Before the American Civil war the fields of Ireland provided meat and vegetables for nearly the entire island of England. Anything that could be farmed was, but the English landlords took it all as rent to their Irish tenants. And left them with potatoes.
Then in about 1845 the pototoes says 'fuck this' and voted to blight, leaving Ireland to starve. Around this time a young man named Eugene O'Sullivan left his farm in County Cork and found his way to Dublin to the Liverpool Ferry.
Looking behind him as he boarded the coffin ship he said, "Erin, slait go bragh." which in Gaelic means "Goodbye Ireland, forever." He buttoned up his heavy brown woollen coat and packed his few belongings into a wooden trunk.
From the shore of the port, beautiful women from all over the island sat down on curbstones and sobbed into their skirt frocks. "That man," they cried. "That beautiful man of raw celtic genes that almost necessitate masculine aestetics and superior features. What will we do without him?" They huddle into one another and formed support groups and arranged group therapy sessions for later that week at the Y as they watched the woolen adonis through teary eyes.
Or atleast, that's how I've always pictured it.
The only thing I know about Eugene is that he dropped the "O" and moved to Hartford Connecticut where the 1854 City Directory (the yellow pages, but before phone numbers) lists him as a carpenter. From then I can only asume he and the rest of his kind married and bore entire baseball teams of children. I say this merely because todayit is impossible to look up a Sullivan in any goddam phonebook without calling the wrong one at least once.
Indeed, Eugene married an Irish housekeeper named Mary Downey, and they gave birth to a team and so on and so on. I don't know what happened to him, but I imagine that there it was the kind of story that people tell to one another in bars for entertainment, but the family would rather forget. This is just a guess, but his grand children went like this:
My great grandfather: a pioneer in the 1920s of the new field of automobile insurance. Hit by a bus in New York City.
My grandfather: Pilot in World War II. Died several years after retirement while flying a prop plane to cape cod for a cup of coffee.
But somehow I imagine that although I only know the five Irish Words Eugene used and thus make him say them, that he wished that someday he or his players could someday come back to the little island when the time was right.
Which brings us to now
I will take the train to Liverpool, stay the night, and then take the first ferry to Dublin in the morning. It's sort of a reverse emigration. Let's see how it goes.
Do you remember at Senior Prom when you got to the dance as you had already given out your good compliments (possibly to your date)? Then you arrived and told Anna Stacia that she looked like a princess (right in front of your date)? That's how I feel when I sit down to write about Istanbul. If I ever said that San Francisco was photogenic, or that New York was "full of a lot of people" I take it back. Istanbul is larger than NYC by three million people, and without the benefit of high rises. It stretched onto two continents and all available banks of the river. It's mosques eclypse San Fran's Cathedrals in beauty, gaudiness, volume, capacity, and number. How can you think that a 19th century saw mill in Massachusetts is even romeotely interesting after you tour an underground waterway whose columns were pillages from all over Greece and Rome?
We tasted a wide range of Hoteleries, all of which illustrated the old "Turkey straddles not only two continenets, but two different worlds.." But when I say different worlds, I don't mean that we stayed, say, in someone's farmhouse without the benefit of electricity.
The first night we stayed in a place actually called "The Chill Out" hostel. There is little more fun that going to Turkey and reading what they have to say in English. I once stood at a bazaar as a woman in full burka brushed by a postcard with several pairs of exposed breast on the beach that says "In Turkey, No Problem!"
But anyway, the Chilld Out is a little hippie number with a lot of endearing chipped paint and Turks who use the above phrase. It is exactly the place you stay when you are 20 years old and own several sizes of backpack.
It had two single beds and our room overlooked a laboriously abandoned building that was only a stone shell without window fittings or even floors.
The toilet, shower, and sink were nearly one and the same--except for the separationg of sink and toilet.
Showering involved closing the curtain (read: bathroom door), shutting the lid of the toilet, and hiding the toilet paper because the shower started somewhere between the toilent bowl and the toilet tank abover your head. Since the shower and the toilet were one and the same, suds would float around the floor and find their way to the drain under the sink.
The next night we stay in nearly the same place, but for half the price. It was less dressy and they spoke no English, so it was more of where 20 years old Turks would stay in Istanbul, were the men not all conscripted into the army at that age (of course, they only have to serve 40 days of their 18 months if they can afford the $6000 fee). This hotel merely illuminated that but for orange paint and a better ventilated bathroom, the first place was just as gross.
The bathroom here smelled as thought thousands had used the toilet and the shower, before putting them both into a zip lock bag while for six months. I considere myself very easy to please, so I didn't mind the place, but when we left the next night for the three star Grand Hisar Hotel, I was happy not to wake up in the morning wheezing or touching an exposed matress.
Our final hotel was marvelous. Twice the price of the first one, which is still only about, I think, 25 dollars. It was smaller in size than our second one, but it did include such wonders as a double bed, a shower with a separate door and drain, a push flush toilet, and a sink (faithful readers should know: it had a single tap, not like those manic depressive dual hot and cold taps here in England).
2- Here's Turkey for you: Emperor Constantine built a small sewer and in 532 AD a subsequent ruler decreed that what the city really needed was for 7000 Roman slaves to build aquaducts starting 17 miles away which would feed into a giant channel and keep the nearby Byzantine Palace in dishwater. To keep the city moving above they put it undergound and supporter its great stone roof with 336 doric, ionic, and others columns pillaged from throughout Europe.
And here's the best part: it was pretty much forgotten about and the city built over it. After a number of years people sort of figured out that it was down there, but it wasn't until 1987 when they dragged the mud out of it and discovered the above Medussa head in the very back facing the wall. I often think that England has more history than it knows what to do with, but Jesus Christ, in Turkey the fucking sewers are artifacts.
It was Kemal Ataturk's grand design that Turkey would be a modern secular state. To tradition of the dervishes was cleverly protected by turning them into a tourist attraction. We met Amanda's friend from school and her parents there at 2, which was actually one for us because I have never been able to handle daylight savings time.
I explained to her father that I had never met a single person who could give me an adequate reason for why we lemingly give up or allow and house of precious sleeping time. He gave me the same answer you always get about farmers getting more daylight hours. His only contribution was that he told me it was thought up by Ben Franklin to save candles. How Turkey fell for it too I will never know.
For four separate teenage daylight savings times I have worked as a farmer and it really only means that it is cold and dark when you start work at 6:30 instead of just cold. In fact, we ended up starting an hour later in the fall. Would it honestly kill us all if we went to bed at a more reasonable hour when it gets cold and dark? And if you light you room by candles, why would you want to be out of bed past 8 PM to begin with?
Anyway, the durvishes are a procession that is breathtaking and mesmerizing to watch. They all wear long while robes and orderly spin like eigh marbles on a casino board. A band plays upstairs from the viewing area, which makes it a cross between a Turkish Ballet and Symphony. Men and women spin in a serious of several cycles with one foot propelling them and the other being the top. Amazing. Whatever anxieties you may have or things you could be worried about (as W. puts more plastic soldiers into the Tukey section of the oval office's risk set) there is nothing so amazing as falling into the trance of something more graceful than yourself.
On the way in I noted that they had "No Flash Photography" written in English. And of course I thought that was a given, but I thought it was funny that it would only be written in the King's English. Then of course the procession starts and everyone begins taking pictures and talking (there is no difference between here and church, mind you). Then, one person who cannot comand his or her own camera allows a flash bulb to spring out of their camera. Then another, then another, and then, well, If Everyone Else Is Doing It? kicks and the beauty is blinded out by someone across from you with a flash extension.
It's sort of Turkey's Times Square. Of course, to say that is to give the unfair characterization because I have no other way of saying "It has a lot of stores and people." Actually, very much like Time Square: on the streets thousands and thousands of people bump shoulders while stores and streetpersons sell designer goods at rediculous prices.
People walk without order and stop in main walkways for no particular reason and without concern for others around them. It was really refreshing. It felt like home, and not this odd little island of Britain.
Very much like an American city because the music is too loud so you and your server never know if you even speak the same langage. There is a lot of pointing.
It is here where Amanda tried with a patient heart to teach me a little Turkish.
"So how do you say 'thank you?'" I would ask.
"Thank you is tesekkürler"
"Tayshklar?"
"tesekkürler."
"Oh, Tschkular?"
"How do I say, 'Can I have tea and a bread product that resembles pita, only is stuffed with potatoes and spinach?"
She would explain it several times and then from that point until the waiter came by to take our orders, I couldn't speak with anyone because I had a sentence to rehearse.
When he came, I smile at the waiter and said "Bitany gozlemay--espinach ve potetsli... ve cay." (Translation: "I am having one gozleme with spinach, potatoes and tea in it.")
Later when attempting to order tea with pistachio baklava, the waiter laughed at my Turkish and did the Italian chef finger fist kiss and said "Ah, Beautiful." Although he was making fun of my terrible language skills, he got the gist of what I would like anyway and was particularly nice about it.
6- I have no idea how to describe my reunion with Amanda. It makes sense to me, but it just doesn't lend itself to metaphor and one-linery. We hadn't seen eachother in over three months and when I came out of customs she was there. That's the best I can do.
She was there and there were difference. New hair, a new jacket, etc. Suddenly she was in three dimensions again. It took maybe two minutes before the entire time we were gone faded away and it was as if we had been together the whole time.
But despite it suddenly feeling like no time had passed, she somehow managed to have all these great stories to tell me about Turkey and a wonderful new friend who came with her to the airport.
Amanda had been and I only saw watches and jewlery and tourists paying too much money for things. Her friend's dad explained that a friend of his used to buy rugs for Macy's or something important sounding. He said that "1) You have no idea how youa re going to get it to america, and if they ship you never know that the rug you picked out is the one you got. 2) You have no idea how it will look in your home until you get it home. 3) You never know about the people you buy from because, remember, a generation ago these people were terrorists."
He said the refreain several times and wtih each we great more horrified and attempted to explain to him that it as no ok--specifically in the teeming regions--to us that word blindly synonomously with "Nomad" or "Turk." He kindly explained that he thought it was a fair and accurate characterization especially since it was in a breif parking lot conversation.
Later at dinner when discusing the price of sneakers he again mentioned to watch out because Osama bin Laden opperatives were infact in charge of the cash register--despite the fact that we were definately neither in a hurry nor in a parking lot.
I can't say anyting about another's decorum of course, because when he earlier related that he lost his sense of taste after a recent medical treatment. "When people ask me how something tastes I have to be honest and say 'I don't know'." My response to his near death experience was "Yeah, my friend's uncle was in the FBI and you 'd said "Hey uncle Tony, how was your day at work? And he's go 'I don't know.'"
I've said alot of dumb things in my life. But that one really takes the semit.
8- Turkish Bath While I was in a town otherwise naked in a marbel room 1000 years old, lying on a hot rock, Molly's father suffered constrictive vision and nearly passed out before crashing out of the room. He had paid for my soap, and so as he clobbered out of the room, a group of Turkish men in towels came up to me yelling excitedly.
"Something something something, yes!"
I had no idea what was going on, as I lay there sweating on hot marble and trying to unfog my glasses.
"Uh, uh, soap? Thank you, soap." I said using my best, and pretty much my only Turkish.
Nothing, maybe they didn't hear me. I tried again.
They collectively gave up on me and a man named Ibo began scrubbing my at great depth until wads of grey skin began to collect in my arm hairs. He was delighted that we could carry on a discussion in Turkish. ("Good massage, Ibo. Thank you. Good water.") He was so impressed that I knew the Turkish word for water that he tried to return the favor by showing me his English skills:
"Good Massage, tip service!" he said to me, twice. And then he rubbed his fingers together incase I was French or something else. Each time he slapped my soapy back to show that we both understood the international language of bath house money. I gave him 2,000,000 lira on my way out, which is about a dollar fifty. The bastard didn't even recognize me with my clothes on. And to think that a generation ago...
I saw several beautiful and many gaudy mosques on Istanbul. Some are religious experience in their beauty alone. Others resemble easter eggs that you wouldn't use in any holiday after 1973.
The best part, however, is when American women clomp in with their New Balences in hand and talk about the water pressure in their hotel rooms as Muslims who have waiting their whole lives to raj her are kneeling on the floor in prayer.
10- On the flight home I sat next to a woman with a one month old and a one year old child. Behind us were a row of middle aged, empty nest, rich Americans returning from a European vacation. Guess which group I wanted to strange with an oxygen mask? I'll give you a hint. When they came around with the cards that let you get through customs the Fight Attendant walked around "Landing card?"
The stranglee said "Wait. The plane can't land without this card? Just kidding you, kitten."
This was after several loud discussions that made me want to burn my American passport. ("Oh! and the prices! I can't beleive Chanel Number 5 was only 30 dollars!!)
1) I don't beleive in guidebooks. I've owned three and they've all gotten me lost or recommended things that are too obvious to be worth their weight in transit. ("When in Seattle, visit the Space Needle!") They waste your time with obvious directions and then they give you the same amount of history you would get from actually going to the place. So this is my plan and I need your help. It's a terrible plan full of holes, lax time frames, an inauspicous gaps in logic.
But I don't have to be back in class until November 11.
3) When I get back on Tuesday I'm going to shower and rest because on wednesday I am going to hitchhike to Liverpool. This has nothing to do with The Beatles (but I have a feeling it will). When my family left Ireland they took the ferry from Dublin to Liverpool, so I will do the reverse.
4) Ireland I'm going to Dublin, Cork, etc. I have no idea what to see or where to stay or anything. I welcome any recommendations especially those concerning lame James Joyce tours and sites from the Easter Uprising.
5) France The movie Amelie and my new friend French Ben from Bordeax have given me a newfound love for the french. Growing up I always beleived the concept that the french hate our guts. "They gave us the Statue of Liberty, I can't beleive it--they must have been throwing it out anyway." But FBFB told me three excellent things:
1) They have a comedy show with puppets and the funniest one is George W. Bush. He can't string sentences together, so "American Business" speaks for Bush. "AP" is played by a puppet with the face of Sylvester Stalone.
2) French grandparents, according to FBFB, think of Americans as saviors because of Normandy. They say that when the Americans came they chanted "Lafayette We Didn't Forget!" Which is to say they didn't forget the French General who stepped in when we were losing the revolutionary war. Now the only thing I hate more than the US is war, but isn't that a nice story?
3) It is beyond French comprehension, ibid, why the British are in Northern Ireland. The French also gave Ireland their flag in solidarity with the other republic who gets picked on by the "roast beef."
I don't speak any French whatsoever, and I don't buy that bullshit "everyone speaks English" business. Can your recommend any useful phrases ("I would like that.", "More Coffee, please.", etc) or places to go?
You should know that I am only honest for the sake of the weblog. I tell you the truth to you because I lie to everyone else.
Par example: I grew up in Suburban Connecticut, but when I meet people here in England, I tell them that I am from New York. I did this at first for simplicity because I couldn't fathom that people from Florence would know my small state. And if they did, I didn't want to have to explain that, No, it's not like Who's the Boss.
This was fine and then I noticed something after the first two weeks on campus:
1) It's not as big of a place as I thought, and I really have to stick to one lie at the University. For a while I was also pretending to be British, but I fucked up the accent once and the embarassment was too much for me.
2) When people ask me where I go to school I start to say "At a small school in Ohio, it's sort of in the middle of the country..." The majority of the people I have me here (English, Polish, French, Irish, etc) can not only tell me which states Ohio borders as well as the name of the capital. I blame Ben for this. He came back from France and imploded the big white lie that "everyone speaks English" and I became terrified.
I can get away with the New York lie because I more or less lived there for a summer in Brooklyn (actually, I moved my stuff out about a week and a half before 9/11). It works out well because no one knows anything abour Brooklyn, but they know where it is. Professors grow real aroused about this one saying "Oh, yes, Broughklyn, staunch working class Italian American New York." (Socially minded professors love this shit. Want to get A's? Let them know that your brother is a mechanic.)
You probably hate me now, don't you? Well it gets worse:
Everyone wants to talk about Sept. 11. Americans know that I should be at school in Ohio at the time. Europeans have no trouble beleiving that I was there. I usually let people steer this conversation for themselves. Esp. when they ask "Did you see the first plane go in?" rather than "Were you in New York or Ohio at the time?"
It's all fun for me, except that in another month my parents are coming, and of course everyone is going to ask them the same questions. This means that before they get here I am going to have to brief my parents on our family life in our neighborhood in Brooklyn.
Now that you know I am not a very good person, here is a picture from Brighton Pier:
Here's a moment: American punk rock types often associate themselves with England. Many begin to spell color with a U, or if nothing else they tend to adopt British style especially in the years 1976-1981. Do you remember being surprised to find out that Greenday was American?
What shocked the hell out of me when I saw Fugazi last night in Brighton was how I could have been anywhere. On stage Ian MacKaye (punk icon who looks and dresses exactly the same as when he coined the word "straight edge" in 1981) sang to an audience of semi goofy looking kids in Bad Religion and The Clash band shirts, black jackets, and studded belts.
Seven years ago people would have heard about this show because they got a flier for it at a previous show. The fact that people booked tickets on the internet might be the only change since 1981.
Of course I found this comforting. I walked into the place and found a show Utopia: absent of macho bullshit, bouncers, and "that guy." Like most things, punk rock was an American export that the British figured out a simple way to improve.
After Class tonight we'll be discussing three things.
1) I finally made some friends here.
2) The interconintental and obscurely unchangable nature of punk.
3) Last nights Fugazi show (see points 1 and 2).
Ariel Sharon is in Washington for meetings with George W. There is to
be a State Dinner, so Laura decides to bring in a special Kosher Chef
and have a truly Jewish meal.
At the dinner that night, the first course is served and it is Matzoh Ball
Soup. George W. looks at the bowl and after learning what it is called
he tells an aide that he can't eat such a grossly named, strange-looking
brew.
The aide says that Mr. Sharon will be insulted if he doesn't at least taste
it.
Not wanting to ruffle any feathers, George W. gingerly lowers his spoon
into the bowl and ladles a piece of matzoh ball and some broth. He
hesitates, then swallows -- and a grin appears on his face. He digs
right in and finishes the whole bowl.
"That was delicious," he says to Sharon. "Do the Jews eat any other
parts of the Matzoh or just the balls?"
I've mentioned before that Brighton is England's San Francisco. It's the kind of place that can functionally operate a goth club, a vegetarian drag queens bar, and a movie theater on the same block. But when I wear my earmuffs (you like? They make me feel good inside.) I swear to god: rastafarian drag queens comment.
"Nice ear muffs mate."
I usually go into something about how each one of your ears has a foot of skin surface on them and if you go out with your ears uncovered, you mind as well just wear short sleaves, etc. I've won a few converts. Yes, that is the best I can come up with right now.
1) The British papers are gripped by the Washington DC sniper story. This offends me in two ways:
a) Each day The [London] Independent runs a map that zeros in on the 9 killing sites. There is a small inset map that is a sort of a zoom-out to show you what the larger map is detailing. It shows a section of DC about the size of greater Los Angeles. What pisses me off is that when the US bombs Baghdad, the zoom-out map in USA Today goes far enough so that you can get your global bearings by finding Germany, if not the continent of Africa.
b)Each time they repeat this paragraph "....one woman was shot while filling her car at a Petrol Garage ironically named 'On The Run.' " My inner English major wants to go down to BBC and pull Lord Peter Jenning's fucking tie around his throat and say "Look shitbag, there's nothing ironic about a wanted man shooting an innocent woman at a gas station named 'On The Run'. Maybe, maybe(pulling tie harder) eerily coincidental. Irony is an art form invoking the reverse. If a wanted man shot an innocent woman at a gas station called "Great Place to Fill Up Your Car If You Are In No Hurry, Nor Being Chased By US Marshalls, Police, and Tom Ridge" then that (let go of tie, press man back into chair, lower weapon) would be irony writ large."
2)Today with my copy of The Independent (about 15 cents) I got a free copy of The Heart of Darkness By Joseph Conrad. When I was 15 I got a free copy of The Star Report in the New York Times.
3) I'm not a good enough person to go into why I can't stand hearing about the 13 British people who were killed while on vacation in Bali. You would hate me.
This is a flyer I was given today. These things concern the people I live with, and that concerns me. Their goals in this campaign against free candy are enumerated on the back of the flyer: 1) to protect the elderly and vulnerable 2) to protect unsupervised children 3) to reduce the risk of trick or treat vandalism. It then goes on in a single paragraph about why you shouldn't buy from door to door salesmen (women are fine) and reminds you to always use your door chain.
The point of Starbucks in America is so that people at the mall can feel like they're in Europe. It's one of the few food business chains that bother with things like outdoor seating, saucers, etc. But it still has an obscene American feel. Have you seen the size of the "Grande" Frapucino (also great: mix actual Italian adjective with Italian sounding noun). Starbucks has swat teamed the London area in the past 4 years, and everytime you go past one, there are always people talking about America, how good the Starbucks is in America, blah blah blah. When I worked at a coffee shop on campus last year, people would come back from their abroad programs and drink espresso and dish on and on about how great things were and how European Men Are So Much More Romantic Than American Men,etc. Why do we torture ourselves so over coffee? (Above picture is from the Starbucks at the grocery store here in Brighton, and I have messed up the code, so I can't delete the double post.)
The point of Starbucks in America is so that people at the mall can feel like they're in Europe. It's one of the few food business chains that bother with things like outdoor seating, saucers, etc. But it still has an obscene American feel. Have you seen the size of the "Grande" Frapucino (also great: mix actual Italian adjective with Italian sounding noun). Starbucks has swat teamed the London area in the past 4 years, and everytime you go past one, there are always people talking about America, how good the Starbucks is in America, blah blah blah. When I worked at a coffee shop on campus last year, people would come back from their abroad programs and drink espresso and dish on and on about how great things were and how
1) I have conquered British weather. The trick is to consume it. Walk though it and don't let it call the shots. Step inside when it gets violent and wait it out as a fact of life. To recap: Gusty Rain = My Bitch.
2) Last night I did my Poonani DiFranco Sketch. It's a commentary on American manufacturism, superficiality, blah blah blah. Performance: unsuspecting girl in the audience has to step up to the mic stand and follow mime speaking while I "dubb" her voice. Think Godzilla commercials. The response: one man chanted "Bullocks! Bullocks!" (literally: "Testicles! Testicles!") intermittently among others who added witicisms such as "Talk about Iraq!" and one middle aged woman shouted "Me bush is smarter than you Bush!" They started to listen to my jokes and eventually they were mine. Special favorites: "Look, he's not my president, but we were very excited when Tony Blair won last year {mild cheers from the back.} Yeah, I mean, our last president had a cat, but now Bush has a nice poodle." To recap: British Pub Crowd=Gusty Rain.
3) This is my new freshman year. When I came to school in America, I had already been full time taking care of myself for the past four years. Cooking, laundry, managing myself, etc. I had this under control. Put me in a new country and I am suddenly a freshly bumbling moron because nothing is familiar. Today I had to ask the woman next to me to open my washing machine for me.
Amidsts the epiphany of my elation concerning British Football last night, a Brightonite said that he was glad I liked the city so much, but that he thought my attitude would change when the weather did. "Ha!" My innards shouted, "I'm from New England! I can take anything! I'm a goddam weather martyr!" (But of course, I still lie and say I'm from New York).
And then today I woke up to two cold and lonely national treasures: British weather and a willfilly unfreemarket economy.
Yesterday I sat on a rocky beach and read in the sun, today I woke up to the deathly-patter of freezing rain. My side wall is about 50% window, so the entirety of my room was consumed by a cold window pain.
I awoke at 10 because Sunday is the day of repentence for American college students. You wake up and you make yourself feel better about having blow off work all week by forgoing the small pleasures in life like wasting time, and you do your homework. My seriously academic train was derailed when I went to pour soymilk on the cornflakes: Have you ever sean Naked Gun 2? What do you do with a full bowl of cereal when you've already thrown away the box?
I went out to find that nothing on a campus open. Bookstore, coffeeshop, the 12 dining halls, the library--the library--was closed. I walked around hating the rain. My friend Ben has this sort of instant monologue he launches into whenever we go somewhere in the rain and I duck among other peoples umbrellas: "You shower in water, you wash your clothes in water, you swim in water, why is it any different when it falls on you?"
Ben's copy of Hamlet in highschool had missing pages and he never did find out what happened to Ophelia. I felt lame for being such a wicked witch about the weather. So I did the only sensible thing: I took the bus to the only open grocery store and hid in my room all day reading, eating clementines and pistachios, and sleeping hoping the weather found someplace else to go.
Brighton is one of those cities like San Fransisco or Northampton that people fall in love with upon first sight. Only here they are just starting with the whole tourist attitude of "You know how you could make this city even better, outsiders? By leaving."
It is gorgeous in every way.
It offers photo-ready commentary at every corner.
And this, well, poking your head through the globe/doughnut for the camera is their version of "look at me, I'm holding up the Leaning Tower of Piza!" It's cheap, but strikes you as funny the first time you see it.
No one wants to die slowly**, but if I had to pick, I'd want something sudden but on a timeline: like cancer. Something with a week's notice so that I could prepare things. Sure, I could do it now, but I'd like to keep things topical, and I can't rely on my friends and family to be uncoothed enough to arrange things like:
Big Lebowski Funeral I want the cover of the invitation to my ashes scattering to be a picture of Jeff Bridges at the end of the Big Lebowski where he stands eyes shut, arms folded and covered in Donny's ashes from beard to sunglasses.
But if I died during a Bond movie release, I'd want everyone to come dressed as spies. This gives people a number of easy things to talk about: "You're not dressed up like a spy." answer: "I'm undercover." or "Does Brendan even like Bond? It all seems to patriarchal and antifeminist." (Well, honestly, what do you say at a funeral?)
Wes Anderson Funeral Everyone comes dressed up like their favorite character, mostly because I hate funeral decorum: (You're wearing black because of me? I'm your friend, why would I make you wear a suit?) Then, when you come up in your red tracksuits and Izod dresses, you look into the open casket and think it's odd that I am wearing a suit...until you notice the breast patch: "Rushmore Academy."
Still others who wear the yellow jumpsuit will have to explain. The easiest way would be if I had a week to send emails and details, especially for people who haven't even seen The Big Lebowski, etc.
**I just finished A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genious, so I've had nothing but death jokes for 400 pages, gimme a break.
I have alot of time on my hands here in England, which gives me all the time in the world to over analyze. I hate to make an Adam Sandler reference, but did you see Big Daddy? Today I woke up at noon and thought "Shit! I'm going to miss all the lunch specials!"
So anyway, these things keep me up at night:
1) What is it like to be retired? Do you know when you get halfway into a book and it gets really good? Pages turn, corners fold, good lines are noted, undelined, commented on in the margins? You step aside for a second and realize for the first time that you are holding more pages in your left hand than your right, much more.
2) At the end of highschool, all the white kids had their graduation parties the week between the last day and graduation. My father said we couldn't do that, "Because you're Irish, lad." I finally figured it out: that even though you've got liberty ahead, there are still lines to wait in, documents to be passed, and names to be mispronounced before you're truely free.
3) My dad's not Irish. His dad's dad was Irish. Us? We own leprechaun candle holders, ok?
4) Ok, one more Irish bit. Are you familiar with the Irish firedrill? That's when dad swerves too much driving and mom talks him into a McDonald's coffee, and then takes the wheel when they get back in the car.
Everytime I see an entire aisle of tea cookies in their little freeze wrapped bags, all I can think of is "English Astronaut Icecream." (Is that a great band name or what? That and "JFKFC.")
The entire time I've been here in England I have been avoiding purchasing "concessions," let alone asking what the hell they are.
Everytime I go out in the middle of the workday and purchase a ticket to a movie, museum, comedy club, anything, I ask how much it is and the answer comes like this: "Admission is £6, unless you have concessions."
Acting like I've got it all together, but just for the hell of it would like to know, I ask "Oh, and how much are concessions?" It's usually a sum about half the price of the ticket. Each time I ask myself So, what you're asking me is, do I wish to purchase some future intangible popcorn and soda for a single price? Then I figure that maybe the word means something else, they do tend to drink more here.
"So that will be £6 for the movie, and £3 for a ticket to the open bar in the back. Go on and drink yourself silly, lad. Cheers."
Considering myself a man of thrift, I always decline the second sum. There will be no open popcorn bar for me, thanks.
Today, after walking around the same stores and spots in town, I wandered over to a museum. Inside, I found myself alone at a ticket counter and when no one was looking I asked the woman what admission was, even though I could read it above her. "£8.25 general £3.85 concessions."
I leaned in and prefaced my stupid question the way you preface a stupid question, "I'm terrible sorry, but can I quietly ask you a stupid question?" She leaned in to protect me from public ridicule, "What are concessions? Are we talking pop corn? A seat at the coffee bar? Is it some sort of back stage pass?"
She looked around so not to embarass me and whispered, "Concessions is a reduced admission price for people who are students, unemployed, or retired."
The only three things I have ever aspired to be, and they're a position of priveledge in this country. I can't fucking beleive it.
"So when you say 'Student Concessions, ID Required' it's not some sort of inner museum bar for 18 and overs, then is it?"
My family's Irish, so it's nice to have a British grandfather. His name is Blues Jim, he's a 66 year-old-man who plays open mic nights. We're good friends because we talk to strangers and have coffee at times when normal people work.
He sat down next to a woman half his age yesterday at Off the Beat Coffee Shop and played the Don't-I-know-you-from-somewhere game for 5 minutes. She shrugged him off, "Sorry, I don't think I've ever met you before in my life."
After a contemplative and obscene bite of his tuna and mayo on toast his head beamed on again: "Now I remember where it was! Yeah, remember last week when you were in line at the Unemployment Office?"
There are certain things you can't teach, but are worth learning. Creative writing is one of them and comedy is an extension. Last night was the first night of my British Creative Writing course.
I can already see its direction by the notebooks: everyone brought those faux-bohemian composition books or those shitty hardcover journals that your aunt buys you when you become an English Major. They all seemed to be taking the class for three reason:
1) Someone recently died, probably from cancer. No one understands cancer, not even doctors. Its not a bug, it's not a virus, elaborate.
2) They're not currently having sex. People in books tend to have sex, therefore people who write books must have sex, they think.
3) No one talks to them. Instead they will bring their notebooks into bars and defiantly not talk to anyone--until someone comes to talk to them. When this happens, they'll need filled pages of writing to flip through when they shut the book, again, defiantly.
Still, I'm thinking of taking a comedy course in London. Any thoughts?
From the makers of and Hello Kitty and Keroppi the Frog comes Poonani Difranco!*
She’s your role model, she’s your new best friend, and now you can take her shopping with you too! Dress up your new DiFranco doll in her accessories: you can wax her dreads, put her in any of her heavy woolen sweaters or take her to Toys 4 U and check out her totally cool DiOutfits.
There’s Coffeeshop ‘Nani with authentic-looking black framed glasses, latte mug, and a mini copy of “The Feminine Lipstique.” Or Open Mic Night ‘Nani with mini-chopsticks to stow those ropes and a guitar that really strums!
Sanrio/Babe Inc. even has a new line of matching vintage corduroys and armpit toupees so you can be different—just like ‘Nani!
Brought to you by Righteous Babe Records and the Sanrio, Inc. comes a great new collection of Jap pop. It’s totally Poonani!
Winter is here and you know what’s coming up--Spring Break! Get her latest exotic bikini, tequilla shooter, and wet t-shirt in the all new Tsunami DiFranco kit. Even in the cold of winter you and your new friend can sprawl out on the couch in your sweats and watch ‘Nani and all her friends in last year’s Sanrio/Babe DVD release: Japoonimation Gone Wild!
Write down your inner thoughts about cute boys, make up tips, or the hypocrisy of modern life with your new DiComposition notebook. It’s 100% recycled and says so right on both covers. Impress all the kids at the food court when you silence their insipid drivel while you pour your depth across each blank page or draw hearts around your latest bf’s initials!
Do you want to grow up and run your own independent record label and save rock music from its anti-feminist direction? Well, sister, that’s going to take startup capital. So start saving now with Poonani’s sidekick Piggy DiBanko. Fatten up P.D.B—or “Peedy” for short—with all of your lunch money and babysitting loot.
When Peedy gets too heavy, just stick his cloven hoof down his li’l throat and watch your savings pour out! Then cheer him up by buying new outfits--for the three of you!
Jog, don’t drive, to the mall and buy your new best friend today!
*Special thanks to Aric, from whom I stole the name.
"English audiences are too polite," the man said to me as I walked back to my seat at open mic night. "They really should have shouted you off stage."
This seemed and odd response, to me, because with the exception of the woman shouting "Oh for heaven's sake, get this bugger off and play some music!" and the moment at the end when my story became an involved booger joke, tonight's reading at The Evening Star Pub went well. In fact, best and worst reading yet. When on the stage, I took ownership of all the people in the crowd that I couldn't normally talk to, and they kept their eyes fixed on me and laughed at all my bad jokes. On the way up to the mic, I asked the last guitar performer to stay on with me and give me an accompanyment. Her job was essentially to go "bah-dum-ching!" but on accoustic.
At home when I give a bad reading people avoid me, or lie to my face and tell me it was "nice."
Afterwards here at my first British open mic reading, I sat at my seat while people came up one by one to tell me what they thought.
"You know, that really could have been about half as long?"
"How many pages you got there? 9? 10?" He turns to his friend, "See, I told you it was ten."
"You had me until the mucus part."
The manager came up and told me, "Ah, well, it was a good shot and we all laughed. I'll give you half a pint for your work, but please cut it down for next time."
A man named Martin added "When you do comedy, you've got to really embarass yourself, like you did when you said you never could talk to women. I mean you gotta get up there and say 'I'm a wanker.' You know what a wanker is, do you?" he shook a fist at his crotch. "It's someone who masterbates and has never had sex with a woman."
Women put on their coats after last call and walked by, "Maybe less about mucus next time." and "Where the hell is Vermont anyways? Or, well, who the hell cares, really?"
Any splendor I enjoyed as people spat their beer and nudged eachother, ("Oh that's true! That's the way about it, ain' it?") disolved into my final grade. I walk home from alot of bad readings, but I must say that I prefer knowing exactly why I failed.
Separate hot and cold taps. Do British people run a little bubble bath when they want to wash up before tea? The obvious answer is that they don't wash, or don't wash much, but still... The faucets reduce public handwashing to a matter of 4 seconds before the actual hot water kicks in, and makes the post-shave rinse a matter of cupping your hands and mixing between the taps to get a good temperature.
Of course, many of my fellow students are abroad in countries where the only tap is cold. They probably really hate me for this post, but, remember: laughing=not crying.
(above: a day of photos including my room, Starbucks, Burger King, The Queens Hotel, the train station and a number of other pubs and coffee shops where I pretended to be insulted that they didn't remember me from when I came in "not ten minutes ago." )
I was trying to do a self timer of "this is me on the bus!" but then someone came up the stairs once I had already pushed the button. When they got to the top step and walked into a flashbulb, I acted confused like I was just cleaning it and it went off. CLICK ON THE SEATS FOR A DAY IN THE LIFE OF BRIGHTON SULLIVAN SLIDESHOW
There are a number of reasons that I am really starting to like this little Island of Brittain. And it mostly concerns the way that local customs seem to be in tune with various habits and embarassments of mine. I seem to complain alot, so let's look on the bright side for a few:
1) Like me, Brits ask for the item of necessity by name. Here it's the "toilet." At home I say this and people hand me a thesaurus in disgust, begging me to use a less gruff word.
2) When I drop my spoon in a restaurant, it is not at all customary for the waiter/ess to instinctivey hear the clank and respond with a replacement. Thus without guilt or class issues, I could pick a butter smeared knife off the floor of a dog groomer's if I wanted to.
3) Likewise, most of the coffee shops here will give you your drink in a ceramic mug, even if you are not sure about your destination. Coffee and tea are no cause for industrial cleaning as at the Red Door Cafe, thus it really isn't a big deal to pour you a cup.
4) Tipping. For years I championed tipping and I still will, but not until I get home. Here in Brighton there is a living wage and people are paid well enough not to require everyone's fringe pennies and change. At "The King and I" Thai restaurant last night, I had six waiters (in costume), one of whom was employed--it seems to me--only to place a cloth napkin on my lap. Cost: 10% standard service charge. Or 60 cents.
5) Due to a number of reasons--lack of fast food being one of them--there are an innordinate number of tall pants in all the stores. 29-34 is a popular size here.
6) Burger King, for all its offenses, sells two kinds of veggie burger.
7) No one offers soymilk. Although a staple of my life, its existence on a menu is always a sign that my people have completely invaded. (Although lunch did have a vegan mayonaise, which I must say I did enjoy...)
8) No one buys books at school, they have enough in the library for everyone. However, unlike at home where I do this anyway, this means that someone else will also probably want the same book as me.
9) At 10 in the morning, there are working people in restaurants waiting for toast. More than one person here has heard my accent and stopped to tell me how repulsive the idea of getting only 2 weeks vaction per year is, especially if one "works long days like you Americans."
10) I never noticed this before, but in Fight Club, when Brad Pitt runs out to chase Edward Norton into the street about project Mayhem, the marquee in the background displays showtimes for the listed movie: "Seven Years in Tibet." Now that's comedy. I only mention this because I wanted there to be a number 10.
Last night I took my self out on a date. Nothing fancy, but I wore my nice shirt. I took me to a comedy club and then had a little thai food afterwards. Then I walked the area for a while and decided at 11:30 that Brighton was too beautiful at night to walk around without a camera. Hopped the bus home, got off a stop before the end of the line and ran to my room, got my camera, and caught up with the bus just as it turned around to start over again.
I took pictures of everything I could and then waited for the night bus for 45 minutes before discovering that it wouldn't run for another week. Infact, the last bus back to campus was the one I took home to get my camera. I walked around cold checking busstops for misprints or unknown services. A cab is £10, or roughly 4 sandwiches.
At one bus stop I ran into my new friends Lucy, Charlie, and Kate. Stuck in a similar position, we struck up a deal and decided to share a cab home. I of course began heading for the curb and waiving my two fingers like Babe Ruth after a long night.
And here's sometime unbeleivably contagious only on this island: they took walked me a bit down the street to where hundred of latenight club goers has formed a spontaneous line. This violated all laws of entropy, the very laws the US is founded on. Apparently the people in the area decided without consulting one another that since we all want a cab, we should give priority to the people who have been waiting longest, and they formed a line behind those people. And so on and so on..
Better than any Junior High dance was tonight's "International Students Welcome Party/Disco". Summation: awkward foreign people dancing to American and Europop. When I say "dancing" think of the way you sway a bit while you sing in the shower or shut your eyes and groove without moving your feet at a "listen before you buy" station. Only add lights and smoke.
I walked around, sad that even in Nerd Israel (points to whoever gets the reference) I had no friends. The only people there who knew my name were the French girl ("you have found ze moat"), Pitts ("I'm going to get a Guiness one of these nights, now that I'm legal!"), and the various Gary-Larson-drawn Americans who cling together everywhere in an impish, acne scarred lump ("Did you know there's a Gap in Brighton?").
The DJ played "Without Me" by Eminem and said "Sorry about the profanity." (re Junior High Dances: DJ fading out the chorus to "Closer" by NIN).
While I was in no shape to implement legislation, I suddenly remembered how American policy works. But, well, do you remember when Calvin would put on his Cape and Cowl and become Stupendous Man? I put on the hood to my sweatshirt, stepped back out there, and did the worst brake dancing of my life.
Atonic, arythmic, amazingly bad. No correlation between Mashall and Brendan in terms of beats and moves.
Upspinning, I found myself among foreigners who suddenly wanted to meet me and stammer through guessing which country I was from. It was all very nice, but, well: have you ever break danced on a stomach full of Indian food. Thus I unhooded and went home.
You have no idea how much coffee I scalded myself with to get this at the photobooth. But after all that crotch-burning, they pasted a little holographic double-decker bus over the extended pinky that I worked so hard to display.
In order for the above pass to be worth it, I'll have to go to the city 40 times during the next three months. To make myself feel better, I have taken to riding the bus for a single stop just to give myself a rest or to ride down the street. Yesterday I rode the bus 10 times, or 1/8 of the total cost if I paid a pound for each ride.
But the real function of the pass is so that even when I am broke I will be able to get away from this concrete campus. I should also add that when I got to the photobooth, a bald middle aged guy was fixing the machine. He had the Amelie toolbox.
This is the first of three photo ID's I purchased today to prove that I exist. The second was at my first bus stop where I bought a Young Person's Rail card, which gives you a 1/3 off all trains. Really all it does is make all the prices American. £15 ticket to London is now £10, or $15.
The third being my International Student Identity Card, which Amanda promises me will pay for itself in Turkey.
The American girl across the hall from me is the lowest common denominator among study abroad students.
Together we share a misunderstanding. She thinks that we should be friends and I think she's a complete moron.
Since I've been here this plump little Pittsburg girl has not taken off her baggy "UPITT Chemistry Olympics!" t-shirt.
She commonly starts conversations this way: "Ohmygod, are you, like, sick of all the coins here or what?"
I feel bad, given that I spent my entire life feeling awkward, out of place, and generally lonely, so I want to listen to her and help her. But everything she says makes me want to roll my eyes until she developes and eating disorder of some kind.
Even when I agree with her about things I want to change my opinions just so I don't sound like her. "The showers in this country are horrendous, I have to run around the room just to get wet!"
The sum of it is just that she obviously never heard of England until her plane touched down, because she'll say things like: "This is great that you only have to be 18 to get into a bar!"
She is the reason I still order my meals in a British accent. It might just be easier to knit a woolen sweater that says "I am not with stupid."
