Au revoir, les enfants . . .

It's a day of goodbyes in the world. First to go: Joey Bishop. The last surviving and least famous member of the Rat Pack is no longer with us today. Anyone born before 1950 will remember him for his various jokes, which invariabley ended up with his Judaism being the punchline. I, for one, will remember him for his groundbreaking work as Harry Goldman, the elderly wise cracking Jewish man, in the cinematic classic The Delta Force, starring Chuck Norris, Lee Marvin (in his last film), and an oddly cast Robert Forster as an Arab terrorist. Now the very mention of Chuck Norris makes you immediately think that movie is a bomb, and you'd be right, but what's really funny about the movie is that some scenes look like they're straight out of a David Zucker film. Not only had he already directed Airplane!, but this movie gave him more material for the Naked Gun. Pretty sure the first scene of the Naked Gun comes right from this movie. It even has George Kennedy who plays Lt. Ed Hocken in the latter. The movie might be a little too touchy to make fun of in the current geo-political climate, but c'mon, it's a near dead Lee Marvin fighting men half his age on an airplane with wise cracks. One of the first things I want to do over Christmas break is to netflix this and give it a good riff.

Also leaving us today is the Sam Brownback presidential campaign. Apparently the American public didn't find a campaign centered solely around whether or not to teach creationism in public schools compelling as the senator perceived. Well, as he leaves the national scene for now, perhaps he could do worse than to get a lesson in evolution from Mark Mothersbraugh and his nerd rock band DEVO:

Joe Torre also said goodbye to the Yankees today. Apparently he's the greatest manager ever, because it takes a genius to write 9 billionaires down on a lineup card. Will LaGenius finally leave St. Louis for the prospects of greener pastures and a rotation that doesn't include 3 journeymen? Most likely he won't get the job. Don Mattingly looks to be the favorite, unless of course he refuses to cut his sideburns.

Following my last entry about my physical similarities to Rod Beck, I decided it was time to shave. So I did that today, and taking a look at myself in the mirror, I've realized that in ten years time I will be resembling another obscure celebrity: Spalding Gray It's approrpiate, I guess. By revolutionizing the monologue with his travellogue, one might say Spalding Gray was a forerunner to my blog. You sit down to read/listen to it and expect to hear about my experiences in a foreign country, but instead you find stories about fighting with neighbors or women in the supermarket checkout line.

I love these lazy tuesdays, not like that fake tuesday that almost got me fired

My life once again paralleled that of Larry David's yesterday. When I was on my way to the bathroom in O'Connell House, I had to walk through the kitchen where people were setting up for the tea hour held every Monday evening. Now, I only had to urinate, but since there's only one man who woks continuously in the building and he uses an upstairs lavatory, there is never any soap in the men's first floor restroom (not to mention that the lock doesn't work. Let's just say if I ever had to go number 2 I would either use the handicap or run the risk of the women's toilet). Since I would never walk out of a bathroom without washing my hands, I stealthily snuck into the women's to steal some soap. I guess this extra trip made it seem like I must have been reading the newspaper in there, but when I went back through the kitchen, someone said, "That was long." While I tried to explain that there was no soap in the men's room, I was drowned out by everyone having a good laugh at my expense. Well, now I can never use that bathroom ever again. This story is probably totally inappropriate, but I thought it epitomized my time here.

By the way, what are the rules on waiting for people to walk? If you're walking to the same place, leaving the same place, do you have to wait for that other person? IT's not like they don't know the way. It's not like I'm Sacajawea and we're going through uncharted waters. Why do I have to wait for people if we're walking to the train station. In the past week, I've been criticized for not waiting to walk with other people to the train station. Each time the arguing has made me miss the earlier train.

So I was wasting time today and I remembered how my dad ruined the filming of a Jessica Biel-Aaron Eckhart movie last summer. I wondered, whatever happened to that movie? Apparently Bill is coming out this fall, and when I was looking at stills, one is taken from right across the street of our house. If you were to remove Aaron Eckhart from the picture and look up by about ten feet, you'd be staring into my old room. I think I might have a case to receive royalties from this movie. They never received any permission to use our house. In fact, my dad was so adamant that they not film there, that he refused to let them park in front of our house. When they did so anyway, he drove through the cones they used to block off the street while filming. We're hoping to make the DVD commentary.

Since I've been here, I find myself eating a lot of fruit. It's cheap and you don't have to cook it. I never ate fruit that often back home (I remember one person in particular accusing me of extending subconscious homophobic attitudes to my diet as the reason behind this aversion). Well, now that I'm eating more of it I now remember why I hate eating it. It's too messy. Even if I were a brain surgeon, I don't think I could peel an orange without getting my pants soaked in juice and pulp. Apples are a bit of a different story; I never feel satisfied after eating one. I see apple on the core, but I know I can't eat it. I'm still hungry because I know there's more to the apple that I haven't eaten. Can you tell that I'm putting off work yet?

I should probably shave. Or get a haricut. I'm beginning to look pretty haggard. In a couple of days I wouldn't be surprised if I were mistaken for the late, great Rod Beck. Rod Beck represents an era of baseball that is long gone: looks over talent. He didn't really have dominating stuff, besides a fu manchu and mullet, but it was enough to make him an all-star. It was an era that saw a relatively talentless Philadelphia Phillies team make it to the world series on the grease in their hair. The 1993 Phillies. Perhaps baseball's ugliest team ever? Nay, the ugliest grouping of people ever, outside of that time Golda Meir met with Richard Nixon. (Note: even I was surprised to find that photo). But seriously, look at the list of greaseballs on this team: Darren Daulton, Mickey Morandini, Mitch Williams, John Kruk, Dave Hollins, pre-John Birch Society Curt Schilling, Tommy Greene, Lenny Dykstra,Mark Davis, Terry Mulholland, Danny Jackson, Pete Incaviglia, and Larry Anderson. Through a very cursory research method, I've determined that all these guys had mullets at one point or another during their professional career. That's more than half the roster and 4/5 of the starting rotation. The players on this team liked the astro-turf at Veterans so much, they used it for carpet in their double wides. They also had Jim Eisenreich. He didn't have a mullet, but was still pretty darn ugly, even though he suffered from Tourette's syndrome. Although this team looked more fit to operate a Tilt-a-Whirl than a baseball team, they still managed to win the NL. The 1993 Phillies were a truly groundbreaking team: they proved that all ugly looking people could succeed, unless of course you groove a fastball to Joe Carter. Then you're just another ugly looking guy who turns into a headcase.

Francis Fukuyama and the forward pass

Last night I was lucky enough to watch the ND-BC game. Not only was I reminded of how much I miss watching football, but I realized how I had forgotten that I prefer to watch any type of football that does not involve Notre Dame. Whenever I watch An offense run by Charlie Weis, I find myself getting bored faster than someone watching a David Cronenberg film. In fact, the two are pretty similar. Cronenberg makes movies about deviants, drug addicts, and extremely violent people. You get really excited that you're going to be stunned, but then when it comes time to watch the movie, you're ultimately disappointed because Cronenberg thinks he's so smart that he overwhelms the audience with tedious technique and overt symbolism that creates one long, boring, contrived work (see History of Violence). The same can be said of Charlie Weis' coaching. He has four super bowl rings and gets the credit for Tom Brady. Everyone calls him (or used to call him) an offensive genius. From such a genius, you expect big points, aggressive playcalling and high quality talent on the field. Instead you get the same damn play called over and over again (screen pass) with the occasion 2 yard off-tackle. There is no risk whatsoever in a Charlie Weis offense. The supposedly high profile recruiting classes he brought in clearly have no idea how to block. Either they are poorly coached or he can't recruit. And just like a Cronenberg movie, by the end you're saying to yourself (To paraphrase Fukuyama), "Sure, I see there are a lot of fancy bells and whistles to it, but on the whole it's rather boring." Maybe sports and movies, like history, are coming to an end. But then again, Fukuyama was wrong about history.

But to tell you the truth, I miss watching American sports. Rugby, hurling, and Irish football don't do it for me. Maybe for me to get excited about a sport I need to know that men on the field are making more money than the gross national product of Moldova. True, college football is more exciting than the pros, but if I know anything about the dirty world of the subdivison formerly known as division I, even Florida Intrernational's longsnapper is making more than the average Eastern European.

By the way, I don't know if I've mentioned this, but if there is one person who I can't stand more than Bernie Miklasz, it might be Peter King. Whether it's standing on his moral high ground, pontificating about what is decent and indecent, or salivating over Tom Brady, Peter King always manages to irritate me. That's why I read his column. He's not that smart or funny; I just really enjoy how he thinks whatever pops into his head is relevant to the mostly monotonous work of a pro football writer. During his weekly pick 'em column Peter demonstrated once again why I don't like him. Here's what he wrote about the Jaguars-Texans game:

"We're getting ready to face an extremely physical team," Houston coach Gary Kubiak revealed to me exclusively this week. In other news, I ate breakfast this week.

There are three ways to interpret King's remarks here: (1) He is making a sly commentary on sports journalism by pointing out that people like himself report on football so much that they overload coaches with questions, they inevitably receive non-answers to question like this one. (2) Peter King is once again delving into his irrelevant comments that he's known for. Much like his propensity to tell the world how much he loves coffee, or about that one time he met a guy going to Iraq. (3) Peter King is an asshole. He asked Gary Kubiak a stupid question, to which Kubiak gave a stupid response and thus forced Peter to come up with his own analysis of the game, which in fact is his job. In order to get revenge on Kubiak, King chose a forum in which the coach could not defend himself and make fun of him. My guess is number 3 is closest to the real story.

My Goodness, My Guinness

I went to the Guinness Brewery yesterday and in the words of the illustrious Peter King, upon 'discovering' St. Patrick's Day at the ripe age of 52, "Wow. Probably the world's most perfect beer. You're gonna love it, Cleveland." Aside from the fact that the tour was the most expensive thing i have done to date, it was well worth the rate of student admission. The tour was self-guided, unlike Bushmills. So I didn't have the privilige to see a 'thrilling' video on the history of Guinness. I forgot to mention that about the distillery: they showed this video that had re-enactments of the history of Bushmills, including Prohibition, which just so you didn't confuse it with a present day documentary, they made it so that there was jazz music playing in the background and the footage looked like an old newsreel. It paled in comparison to the History of Field Day. At the end of the tour was the complimentary bar and viewing deck. The whole place reminded me of a revolving restaurant, minus the restaurant and revolving part. So, I guess that's a bad analogy, but it seemed like a place trendy people would go, if trendy is code word for staking out the most popular tourist attractions. Sorry, another bad analogy. Me don't express meself good in words. I prefer a method of pointing and grunting. Since those don't come across as well on the intranet, I'll just let the pictures do the work:
Can you see the design?





Post this, my parents and I walked back, making a quick stop in Merrion Square. After a stop for food/bathroom break, I now have a new rule for my life: Never buy candy from a machine that also dispenses condoms. I think it's safe to say I won't be struggling to follow that one. I'd like to meet the type that goes into a public restroom intent on buying condoms, but when he gets to the machine is tempted with purchasing chicklets instead. Who knows, maybe I'm onto one of the greatest marketing schemes in history.

After dinner, the rents left. It was good to see them. Ten weeks till I can speak candidly to someone about anything, but who's counting?

Soup's Too Distracting

So I was sitting in my Politcs of Nationalism lecture yesterday when the professor mentioned something about the American South being a nation unto itself. Ok, I guess he's right, but the guy in front of me starts nodding. No big deal, but with the next anecdote doled out by the professor, he starts nodding again . . . after the next one he does it again. Either he was doing his best James Lipton impersonation or he thinks he's some political science wiz that is so smart, he has to validate everything said in the lecture. With all due respect to the lecture, it's not like this was earth-shattering stuff that made you say "wow" or even, "now i get it." I guess the whole episode goes to show that I'm probably the most easily irritated person in the world.

Continuing with that thought, I've found that I'm most likely the most unpopular person in the group. The thing is, you'd think this would trouble me, but if you thought that, you clearly have never met me. To be honest, it's not the type of unpopularity that I would most crave, that being one where people talk about me when I leave a room, or whenever I'm not around they say how much they hate me. No, this is more of a don't really know what my name is/ignore me when I'm in the room type of unpopularity. Let's just say if this trip were an independent movie about the banality of high school, I'd be the guy who ends up with the girl in the end because I'm that much different and unnoticed by everyone else.

Let's just go over the scenario of last night to prove my point. At tea, I was one of the first people to arrive. As I usually do, when I get there I stand by the carrots, discretely eating them while managing not to touch any of the other carrots out of courtesy to others. As Don Rickles would say, "I'm a nice guy!" (I'll probably make a lot more references to that in future posts) While I'm standing there, the same thing that happens every Monday evening happened again. As more and more people enter the room, I'm progressively pushed to the corner that's farthest away from my original position. I understand that everyone is on a tight budget and they can't pass up free food, but these people are vulture-esque sample abusers. They're the type that, if they had children, they would go to Sam's pushily do a round of free samples, then let their children out of the car, and make them retrieve another round of samples, furtively returning the complimentary portions of breakfast burrito to their loving parents, hiding in the section of halloween decorations.

Well, no one noticed as I was pushed to the extremities of the room, but as fate would have it, I was in for more vexation. I forget what the exact details were, but two people standing next to me were having a conversation about how the one was going on a trip this weekend. He said he was going with Patrick. The other asked if it was "that Patrick" as in not me. I know she didn't mean me because she quickly said his last name to clarify that she was talking about him. She then said, "or the other Patrick. There are too many Patricks." Remember I was standing right next to them. Now, there are two, count them two, people named Patrick in the group of 40+. That's one per 20 for those of you keeping score at home. Last time I checked, it's not difficult to keep track of two people with the same name in a group that large. I'm thinking about refering to myself as the other Patrick from now on.

Not only did I learn that I'm unknown on this trip, but I'm also the meanest person too. Before class started, the "Director of Campus Ministry" asked if we would sign a thank you note to his boss for coming on the trip with us over the weekend. I immediately asked "why does he need to be thanked? he didn't do anything for us and he got a free trip in the process." Everyone looked at me in disbelief. But, I'm sorry. Speaking as someone who has never received the obligatory mass thank you note with a group of signatures after performing minimal service, I guess I just don't understand how the world works. He seemed like a nice guy, but shouldn't he be the one thanking us for giving him a spot on the bus and a bed to sleep in. I mean, he did sleep in his own bed while other people were forced to share or sleep on couches. If he had, say, bought everyone ice cream after dinner, or made breakfast, then yes I would be thanking him, but I am very discriminating in whom I thank. What kind of world do we live in where people go out of their way to thank others for mooching? Has the mentality of this group's mooching, such as that at tea, so infiltrated other areas of social decorum that they're now rewarding other mooching with thank you notes? I signed the card, but I don't think I've ever made a more insincere thank you. And no, I did not write a superficial note, like "thanks, it was great to meet you!" We, as a scoiety, should probably create a set of unwritten rules for the thank you note. Rule number one: Something of monetary value must change hands. i.e. gifts, cash, etc. Rule number two: The mass thank you note is never accepted. Either you get one signed by a person in authority, individual thank you notes from everyone in the group so you eliminate the insincere signature such as the one I gave, or no thank you note at all.

It was about the time I was stewing over the thank you note incident that I realized I was probably the "meanest" person in the room. Once again, just like coming to the realization of being the least popular, I didn't know whether to embrace it or change it.

Anarchy in the NIA

After briefly seeing my parents and reaping the benefits of someone else paying for your dinner, I was on the move again: this time to Belfast. My second trip to the UK was neither as long nor stocked with excellent travel companions as my first, but on the whole it did not disappoint. The first stop on the tour of Ulster was Stormont, the Northern Ireland legislation building. Since our fearless leader, Kevin Whelan, is well connected, we were able to hold court of a sorts with a Sinn Fein member, and former political prisoner/terrorist (depending on your religious/political bias), of the NIA. When she started talking about their goal of a united Ireland, it got me thinking two things: (1) why would the Republic want to include an economically receding, highly unemployed region, such as Ulster. Besides sentimental reasons, I doubt the south would look to the north instead of depending upon cheap Eastern European labor. Added to that is the probability of a resurgance in conflict that the poorly equipped Irish army couldn't manage if they annexed the area. The British have had trouble enough fighting in the area. It's not as if the people living there who are proud of their British heritage are going to acquiesce to be re-appropriated (see Kosovo). (2) Most of the Notre Dame students were in favor of the republican movement, or at least one person I talked to did. Why? "Because the Queen has no business telling Irish people what to do." The main argument used by this person was that if a majority of the people of Northern Ireland want to join the Republic, they should be able to, no questions asked. Well, then I guess you could say a Northern aggressing Lincoln didn't have the right to tell the majority of white Southern land owners what to do either.

That night I stayed in my first hostel. It was nothing like Eli Roth's series of slasher porn films, but instead like a summer camp/episode of full house. The place turned out to be a house situated in what looked like an urban renewal project (every building on the street looked excatly the same) and nearly our entire group of forty slept under one roof. Unfortunately, my dad's semi-mentally handicapped college roommate did not entertain us in the basement with Donald Duck impersonations. I would have toured the surrounding area that night, but when I came out of the bathroom, the entire house was deserted. So instead I finished reading No Country for Old Men. Too much of my life is dictated by my bathroom schedule.

The next day began with a quick stop at Dunluce Castle, which sits on the North Sea Next up was a tour of the Bushmill's distillery. I would have pictures of it, but they didn't allow photography. I guess they don't want to give away their secret ingredient. Here's a hint: it has nothing to do with cough syrup. We spent too much time here, and I found it to be on the whole unfulfilling. No one thought it was funny when we were in the barrel room and when the guide asked if there were any questions, I said, "What can you put in a barrel that makes it lighter?" Pssh. Maybe I should have used that one after the tasting session. Speaking of which, where were the pretzels? From what I remember, AB gave their own specialized snack food at the end of the tour.

Our penultimate stop was the Giant's Causeway, incorrectly named by our group leader to be one of the seven natrual wonders of the world. I don't really understand why it looks the way it does, but here are some pictures:



Not one of the top seven, but definitely the highlight of the weekend. Scratch off another UNESCO world heritage site. I think that makes it only 822 left to see before I die. We quickly hurried back on the bus and headed to Belfast. I'll post more about this soon, but now I've gotta run. . . .

sorry 'bout that. I went to dinner this evening at the Dowlings. If you ever travel outside the country and are strapped for cash, make sure to be adopted by a generous elderly couple. These people are incredible. Not only do they invite me over for dinner once a week, but they give me food to hold me over until the next Sunday. On top of that, I really enjoy their company. From discussions about the Gaelic League to Fr. Ralph, there's never a dull moment.

Back to the weekend. I'm tired, so I'll let pictures do the talking. The murals were from the houses of Belfast neighborhoods as testaments to the IRA/Sinn Fein. We couldn't walk around the Unionist neighborhoods because "they were too dangerous." Maybe I should inform people that I grew up on the mean streets of America's most dangerous city. To be perfectly honest, the crime that goes on here is closer to the Dead End Kids from Angels with Dirty Faces than the Cripps and Bloods, but I suppose things have changed since 1994. It would also be fair to say that the Dead End kids never had rocket propelled grenades. If they did, I doubt the stern consolation of the local pastor would have been enough to turn them around. So this is Belfast: (Note: I had no idea John Belushi and Jeff Foxworthy were part of the IRA)

Thurber would be proud.

I'm sick and bored. Time to think of of places I could possibly visit the weekend of the 26-28:

Paris: I've never been, there's a lot to see. It seems like people should go once.

Riga: Flights are frequent and cheap from Dublin. How many people do you know who've gone to Latvia:

Marrakech: Ever since I was thirteen and had to do a report on Morocco for Mr. Mulligan's geography class, I've always wanted to go here. Downside: I'd have to stay about a week or pay 700 euro for a weekend flight back.

Prague: The land of Kundera and Havel

Who am I kidding? I'll probably take the train to Howth.