic of conversation immediately swerves towards Galway and Galwegians.
“So stuck-up, they are. Think they’re better than you,” he sneers at a crowd of people doing their best to ignore him.
“You come to London, people say hello to you, talk to you. Not like that here. No one even so much as looks at you. Think they’re so superior.”
Are you here visiting? I ask him.
“Nahh, lived here 17 years.”
Oh. Well, I’ve always found the people here to be quite friendly.
“Oh, so it’s my problem then?” He gives me a hurt look that’s a mix of drunken self-pity and drunken rage.
“No, no, that’s not what I meant.”
“Yeah, well. He mumbles something else, but I think he realizes that I’m done listening to his stout-soaked tale of woe.
“And the women here. Don’ give me any respect at all. Call me Queen….”
I wonder whether this is a jab at the royal family or his sexuality. I tell him I’m going to check out the music, and walk upstairs.
Three middle-aged people are sitting in the center of a full room and playing some of the best bar-trad I’ve ever heard. A mix of the auld Irish ballads and some American bluegrass. One of the players is American and he even plays a couple of Illinois fiddle tunes. Represent.
I settle in for the rest of the night, listening to this great band and drinking several pints. The barman doesn’t even have to ask; he just brings me another pint whenever it’s needed.
When I’ve had a few too many, my pal Duder usually gets to spend time with “Professor Brian”, where the topic of conversation somehow always revolves around bluegrass music. I’m well into my sixth beer as the band finishes its last set, and I think about my grandpa, and mom. She would love this, I think. Traveling, sitting in a bar, listening to bluegrass music in Galway.
I wonder how much of this experience I’m having is due to her. She passed along the folk to me, and the wanderlust, and took me on my first trip overseas, eight years ago this week.
“Forgot to call me ma, the barman says.”
Of course, I think to myself. Today’s Mother’s Day over here. Perfect.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
The Lamp of Knowledge
I'll explain this one another day. For now, you just need to know that the Lamp of Knowledge is an Awesome Thing, indeed.
Thoughts from 38,000 feet
March 21, 2009
5:36 pm
Sitting at my gate, trying out the new netbook. Can’t seem to log in to the wi-fi at O’Hare, so this will have to do.
Have to remember to keep my thumbs off the trackpad, as I just erased everything I just wrote. The netbook is small.
Stomach is rumbling a bit, but I’m not sure if I should grab an overpriced snack or just wait for the dinner service.
Five years ago I was doing this same thing. Dave took me in then as well.
Record time for getting to the airport. 35 minutes, I think.
Flight is mostly sold out, but it’s very quiet. Then again, it usually seems quiet in the international terminal on a Saturday night.
Ireland won the 6 Nations Championship, so Sunday morning will either find Dublin still partying, or deathy quiet, as the revelers sleep off the celebration.
I think I need to get a snack.
------------
$4.00 for a bag of TGI Friday’s Bacon and Cheddar Potato Skins and I’ve satisfied (briefly) my hunger pangs. I find that I’m unable to sit still for very long. I spent 10 minutes trying to get online (with no success) while simultaneously texting my friend Jeff. Listened to a mother and daughter talk about the father’s inability to text.
“I think Dad just tried to text me.”
“Oh my. I didn’t think he knew how to do that.”
“He doesn’t.”
This was when I got up to get the $4.00 Potato Skins. Wandered around a bit, returned to my seat, ate some of the aforementioned $4.00 Potato Skins, then got up again to wash my hands.
Watched an American Airlines 747 get a bath, then rearranged the items in my bag one more time.
Turned off my phone, then turned it back on again to text Laurie about my orphaned Sunday paper that will be sitting in my driveway in 12 hours.
Seat 13H is my new home, but not for long. 3 of the bulkhead seats are empty and so after we take off I move my things across the aisle and set up camp. Order a Jameson and a red wine for dinner ($14.00 total) and read a bit of The Eyre Affair.
This is a novel recommened to me by K. She is currently in possession of my copy of American Gods, and I thought it would be right if I read something she liked. We met for coffee the other day, the first time we spent time together socially in a long, long time. It was very nice.
------
Sometimes you get these little TV screens that are built in to the back of the seat in front of you, and you can scroll through a variety of different movies and television programs. My favorite is the channel that shows the little plane flying over a map of the northern Atlantic, charting the flight’s progress. (I like to always know where I’m at, much like I always like to know what time it is. I’ve just realized that I’m not wearing a watch, probably the first time I’ve ever traveled without one. I suppose the Blackberry will now function as my soothing notifier of the hour.
Again my attention span is dangerously short. I flipped through a copy of Paste, read a few chapters of Eyre, and now I’m writing. I keep wanting to check email, update the blog, Twitter something, anything.
Finished the Jameson, and am more than ready to crack open the red wine. I’m obviously still in this high-strung always working always moving always checking always updating mode, a state of mind I’ve been in for the past several months. I wonder if this trip will force me to relax and unwind, or with the easy availability of wireless internet and a netbook and a blackberry in my bag, I will simply carry this frantic addiction to “working” all around western and southern Ireland.
---------------
It’s 11:21 pm now, and the flight’s been going on for a little less than 5 hours. Chose the beef for dinner, which consisted of a few pieces of decent-tasting beef wedges, some vegetables, and some boiled potatoes. Kind of like a less-imaginative stew.
Listened to a couple of podcasts (Sound Opinions, the world’s only rock and roll talk show.) Closed my eyes for a while, but it was the usual descent into sleep followed almost immediately by a sudden rush of adrenaline which forces me to open my eyes to stare at Nicole Kidman and Hugh Jackman in Australia.
I have this student, Rylee, who saw The Happening a few weeks ago. She said the freakiest part of the whole movie was the constant close-ups of Zooey Deschanel’s eyes. I hope she never, ever sees Baz Lurhmann’s Australia, because she may never sleep again.
Every time I look up, there on the television screen on the bulkhead wall is this doe-eyed Aborigine child. I think I know why this movie bombed at the box office: there was a brief scene of a wet, shirtless Hugh Jackman, but the rest of it has been close-up after close up of this kid. It’s beyond creepy. I know Baz is trying to tell the epic story of his native Australia partly through the Precious Moments eyes of its native people, but come on: people just want to see more wet, shirtless Hugh Jackman. It’s the old bait-and-switch.
5:36 pm
Sitting at my gate, trying out the new netbook. Can’t seem to log in to the wi-fi at O’Hare, so this will have to do.
Have to remember to keep my thumbs off the trackpad, as I just erased everything I just wrote. The netbook is small.
Stomach is rumbling a bit, but I’m not sure if I should grab an overpriced snack or just wait for the dinner service.
Five years ago I was doing this same thing. Dave took me in then as well.
Record time for getting to the airport. 35 minutes, I think.
Flight is mostly sold out, but it’s very quiet. Then again, it usually seems quiet in the international terminal on a Saturday night.
Ireland won the 6 Nations Championship, so Sunday morning will either find Dublin still partying, or deathy quiet, as the revelers sleep off the celebration.
I think I need to get a snack.
------------
$4.00 for a bag of TGI Friday’s Bacon and Cheddar Potato Skins and I’ve satisfied (briefly) my hunger pangs. I find that I’m unable to sit still for very long. I spent 10 minutes trying to get online (with no success) while simultaneously texting my friend Jeff. Listened to a mother and daughter talk about the father’s inability to text.
“I think Dad just tried to text me.”
“Oh my. I didn’t think he knew how to do that.”
“He doesn’t.”
This was when I got up to get the $4.00 Potato Skins. Wandered around a bit, returned to my seat, ate some of the aforementioned $4.00 Potato Skins, then got up again to wash my hands.
Watched an American Airlines 747 get a bath, then rearranged the items in my bag one more time.
Turned off my phone, then turned it back on again to text Laurie about my orphaned Sunday paper that will be sitting in my driveway in 12 hours.
Seat 13H is my new home, but not for long. 3 of the bulkhead seats are empty and so after we take off I move my things across the aisle and set up camp. Order a Jameson and a red wine for dinner ($14.00 total) and read a bit of The Eyre Affair.
This is a novel recommened to me by K. She is currently in possession of my copy of American Gods, and I thought it would be right if I read something she liked. We met for coffee the other day, the first time we spent time together socially in a long, long time. It was very nice.
------
Sometimes you get these little TV screens that are built in to the back of the seat in front of you, and you can scroll through a variety of different movies and television programs. My favorite is the channel that shows the little plane flying over a map of the northern Atlantic, charting the flight’s progress. (I like to always know where I’m at, much like I always like to know what time it is. I’ve just realized that I’m not wearing a watch, probably the first time I’ve ever traveled without one. I suppose the Blackberry will now function as my soothing notifier of the hour.
Again my attention span is dangerously short. I flipped through a copy of Paste, read a few chapters of Eyre, and now I’m writing. I keep wanting to check email, update the blog, Twitter something, anything.
Finished the Jameson, and am more than ready to crack open the red wine. I’m obviously still in this high-strung always working always moving always checking always updating mode, a state of mind I’ve been in for the past several months. I wonder if this trip will force me to relax and unwind, or with the easy availability of wireless internet and a netbook and a blackberry in my bag, I will simply carry this frantic addiction to “working” all around western and southern Ireland.
---------------
It’s 11:21 pm now, and the flight’s been going on for a little less than 5 hours. Chose the beef for dinner, which consisted of a few pieces of decent-tasting beef wedges, some vegetables, and some boiled potatoes. Kind of like a less-imaginative stew.
Listened to a couple of podcasts (Sound Opinions, the world’s only rock and roll talk show.) Closed my eyes for a while, but it was the usual descent into sleep followed almost immediately by a sudden rush of adrenaline which forces me to open my eyes to stare at Nicole Kidman and Hugh Jackman in Australia.
I have this student, Rylee, who saw The Happening a few weeks ago. She said the freakiest part of the whole movie was the constant close-ups of Zooey Deschanel’s eyes. I hope she never, ever sees Baz Lurhmann’s Australia, because she may never sleep again.
Every time I look up, there on the television screen on the bulkhead wall is this doe-eyed Aborigine child. I think I know why this movie bombed at the box office: there was a brief scene of a wet, shirtless Hugh Jackman, but the rest of it has been close-up after close up of this kid. It’s beyond creepy. I know Baz is trying to tell the epic story of his native Australia partly through the Precious Moments eyes of its native people, but come on: people just want to see more wet, shirtless Hugh Jackman. It’s the old bait-and-switch.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Final Preparations
I'm staring at various piles of rolled-up clothes that won't quite fit into the large backpack I use for my travels.
I've just realized that I'm packing for early spring, instead of summer, and so there are more sweaters and flannels in the mix than the usual pile of black t-shirts I wear while journeying abroad. And so now I'm making Sophie's Choice regarding which clothes get to come with, and which ones stay behind.
The House t-shirt makes the cut, but the black Limelight one is staying behind. But this doesn't make sense, since I'm trying to collect pictures of people wearing Limelight-wear around the world. And so now I'm back to re-sorting and re-packing.
Had a great day yesterday, but I'll write about that later. Right now I have a little over an hour before my ride to the airport arrives.
The Irish are tweeting about rugby today, and it reminds me of the last time I was in Ireland in March, five years ago. Everyone's attention was glued to any available television set, watching the 6 Nations Championship. This year Ireland's playing Wales for the championship.
Okay, back to figuring out how to fit the new hiking boots inside the bag, instead of having to wear them on the plane.
I've just realized that I'm packing for early spring, instead of summer, and so there are more sweaters and flannels in the mix than the usual pile of black t-shirts I wear while journeying abroad. And so now I'm making Sophie's Choice regarding which clothes get to come with, and which ones stay behind.
The House t-shirt makes the cut, but the black Limelight one is staying behind. But this doesn't make sense, since I'm trying to collect pictures of people wearing Limelight-wear around the world. And so now I'm back to re-sorting and re-packing.
Had a great day yesterday, but I'll write about that later. Right now I have a little over an hour before my ride to the airport arrives.
The Irish are tweeting about rugby today, and it reminds me of the last time I was in Ireland in March, five years ago. Everyone's attention was glued to any available television set, watching the 6 Nations Championship. This year Ireland's playing Wales for the championship.
Okay, back to figuring out how to fit the new hiking boots inside the bag, instead of having to wear them on the plane.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Hooray for Captain Spaulding
A few quick odds and ends, before I go to sleep.
I'm walking around the house in a pair of shorts and a new pair of hiking boots, desperately trying to break them in before next week's trip. I look quite dorky.
The House's Twitter feed picked up my Rose review and threw it out to the hive to contemplate. We'll see what kind of trouble I get into with that one.
And yes, that means that I joined up Twitter as well. I'm giving it a shot, since it's something I've resisted for a while now. But so far it's helped me buy a netbook and realize how much time the Dubliners spend talking to each other. It's a wonder they have anything to chat about at the pub.
The Goodman Theatre just announced their new season of shows, and one of them is a Marx Brothers musical. I have to say: I really, really love this. I think.
And of course, I have to point out that Neil Gaiman was on The Colbert Report last night. And this clip proves once again that Stephen Colbert is a bigger Tolkien nerd than I am. I can't even recite the Tom Bombadil songs like that.
I'm walking around the house in a pair of shorts and a new pair of hiking boots, desperately trying to break them in before next week's trip. I look quite dorky.
The House's Twitter feed picked up my Rose review and threw it out to the hive to contemplate. We'll see what kind of trouble I get into with that one.
And yes, that means that I joined up Twitter as well. I'm giving it a shot, since it's something I've resisted for a while now. But so far it's helped me buy a netbook and realize how much time the Dubliners spend talking to each other. It's a wonder they have anything to chat about at the pub.
The Goodman Theatre just announced their new season of shows, and one of them is a Marx Brothers musical. I have to say: I really, really love this. I think.
And of course, I have to point out that Neil Gaiman was on The Colbert Report last night. And this clip proves once again that Stephen Colbert is a bigger Tolkien nerd than I am. I can't even recite the Tom Bombadil songs like that.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Winter Tales
The Seafarer
Written by Conor McPherson
Performed by the Steppenwolf Theatre Company
There's this play, called The Weir, that I've hung onto for many years. Always wanted to stage it with some of the older, trusted members of the company, but I've never been able to pull the trigger. People in their early twenties playing roles that should be portrayed by people with more weight, more age, more heartbreak and regret. There's some things you just can't fake with lights and makeup.
The Weir was written by Conor McPherson, an Irish playwright, about my age. A few people sit around a pub in Sligo and tell ghost stories. But they really talk about themselves, only I don't know if they realize it.
He wrote another play called The Seafarer, and I saw Steppenwolf put it on last month. Like The Weir, it deals with older men, drinking, and a bit of the supernatural. Instead of fairies or ghosts knocking on the door, the Devil himself comes to visit poor, wrecked Sharkey.
Being a fan of the man's work, I was very excited to see the play. Chris Jones, of the Tribune, whetted my appetite even more with this piece he wrote about it, and which I mentioned in an earlier blog post. Wound up with box seats for twenty bucks and took the wonderful Mrs. Reader to see the show.
It's a fantastically written show, involving a clutch of middle-aged Irish drunks clinging to each other on a lonely, desperate Christmas Eve. And of course Lucifer gets involved, but I won't go into it too much, lest I spoil the events for you.
Everything about the show was great, except for one thing, that got to both myself and Mrs. Reader: The accents. They just couldn't do the accents right. These were Chicaaaaaaago men playing Dubliners, and they slipped in and out of the cadences with alarming irregularity.
Liked seeing Chicago, Midwestern faces do this play, as it reminded me of some of the sad old drunks that haunted the local bars I used to frequent, but I still feel like I haven't seen a true adaptation of this play. This felt like a great local band covering a killer song by an Irish group. Would like to see Irish actors do this one.
Rose and the Rime
Written by Nathan Allen, Jake Minton, and Chris Matthews
Performed by the House Theatre of Chicago
Most of you know that I am a huge fan of The House. I've been lucky enough to work with them in a few workshops, and while I may not be able to call some of them friends, I can at least call them professional acquaintances.
I did this workshop with Maria and Carolyn a couple of years ago, where we met once a week in the basement of the Old Town School of Folk Music, and we talked story and worked on creating an original bit of theatre.
Cori and I were the only ones who showed up every week. There were a couple of others that came and went, but for the most part, it was just the four of us that met week after week. The frequent absences affected our end product, which was just a short scene, largely wordless, focusing on a young girl and a funeral and a burned out town.
One of the things we did talk a lot about was Joseph Campbell and the hero myths, and an interesting variation on the Hero's Journey that they liked to work with. Instead of the hero returning victorious to his town and Living Happily Ever After, they liked to focus on What Happened Next? Usually, it involved the Hero becoming the Dragon or the Evil Witch in the end.
While that workshop didn't really develop into much other than a great time had by all, it fed the fires that eventually led me to write Heroes and Villains, which tried to deconstruct that whole Campbell-myth-hero-thing a bit.
It also, in a way, led to Rose and the Rime, the House's latest production.
The House has tinkered with this story archetype for a long time, but never until now have they embraced it as completely as they have with this show. You have a hero, in young Rose, trapped in wintry Radio Falls with the rest of her town, until she decides to hunt down the evil witch that has imprisoned them in an eternal winter.
Later there is victory, and hot dogs and neon clothing and much beach blanket bingoing. And heroic Rose becomes something different, in the end. All of this has happened before, and all of it will happen again. (Something I played with when I did Julius Caesar a couple of years ago, another show affected by that workshop.)
A largely wordless show, focused on the House's incredible ability to wring excellent theatre out of the simplest of things. You wouldn't think it possible to stage Rose's dramatic journey through the ice and mountains and caverns on a stage, but House knows how to do that shit.
In the end, though, I'm a bit frustrated with the show, because I feel like it skirted around the story when it should have dove in. None of the characters move beyond basic archetypes, something The Sparrow suffered from a bit as well. I know they're going for the whole Fairy Tale thing with Rose, but when it only clocks in at 80 minutes with no intermission, I can't help but feel they could have dug deeper.
House has made its name on these types of shows, the archetypal comic book mythological westerns superheroes rocket (and cave) men magicians rock stars and boy detectives stories. I love those stories, but they only get you so far.
What House does is awesome, but it's time for them to put away that college-level enthusiasm about Joseph Campbell and High Myth, and start embracing the next phase of life, and storytelling. They're all about to turn 30 this year, and I think it would be good for them to start looking at the world in a more mature, complicated way.
I haven't done The Weir because I don't have the right actors for it, and The House limits itself by relying on the same group of twenty-something actors playing the full range of the ages of man. It's time to put awaychildish* things, and to start getting serious.
*Self-conscious, late-in-the-game "wow-people-actually-read-this-thing" edit: I think this word's a bit strong, actually. Childlike might be better? Maybe. Archetypal? Archetypal can be good storytelling, but it can't be the only storytelling.
Written by Conor McPherson
Performed by the Steppenwolf Theatre Company
There's this play, called The Weir, that I've hung onto for many years. Always wanted to stage it with some of the older, trusted members of the company, but I've never been able to pull the trigger. People in their early twenties playing roles that should be portrayed by people with more weight, more age, more heartbreak and regret. There's some things you just can't fake with lights and makeup.
The Weir was written by Conor McPherson, an Irish playwright, about my age. A few people sit around a pub in Sligo and tell ghost stories. But they really talk about themselves, only I don't know if they realize it.
He wrote another play called The Seafarer, and I saw Steppenwolf put it on last month. Like The Weir, it deals with older men, drinking, and a bit of the supernatural. Instead of fairies or ghosts knocking on the door, the Devil himself comes to visit poor, wrecked Sharkey.
Being a fan of the man's work, I was very excited to see the play. Chris Jones, of the Tribune, whetted my appetite even more with this piece he wrote about it, and which I mentioned in an earlier blog post. Wound up with box seats for twenty bucks and took the wonderful Mrs. Reader to see the show.
It's a fantastically written show, involving a clutch of middle-aged Irish drunks clinging to each other on a lonely, desperate Christmas Eve. And of course Lucifer gets involved, but I won't go into it too much, lest I spoil the events for you.
Everything about the show was great, except for one thing, that got to both myself and Mrs. Reader: The accents. They just couldn't do the accents right. These were Chicaaaaaaago men playing Dubliners, and they slipped in and out of the cadences with alarming irregularity.
Liked seeing Chicago, Midwestern faces do this play, as it reminded me of some of the sad old drunks that haunted the local bars I used to frequent, but I still feel like I haven't seen a true adaptation of this play. This felt like a great local band covering a killer song by an Irish group. Would like to see Irish actors do this one.
Rose and the Rime
Written by Nathan Allen, Jake Minton, and Chris Matthews
Performed by the House Theatre of Chicago
Most of you know that I am a huge fan of The House. I've been lucky enough to work with them in a few workshops, and while I may not be able to call some of them friends, I can at least call them professional acquaintances.
I did this workshop with Maria and Carolyn a couple of years ago, where we met once a week in the basement of the Old Town School of Folk Music, and we talked story and worked on creating an original bit of theatre.
Cori and I were the only ones who showed up every week. There were a couple of others that came and went, but for the most part, it was just the four of us that met week after week. The frequent absences affected our end product, which was just a short scene, largely wordless, focusing on a young girl and a funeral and a burned out town.
One of the things we did talk a lot about was Joseph Campbell and the hero myths, and an interesting variation on the Hero's Journey that they liked to work with. Instead of the hero returning victorious to his town and Living Happily Ever After, they liked to focus on What Happened Next? Usually, it involved the Hero becoming the Dragon or the Evil Witch in the end.
While that workshop didn't really develop into much other than a great time had by all, it fed the fires that eventually led me to write Heroes and Villains, which tried to deconstruct that whole Campbell-myth-hero-thing a bit.
It also, in a way, led to Rose and the Rime, the House's latest production.
The House has tinkered with this story archetype for a long time, but never until now have they embraced it as completely as they have with this show. You have a hero, in young Rose, trapped in wintry Radio Falls with the rest of her town, until she decides to hunt down the evil witch that has imprisoned them in an eternal winter.
Later there is victory, and hot dogs and neon clothing and much beach blanket bingoing. And heroic Rose becomes something different, in the end. All of this has happened before, and all of it will happen again. (Something I played with when I did Julius Caesar a couple of years ago, another show affected by that workshop.)
A largely wordless show, focused on the House's incredible ability to wring excellent theatre out of the simplest of things. You wouldn't think it possible to stage Rose's dramatic journey through the ice and mountains and caverns on a stage, but House knows how to do that shit.
In the end, though, I'm a bit frustrated with the show, because I feel like it skirted around the story when it should have dove in. None of the characters move beyond basic archetypes, something The Sparrow suffered from a bit as well. I know they're going for the whole Fairy Tale thing with Rose, but when it only clocks in at 80 minutes with no intermission, I can't help but feel they could have dug deeper.
House has made its name on these types of shows, the archetypal comic book mythological westerns superheroes rocket (and cave) men magicians rock stars and boy detectives stories. I love those stories, but they only get you so far.
What House does is awesome, but it's time for them to put away that college-level enthusiasm about Joseph Campbell and High Myth, and start embracing the next phase of life, and storytelling. They're all about to turn 30 this year, and I think it would be good for them to start looking at the world in a more mature, complicated way.
I haven't done The Weir because I don't have the right actors for it, and The House limits itself by relying on the same group of twenty-something actors playing the full range of the ages of man. It's time to put away
*Self-conscious, late-in-the-game "wow-people-actually-read-this-thing" edit: I think this word's a bit strong, actually. Childlike might be better? Maybe. Archetypal? Archetypal can be good storytelling, but it can't be the only storytelling.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Best Supporting Lover
Slept in today, slept late, for the first time in a while. We moved the clocks back one hour, and all week my system has been cycling round and round, trying to reboot itself, trying to align with the new system, and it's been a wreck of a thing.
Traveled out to the hometown last night to have dinner with the clan. Did some tech support for me mam's computer, fixed a tricky stitch with a new netbook I bought the other day, and watched Dave and Uncle Hamish solve a wiring problem in the basement project.
Ate steak tacos, laughed and joked with the relatives, and tried unsuccessfully to pay for my own dinner.
And for the third time in the past two months, people attempted to fix me up with someone they know. This person sounds interesting, for the most part, but I tried, repeatedly, to explain how my strange brain works, to no avail.
I generally don't like being "fixed up" with someone, or moved around like a chess piece. For some reason my head/heart just shuts down in situations like that. It's like I automatically want to rebel against the entire process, set fire to the thing and laugh and watch it burn.
I remember this part in Backbeat, that old 90s movie about the Hamburg days of The Beatles. They're sitting in some club, something pisses off Lennon, and he starts shouting "It's all dick! It's all DICK!" and turns over tables, spills drinks, generally makes an angry ass of himself.
That's what I feel like when people try to fix me up. It feels like I'm at an intervention.
Best to put me in a situation where I'm not the focus, where I don't have to play the part of Potential Suitor. I'm not a leading man kind of a guy. I'm a support role. Put me in a crowd, stick me in the corner, let me tell a few jokes, let me try and get her attention from across the room.
Then I'll completely screw it up, but it'll be on my terms.
Traveled out to the hometown last night to have dinner with the clan. Did some tech support for me mam's computer, fixed a tricky stitch with a new netbook I bought the other day, and watched Dave and Uncle Hamish solve a wiring problem in the basement project.
Ate steak tacos, laughed and joked with the relatives, and tried unsuccessfully to pay for my own dinner.
And for the third time in the past two months, people attempted to fix me up with someone they know. This person sounds interesting, for the most part, but I tried, repeatedly, to explain how my strange brain works, to no avail.
I generally don't like being "fixed up" with someone, or moved around like a chess piece. For some reason my head/heart just shuts down in situations like that. It's like I automatically want to rebel against the entire process, set fire to the thing and laugh and watch it burn.
I remember this part in Backbeat, that old 90s movie about the Hamburg days of The Beatles. They're sitting in some club, something pisses off Lennon, and he starts shouting "It's all dick! It's all DICK!" and turns over tables, spills drinks, generally makes an angry ass of himself.
That's what I feel like when people try to fix me up. It feels like I'm at an intervention.
Best to put me in a situation where I'm not the focus, where I don't have to play the part of Potential Suitor. I'm not a leading man kind of a guy. I'm a support role. Put me in a crowd, stick me in the corner, let me tell a few jokes, let me try and get her attention from across the room.
Then I'll completely screw it up, but it'll be on my terms.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Bagger Vance Himself
This is one of those things that I just keep cracking up about, and thanks to the miracle of the WW, here it is, eight years after the fact: Topher Grace discusses Wild Wild West with Jon Stewart.
Topher Grace > Ashton Kutcher
(And that joke was relevant eight years ago!!!)
Topher Grace > Ashton Kutcher
(And that joke was relevant eight years ago!!!)
Pop Culture in Brief, Part Two
What I'm sticking my nose into these days...
Mostly kids' books, for work. About halfway through a book involving Vikings, Beowulf, white slavery, and pagan magic. Pretty good, and better than the pale Harry Potter knockoff I read before it. I've got all my kids reading books with deep mythological roots, whether they be Norse, Greek, or Celtic. Not sure what we'll do with all of it yet, but so far so good.
Read Barack Obama's first book over break, and marveled at how easy of a storyteller the guy is. Had a real sense of place, and gave me a better understanding of places I've never been, such as Indonesia and eastern Africa. Met a Maasai holy man a couple of weeks ago and had a better understanding of his culture thanks to Obama's section on Kenya.
Not sure when I'll pick up The Audacity of Hope, but I plan to sometime soon.
Dipping back into Tolkien a bit, and finally read The Children of Hurin. Worked well as a stand-alone story, taken out of the massive thick First Age history of The Silmarillion.
I'm having trouble finding something to take on the trip. I doubt I'll find anything as perfect as Bob Dylan's Chronicles, which I read in 2006 as I moved across the West Country and southern Wales. I've got a small list of books I haven't picked up yet. Maybe Downtown Owl, or The Wordy Shipmates?
Not taking any travel books with me this time 'round. No need to. I've got a pretty clear idea of every place I'm heading to, and I think I've moved beyond travel books, at least for Ireland. One less thing to pack in the bag.
So it could end up being Klosterman or Vowell that comes along, or I may just bring Chronicles with me and pick through that again until something finds me in some quiet bookstore.
Mostly kids' books, for work. About halfway through a book involving Vikings, Beowulf, white slavery, and pagan magic. Pretty good, and better than the pale Harry Potter knockoff I read before it. I've got all my kids reading books with deep mythological roots, whether they be Norse, Greek, or Celtic. Not sure what we'll do with all of it yet, but so far so good.
Read Barack Obama's first book over break, and marveled at how easy of a storyteller the guy is. Had a real sense of place, and gave me a better understanding of places I've never been, such as Indonesia and eastern Africa. Met a Maasai holy man a couple of weeks ago and had a better understanding of his culture thanks to Obama's section on Kenya.
Not sure when I'll pick up The Audacity of Hope, but I plan to sometime soon.
Dipping back into Tolkien a bit, and finally read The Children of Hurin. Worked well as a stand-alone story, taken out of the massive thick First Age history of The Silmarillion.
I'm having trouble finding something to take on the trip. I doubt I'll find anything as perfect as Bob Dylan's Chronicles, which I read in 2006 as I moved across the West Country and southern Wales. I've got a small list of books I haven't picked up yet. Maybe Downtown Owl, or The Wordy Shipmates?
Not taking any travel books with me this time 'round. No need to. I've got a pretty clear idea of every place I'm heading to, and I think I've moved beyond travel books, at least for Ireland. One less thing to pack in the bag.
So it could end up being Klosterman or Vowell that comes along, or I may just bring Chronicles with me and pick through that again until something finds me in some quiet bookstore.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Pop Culture In Brief, Part One
Wherein I ramble for a bit about the stuff I've seen, read, or listened to lately.
Inkheart
An underthought, pretty but slightly empty version of Cornelia Funke's great children's novel. Had a lot of fun taking my students to see it, but the experience of reading it, and reading it aloud to my kids, trumps the film by a long shot. A pity that I'll probably retire reading it to future classes, as I had almost all the voices figured out.
Coraline
Here's something that got it just right. The tone and spirit of Gaiman's novel, the dedication to real objects as opposed to overdone CGI. A smart girl as the hero. This is the type of thing that I use to separate people who get it, and who don't. If you spent your February weekends watching Paul Blart, or My Bloody Valentine, then I pity you.
Watchmen
Sometimes I thought this was going to be awesome, sometimes I thought it was going to be an embarrassment (a scene involving hokey-looking fighting when they break Rorschach out of prison didn't get me very excited.) Overall, though, I think they nailed it, especially Dr. Manhattan and the aforementioned Rorschach. Other good stuff: the opening credits, Manhattan's Mars musings (try saying that three times fast), and the general bleakness of its message (effectively funneled through Jeffrey Dean Morgan's The Comedian).
Misc. Stuff
United 93 and World Trade Center
Last two movies in my Netflix queue. Sent both back without watching them. Account is currently on hold because I don't seem to be in the mood for 9/11-inspired somberness in my movie choices.
Lost and Battlestar Galactica
Perfection. Best storytelling on TV. And yes, if this post didn't prove it enough, I am a huge nerd.
Inkheart
An underthought, pretty but slightly empty version of Cornelia Funke's great children's novel. Had a lot of fun taking my students to see it, but the experience of reading it, and reading it aloud to my kids, trumps the film by a long shot. A pity that I'll probably retire reading it to future classes, as I had almost all the voices figured out.
Coraline
Here's something that got it just right. The tone and spirit of Gaiman's novel, the dedication to real objects as opposed to overdone CGI. A smart girl as the hero. This is the type of thing that I use to separate people who get it, and who don't. If you spent your February weekends watching Paul Blart, or My Bloody Valentine, then I pity you.
Watchmen
Sometimes I thought this was going to be awesome, sometimes I thought it was going to be an embarrassment (a scene involving hokey-looking fighting when they break Rorschach out of prison didn't get me very excited.) Overall, though, I think they nailed it, especially Dr. Manhattan and the aforementioned Rorschach. Other good stuff: the opening credits, Manhattan's Mars musings (try saying that three times fast), and the general bleakness of its message (effectively funneled through Jeffrey Dean Morgan's The Comedian).
Misc. Stuff
United 93 and World Trade Center
Last two movies in my Netflix queue. Sent both back without watching them. Account is currently on hold because I don't seem to be in the mood for 9/11-inspired somberness in my movie choices.
Lost and Battlestar Galactica
Perfection. Best storytelling on TV. And yes, if this post didn't prove it enough, I am a huge nerd.
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