Now are program coordinator, a recent graduate of ND, thought of this 40-something Irishmen to be something of a catch, and hinted at a not-so-latent desire to "date" him. I guess I just don't understand how the social world works. The two are a generous 15 years apart in age, he's a high profile politician, she's a student adviser for a bunch of American brats. I don't see it working. Ever. And yet, everyone seems to think that the two will immediately hit it off as soon as they meet and live happily ever after. When I questioned the validity of these perceived daydreams, I'm met with disdain for negativity. But seriously. What if we were transported to the set of the movie Houseboat and Sophia Loren gave us a tour?
Sure, she's an attractive woman and we'll meet each other, but does that mean I have the oppurtunity to marry her? Now if it were Elizabeth Taylor, that's a different story . . . (I bet you had no idea I could be this edgy or culturally relevant). Apparently the match was not made to be. The esteemed Senator from Kenmare brought along a date, whom are coordinator labeled a "paid escort" simply because she was wearing pearls? or something like that. The tenuos relationship was exacerbated further when the two potential love birds passed a picture of Bill Clinton addressing the Dail and our American coordinator gave a thumbs down, stuck out her tongue, and gave him a raspberry
. Now aside from not being the highest form of political discourse, the Senator, and most Irish people for that matter, would be offended because of the high regard in which they hold Slick Willy. The dialogue devolved even further when she objected that there was no chance Hillary would be the Democratic nominee for president. I guess those polls that show she's leading by double digits in every state besides Illinois ARE a bit too spurious. When pressed about who she thought would win the nomination, she said she didn't know. Hmm. Seems to me this is a common thought in the ND group, that Hillary will not win the nomination. Last time I checked, denial ain't just a river in Egypt. Anyway, the tour was kind of a let down, especially considering he gave us a homework assignment at the end of it. We had to find quotes about the famine so that he could use them in a presentation commemorating the event to his constituency. I got up, in a similar fashion to the undercover CIA agent in Goldfinger before the nerve gas scene, and demanded to leave before he could liquor us up into promising our help. I asked to be shown the door. Fortunately, a stout Korean did not drive me home.
During the tour, I also thought it was strange how many people brought friends from back home. I guess these people are so popular that they have friends who are willing to fly half way around the world and send a week with them in Dublin. Sure, that's great to see friends, in a completely new setting! I bet they've changed a lot! But still, if I could fly anywhere in the world, I think my friend studying abroad would appreciate me more if I didn't visit him in a semi-interesting place, and instead visited a very interesting place, like Istanbul, or Sri Lanka. You could then share stories of travel, instead of going over the same old story like this: "Remember that one time I visited you in Dublin?" "Yeah, it was really great." "OMG!!! I was just thinking that too." "How 'bout those 8 dollar big macs?" And so it goes. . . So i had my first test yesterday. It's safe to say that it was the academic equivalent to a colonoscopy. Long, tedious, and requiring many sedatives afterwards. Jurgen Habermas is tough to comment on. Well, at least its over. Afterwards I saw a play with the Dowlings called The Woman and Scarecrow
. When told the title, I thought, "Great, I always wondered what happened to the characters in the Wizard of Oz after Dorothy went home." Not quite like that. "Oh, so it's like that cop show, The Scarecrow and Mrs. King?" Wrong again. If I had one word to describe this play it would be disturbing. Think Samuel Beckett on Acid, with a touch of Gloria Steinem feminism, on a set brought to you by the makers of Bauhaus, who just happened to add snow for no particular reason. The play dealt with a woman in her deathbed talking to her subconscious. She was supposed to be in her bedroom, but for some reason the set was covered in snow and her closet served as the gates of hell where a huge crow-like creature was waiting to peck out her eyes. Somewhere along the way of her self-pitying and death, her unfaithful husband returns and the two become, shall we say, "intimate" on stage and she spends the majority of the second act naked. She finally dies, and as soon as she reaches the nether-regions, her other self, the scarecrow, bleeds her dry by using her wrists and necks as an inkwell to write out her sins. Finally, she lies on her scarecrow's lap, much like Christ in the arms of the Virgin, in Michaelangelo's Pieta. After the play, I wanted to shout out, "Where the Hell were the singing midgets?" but I don't think the crowd would have appreciated it. But what the play really reminded me of was when Priory went to see Mr. Roberts at the Rep in my junior year. The third or fourth line of the play deals with a sailor looking into a nurse's hospital window and yelling, "She's bareassed!" Although this is the only thing in the play that resembles profanity, a group from what I can only assume was a middle school got up and left the theater en masse, making for a sparse crowd for the rest of the performance. Mind you, this was the third line of the play. Well, if those people saw this play, I think we could have anticipated a riot. I'm trying to think of costume ideas for the Halloween party on Wednesday. Any suggestions are more than welcome. So far my ideas are limited to So Taguchi, a paper bag (I'm going to use my old idea from eighth grade by buying a lawn bag, cutting out holes for arms and eyes), and a super hero during the day time (but not anyone in particular because I haven't got the glasses for Clark Kent).
I think one of the reasons I've taken a shine to So over the years is that he has proven that 98-pound weakilings like myself can make it in this world. We both share the pain of how a large t-shirt dwarfs are embarrassing torsos, and when we wear them we look like Japanese Shoguns in traditional dress (Note: while looking for a So Taguchi picture, I found they made a specially licensed bobblehead of him in Japan. Christmas is coming . . .) I've also thought about not showing up to the party, paying a bum 20 bucks to go and just say he's me, then show up the next day and say, "Great costume, huh?" For my final costume idea, I'm thinking about wearing something distinct, like a sport coat over a hooded sweatshirt while wearing sunglasses and shorts, and when people ask me what I'm supposed to be, I'll just say "this is not a costume." Rene Magritte would be proud. 
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