Before leaving, I was just about to post about how so many people I know are incompetent... and that when one gives their assent that one will do something for someone, they are obligated to do it. In truth, I've been perhaps a bit too reliant on other people since I've been here. Furthermore, I pulled some shenanigans that resulted in the loss of my student discount card for the tube (which is a big deal... say $60 a month). In fact, in this case, it may well not even be incompetence... I maybe have been fleeced. And not by a Bedouin in a back alley of Cairo this time. Well, I got what I deserved, trying to play the mail to my advantage. Now I don't have an oyster card...last time it took me five times mailing it in to get it. Those of you that know what I did this time will get a good laugh out of this.

A story for the rest of you: There are four girls who live in the flat next to mine. Only one of them is attractive, but she is very much so. I had never seen her before tonight. So I had this bottle of Spanish wine, and the cork crumbled when I tried to open it. So I took a knife and tried to hack it out to no avail. Then I tried to just push the cork into the bottle. Slowly the cork slid through the neck past the hillock and then... suddenly... a red eruption spewed from the mouth of the bottle all over the cabinets, the window, and even the ceiling... but more importantly, all over my face. Instinctively, I looked up and into the window... and into the eyes of the most attractive girl in Bethnal Green.


My trip to Ireland was not marred by any incompetence though. I have to admit, my traveling companions were supremely competent, finding their way across the country without a map, and dealing with all the irregularities of European society with confidence and poise. Particularly impressive was the way one of them drove a stick on the left side of the road through both urban Dublin and rural mountain passes. I hope their bosses realize how capable they are! I would trust them with just about anything.

I realize that it's nearly impossible to write anything like that without sounding patronizing, but I do mean it sincerely. Ok, it doesn't hurt to be tooling around Ireland with two hot girls.

While I had a really cheap flight to Dublin (26 pounds round), it ended up being 40 pounds more. I went to my class that morning, and some of the students were there, but it had been moved two hours forward. I figured I could still make it and didn't want to look like a slacker so I went. I figured wrong...and my flatmate (who was going home for the weekend) WAITED too! What a chump...er nice guy. Anyway, we got on the wrong train and a slow bus and missed the flight. We had to wait in the airport for four hours and take the next flight on standby.

That night I stayed at his parents' house. They were very nice people. I couldn't help but be reminded of my Catholic friends' parents back home. Crucifixes, holy cards, pictures of the pope... I could have as well been in Dublin, Indiana as in Dublin, Ireland. Except I doubt that house would be worth $280,000 in Indiana... or anywhere in the US.

Ok, I exaggerate. In NYC or Chicago certainly, but I wonder about the suburbs. The place was about as far out of Dublin as Patterson, NJ is from NYC or maybe Des Plaines is from Chicago. So maybe the value isn't so out of line... I guess what is interesting is that I'm told that property values in that neighborhood were about 1/8 what they are now a mere 20 years ago! Amazing in light of the fact that for much of the 20th century, indeed for much of the last millennium, Ireland has been one of the poorest countries in Europe.

Now, it has one of the highest per capita incomes in the EU. It has even been dubbed the "Celtic tiger" by economist types (yet another sign of cultural pandering to the concept of Asia... I'll write about that yet). They seemed to achieve this by wisely investing in education and infrastructure while keeping labor costs low. The highways around Dublin are equivalent to any interstate in the US and even the rural roads are as good as most state highways (better than most county roads). Trinity College and University College are both highly respected institutions and they are cranking out highly trained workers in the fields of computer science and biological engineering. The country is now embarking on a national programme to boost interest in theoretical science.

Dublin itself is buzzing with building activity. Unlike Cairo and Alexandria, also filled with the cacophony of construction, in Dublin they are building offices, university structures, and high end housing; as opposed to concrete block tenements. Dublin is remarkably clean and full of different restaurants and swanky bars.

It remains to be seen how all this prosperity will affect the country. Certainly, there are far more immigrants in Ireland now than at any time since the Brits came in the Plantation of Ulster. There are now halal groceries and Buddhist temples (in central Dublin to be sure). The barmaid is just as likely to be Asian or Polish as a blonde Celt who addresses you as "love". I have to admit, the Irish seemed far more European to me than my preconceived notion of Irishness. The EU has more than its share of pratfalls.

The historical center of Dublin is small compared to many European capitols, but then again the city (and the country) are relatively small. The river Liffey, which is spanned by several picturesque bridges, (I guess in Ireland as well as the UK the noun goes first...the river Ohio?) divides the city in two and most of the historic district (as well as the trendy Temple Bar bar district) lie immediately to the south of it. To the immediate north of it are the Four Courts (a pretty cool but not too functional building apparently) and some other stuff I didn't look at too carefully (THE PARLIAMENT IS TO THE SOUTH) and further on, the "bad" side of town. The famous General Post Office which was under siege during the Easter Rebellion is also located here on O'Connell Street. O'Connell Street is a broad thoroughfare with many monuments to various Irish heroes. It also contains the Dublin Spire which was erected upon the ruins of Nelson's Column which was blown up by the IRA in 1966. (Ok, THAT is kind of funny.)

My second day in Dublin I met my companions at the hostel and walked through most
of the south bank while they took a nap. We then went out for some Irish food (leg of lamb and soda bread!) and then to the bars with my flatmate and some of his friends. We were treated to THREE drunk Irishmen saying, "They always take me lucky charms!"

The next day, we tried to hit the historical sights. First up was Trinity College. The campus reminded me of Columbia in NYC. We went to the famous library and saw the Book of Kells. Usually, these overhyped artifacts are a bit of a letdown. Can anybody actually say that SEEING the Rosetta stone is as exciting as the IDEA of it? But the Book of Kells is just as spectacular as its reputation suggests. Not just for its content but for its overall artistic aesthetic. It is a blend of Christian and pre-Christian color and forms that are beautiful not only to the eye but to any spiritual observation. It is a monument to the culture that produced it as well as to the faith it represents. I won't even get started on its paleographical beauty.

The other striking feature of the library is the Long Room. This is certainly what a library should look like. It isn't too hard to imagine that the total sum of human knowledge should be in a place like this. The fact that it contains first editions of books like "On the Origin of the Species" and "Principia Matematica" doesn't hurt either. I can imagine literally ascending towards the barrel vault as I reach higher and higher elucidation. I might actually study in such a place... (not that don't in the King's Library... where "Johnny English" was filmed).

After Trinity, we headed to the National Gallery. It was nice in that it is not so overwhelming as to not be able to be seen in a day. There was some interesting Irish art (particularly Yeats) and the highlight for me was Caravaggio's "The Taking of Christ." That kind of goes without saying.

After that we headed to Dublin castle. It appeared to be a conglomeration of medieval, Baroque, and Georgian architecture. It was impressive... but not outstanding.

From there we went to the two cathedrals, Christchurch and St. Patrick's. Remarkably, they are both Protestant. They were confiscated from the Catholic Church during the Reformation. What is remarkable is the restraint that the Irish showed in allowing them to remain Protestant after independence. The Catholic Church still considers Christchurch to be the cathedral of the city..only designating another church as pro cathedral. That degree of tolerance is impressive. For example, of the thousands of churches that existed in Constantinople during the Byzantine period, only one remains. The Greeks responded in kind, there are NO mosques in mainland Greece except in Thrace where they were protected by international treaty (though I have to add that the Turks didn't even respect that ;) ). In any event, for me it throws new light onto the Northern Ireland issue. Did the Protestants there really need to be protected? Unfortunately, we didn't enter the churches OR Dublin castle. I think all three of us regretted this a bit... perhaps I should have been insistent, but I didn't want to be TOO autocratic.

Especially since I led the girls on a wild goose chase for half an hour looking for the remains of Viking walls. I never did see anything that satisfied me as being from the early middle ages. It all looked heavily reconstructed to me. But this detour did result in some of the best fish and chips I've ever had (well as good as they CAN be).

From there we headed to the Guinness brewery. You can't really go into the brewery, but you can pay 10 euros to go into the "storehouse" which is sort of a museum. It is pretty corny... in that the reconstructed brewing equipment is ridiculous. But there were a few interesting tidbits regarding the history of the brewery, such as one about coopers, and the history of their advertising was exemplary. Amazing how they have managed to be so innovative for almost a century. From the cartoon animals saying "It's Guinness time" to more avant garde pictures from the 70's and 80's. It was capped off by a free beer in a circular bar on the 7th floor surrounded by windows... and an excellent view of the city. That really put me in the mood to buy lots of overpriced paraphernalia (oh if only that WAS sarcastic).

Next up was another night of drinking with Irishmen... we really got a good impression of the Temple bar that night, with public urination and all. After that we went to a very uncrowded bar mainly patronized by locals. One of my companions was particularly taken with a soccer hooligan....

The next day we drove across the country towards Galway with the intention of seeing the Cliffs of Moher. I should have spoken up here too...after spending so much time in the British Isles, and being in Dartmoor the week before. In fact, we saw jack shit. Visibility was about 500 feet, and it was raining pretty hard to boot. So it goes.

The hotel the girls were staying in was amazing though. It is owned by Merv Griffin (who steadfastly refuses to let me on Jeopardy), and formerly by John Huston. There were pictures of John and Angelica Huston with people such as Orson Welles on the walls. The place was REALLY swanky. The bathroom was huge and marble. The furniture was plush and there was even a crystal decanter filled with port and two port glasses on the mantel in the room! I can't wait to hear how the food was. The mansion was surrounded by green pastures and forest. I half expected Cary Grant to pull up in his Aston Martin and throw his Burberry over my swarthy face commanding me to hang it up while proceeding to steal my girlfriend (which I don't have but...).

From there we went to a store that sold Irish wool... where I spent way too much on a sweater and wool socks... ok and a ridiculous Irish hat that my mother will grow to hate once I wear it.

Then I parted with my companions with much sorrow in my heart and got on a bus back across the country. I can't believe how much public transport it took me to get home....
Galway to Dublin: 4 hours
City Center to Clondalkin: 30 min
(slept in flatmates' parents' house again)
Dublin to London: 1 hour
Luton airport to St. Pancras: 30 min
St. Pancras to Bethnal Green: 30 min

I'm complaining for no reason.... I just want my own Aston Martin.


Ireland was a very nice country though. I'd really like to go back and see more of the natural wonders and the medieval monasteries. Ireland actually was quite a center of learning in the middle ages (in fact it was the last place in Western Europe where Greek was known), and it had its own Celtic Christianity and culture.... the ruins of which are still there to see!

Ok, I'm typing in Ireland in my flatmates parents house... I'm too tired really to type much of substance, but now I've typed my blog in three different countries. :/

And right now, my travelling companions are sipping port from a waterford decanter in a magnificent country estate, while I just rode on a bus for four hours and trudged through Dublin in the rain to get back. And I have to be up in 4 hours.

Last night I saw the 1950 Godzilla. I was pretty excited having seen all the 70's Godzilla v. Mothra, Godzilla v. Mechagodzilla, etc. Being able to see old movies on the screen like that is another perk of living in a big city. It makes up for walking through random fecal smelling miasmas.

No time to write about Asian culture in Europe vis a vis European culture.

Off to Eire...

Greeks have this annoying habit of talking in a very loud voice on their cell phone while they are sitting in the otherwise silent (but full) computer lab. I always hope that all the people scowling at them don't know which language they are speaking. Its as if Greeks haven't gotten over the novelty of being able to take their phone out of their houses yet.

I'm leaving for Ireland tomorrow with my roommate. I'll be staying at his padres house the first night and then hanging out with my sister's roommate and her friend for the rest of the weekend. I'm sure it will be fun despite not being able to insist we go to the Hill of Tara and the Boyne Valley as I could if it was my actual sister.

Some people have their friends fill in their blogs for them while they're gone. That seems a bit strange to me... I AM pretentious, but the ~5 people I figure read this can probably do without that.

That was certainly the longest descriptive passage I've ever written regarding landscape. It reminds me of how boring the pages and pages of descriptions of moors, heath, and roads are in "The Lord of the Rings." So that was my literary tribute to Tolkein. ;)

I think while reading LOTR, my mind would go numb but I continued on because the sparse passages in which the plot actually was advanced were riveting. And being slightly OCD, I would go to the encyclopedia to look up what a moor or heather actually was (and yes, I flunked my physiology test the next day).

But it all paid off, because I knew exactly what I was looking at in Dartmoor. I think Middle Earth was for the most part, the UK.

Anyway the real reason I went was to do some climbing, which I had never done before. I was a bit apprehensive as the English seemed a bit...well... not the people who ran 1/4 of the globe a mere 90 years ago. I mean, they couldn't start a fire, didn't realize that coal had to be heated to a greater temperature than wood, couldn't seem to find the way on a road map... or a relief map of the moors.

The last point had some frustrating consequences for myself. One day it was too wet to climb so we went hiking through the moors. It was cold, rainy, and foggy; I was relatively comfortable thanks to my gore-tex shoes and jacket. That is I was until getting lost we hiked straight through a bog and I was knee deep in muck. Of course my shoes filled with water and I was miserable for the rest of the 3 mile hike through the cold.

The bog IS a magical place though...I didn't see the Piltdown man or Sutton Hoo, but the water that exudes from the muck is clear and not muddy as if the green heather (which is soft over the bogs) is a giant sponge. On the other hand, the heather where the ground is harder hurts like a bitch as it slashes your calves. The highlight here was seeing a carcass of a lamb, the bones stripped clean and surrounded by wooly hairballs. The werewolf (me?)?? I came to the conclusion there must be some sort of mountain lion....

All that aside, the Brits REALLY knew their stuff when it came to climbing. They were talking about it with a precision that I would more associate with neuroscience than bounding rocks. Figure-4 holds, rope tension, pressure points...hex-nuts that fit into fissures.. the intellectualization was impressive I can't say it was Greek to me.. but maybe Chinese (which is what Greeks actually say when something is incomprehensible).

I quickly gained confidence in their abilities... these were the people who administrated from Canada to India.. and felt secure enough to dangle my 14 stone 10 lb (2 stone less than when I arrived I might add) from a pink rope attached to a rock by a guy who tried to start a fire by throwing lit, twisted newspaper scraps onto coal and dousing it with lighter fluid.

I was a bit scared when I first looked at the rock. From the base, it doesn't look like there are ANY holds at all. The nature of the texture of granite seems to cloak and sort of relief in the rock. But I squeezed my ass into the harness and began my ascent. As if by magic, I started to float upward, my feet adhering to rock as if I were spiderman!

But then about halfway up, there was nowhere else they would stick. In vain I moved laterally back and forth across the rock moving every direction but up. It was at this point that I noticed just how windy it was. The wind overwhelmed every one of my senses as the flapping of my coat and howl of air was all I could hear, my eyes began to water, I began to feel cold, I couldn't breathe through my nose, and my tongue went numb. My coat was beating against my body with such force I felt that if I let go of the wall, my motion would be horizontal across the valley rather than vertical to the earth.

The wind was so all-encompassing I began to visualize Boreas materializing and tearing me from the wall and smashing me into the scattered rocks below. It was at this point that my fear provoked an instinctual response and I raised my leg quickly to a 30 degree angle from my head (something I thought was not even possible for my body to do) and latched my foot into a crevice... from that position I managed to shimmy up several feet, slamming my knees into the wall with every panicked jerk of my body, until I reached some more closely set holds and proceeded uneventfully to the top of the rock face.

Then I sat down and was rewarded with a spectacular view. I've described it in detail...so I won't belabor it any further. But the view reinforced the sense of accomplishment, artificial though it was, of having scaled the mountain (now it is a mountain no mere rock!). And I sat there for a good five minutes contemplating the mysteries of the universe while the belayer (the dude holding the rope below) impatiently waited for my descent.

Finally, it was time to come down. Naturally, I would climb down... it must be much easier than climbing up, and after all, I had mastered the mountain. But that is not how it is done, since when you're at the top you are winched into the belayer at the bottom by the exact amount of rope that covers the distance between you. So he instructed me to let go and he would slowly let me down. Once again panic struck and just couldn't do it. Simple physics..I outweigh this guy 2:1... its a pulley... I'll crash to the ground and he'll fly to the top of the rock.... I tried to climb but couldn't get anywhere. For one thing, I couldn't see where I was putting my feet, for another the rope made it nearly impossible.

So there I was, master of the mountain, wide-eyed and panicked, being lowered in jerks as I was constantly swinging myself back to the rock to hold on between every spurt of downward motion.


The rest of my runs that day followed more or less the same pattern with no discernible improvement in my ability. Still, it was a largely enjoyable experience, and I owe it largely to the members of the society who enabled me to do it with their expertise (and also to God and JRR Tolkein...and maybe werewolves).

The climbing was almost as artificial as a wall... one can easily get to the top of the rock face approaching the rear face of the moor with its gradual slope. Still, there is something of an interesting intellectual component (of which I'll be honest I took no part...this has more to do with the "lead climbing"..the first dude up the rock that puts up the rope), and any activity that activates one's instinct in such a way that allows one to feign survival is bound to evoke primal euphoria.

I won't rush out and get rock shoes just yet...but it's something I'd like to try again...

I think I now know how my Irish flatmate feels when I ask him repeatedly to say, "They always take me lucky charms." For the first time I spent an extended amount of time with actual English people (everyone was English except myself and two other Frenchmen). We were staying in Dartmoor, where they all assured me the beginning of "American Werewolf in London" takes place... and being the only American (and perhaps looking like a werewolf anyway) they admonished me to "stay on the road" and wanted me to walk into the fog (and it was very foggy) in a red coat.

While I was unable to see any supernatural occurrences (neither the "hairy hands" (which is kind of a gay legend... hairy hands not attached to a body attack tourists..do they say "Dr. Rosenpenis" too?) nor the Devil himself (who actually hasn't been seen there since the 17th century..apparently it was a memorable appearance) materialized for me).

On the other hand, the scenery itself was fantastic. I regret not having any pictures, but I got so wet my camera surely would have been ruined. In any event, rural Devon (where Dartmoor is located) is largely small villages and farms built in between and on the moors. Moors are essentially wet hills covered in bogs with granite sticking out of them (the hills, that is). The towns are primarily memorable for the occasional medieval church, a visible reminder of the antiquity of the place (as opposed to American small towns with corrugated steel barns...and churches) and the pubs, which lack all the Victorian garishness of London pubs, but truly look medieval with their exposed beams and uneven walls. The local beer was spectacular.. but I foolishly didn't try the famous Devon cider or the food.

The charm of the towns pales in comparison to the majesty of the moors though. The first thing I noticed about them is that they are bright green, even though it is getting rather cold here. Well, not totally green.... they are also covered in ferns which are now rust colored which in conjunction with the huge granite stones scattered about and jutting through the tops of the hills, as well as the perpetual fog or rain, gives a prehistoric impression.

As you get closer you notice that the grass is all very short, like the green of a golf course. This surely must be due to the vast numbers of sheep, cows, and massive Dartmoor ponies grazing all over. Apparently the moors are common grazing land as well as national park so the farmers whose land borders them can graze their livestock there. And it shows. The ground is covered EVERYWHERE with massive cowpies and pellets of sheep scat. The Keebler elves couldn't distribute it more evenly. Forget about not trying to step in it, just remember to wipe your shoes off when you leave.

From the tops of the moors the sights are even more impressive. Up there you can also see heather, which is sort of a small evergreen shrub (though perhaps more like a weed) with small cup shaped flowers. Looking out over the country side, you can see all the sheep resembling marshmallows or mushrooms dotted all over the green grass, like a scene from Willy Wonka. The farms themselves are divided irregularly by hedgerows rather than symmetrically by chickenwire as in the US. So from up high they resemble a stained glass window or perhaps the scales of a green fish resting in the valley between the hills rather than the flat quilt that can be seen from an airplane flying over the Midwest.

The hedgerows are rather interesting. Not only do they divide farms, from each other, but also from the road. They consist of a high wall of hedges grown on top of an ~ 2 ft earthen mound which sometimes surmounts a stone wall. Thus, roads start to resemble tunnels and riding in a car though them I waited for a giant (hairy?) hand to prod us through the maze. Still, there is little room for driver error and many very scratched cars.

Oh yeah.. climbing... later...

My bank account is finally operational. So now I'll hopefully be spending money a bit more prudently now that I have to actually see it leave my hand again... as opposed to just hearing the flick of a card through a reader. (Not that I've been buying Turnbull and Asser shirts and staying at the Mandarin Oriental..but I've probably eaten a bit more sushi than I normally would).

Getting an account is ridiculously cumbersome here... HSBC (you know I love those Chinese), NatWest, and Barclay's all turned me down because I might be a terrorist without a permanent address in London. Lloyd's gave me an account based on a letter from the school confirming my address.

Lloyd's is an interesting bank. It is not the same company as Lloyd's of London (the insurer of J. Lo's buttcheeks) as I initially thought. But just as banks were deregulated in the US, banks here can be affiliated with insurers as well. Lloyd's is affiliated with one called Scottish Widows. They sell life insurance and manage pensions. Their advertisements are a bit... off. They feature sexy older women in small black dresses with black velvet capes on. I know that's the first thing that comes to *my* mind when I think of widows. Apparently they become vampires in Scotland. "Buy our insurance and when your husband kicks off, you'll become alluring yet mysterious." The actual ads in the bank are even sillier than the web page.

The branch of Lloyd's I go to is interesting itself. It is across the street from the Royal Law Courts. The exterior is covered by a facade of different shades of green ceramic tiling and dark engraved wood. The motif is a mixture of Greek columns, Islamic geometric design, and vaguely baroque sculpture.... Typical view of the colonial power towards the colonized. I think Edward Said could have had a field day with this. The "other" can be nothing but fantasy. That said, I do think it's aesthetically pleasing, and I DO have the mindset of the Westerner. In other words, it provoked the intended response in me. I DID think of of the palaces of Croesus, Harun al-Rashid, and the Medici when I looked at it. And I knew that's where I wanted my money.

Now all I have left to get is internet, which should be working in 7 days... then I can indulge myself even more.

I'm going to Dartmoor this weekend to go rock climbing. I've never even been on a climbing wall before...so I may end up like the boss in the Hudsucker Proxy. But it seems like a pretty cool place to go... and I might get to do some letterboxing.

Ok, I think I fixed most of the typos. I'd gotten a complaint. I would much rather be thought of as an idiot for my views than my command of the English language.

Meh, I'm not going to have internet at home for at least another week... And then I still have to hook up the wireless router myself. (and Ted knows how that went at home) I really would rather write this at night... not when I have to be somewhere in -5 minutes, as is usually the case.. and I make typos that I correct a week later after they have been read by everyone who will ever read them.

A blog is kind of a strange thing... It's sort of an account of what I do, useful as a record for myself. (then again, I didn't note that I went to: Wigmore Hall

Chamber Contrasts: Borodin and Tchaikovsky



Soloists of the London Philharmonic Orchestra

Borodin String Quartet No.2 in D
Tchaikovsky Piano Trio in A minor, Op.50

on Monday night)

It is also party a self-indulgent purging of frustrations and emotion. I vomit forth anxiety into the internet. But it's not totally honest either... because I AM selective in what I write, as I am assured that SOME people read it. So I am recording my subjective perspective through the lens of my subjective perspective of how I want people to perceive me. Maybe it would be a bit more valuable if it were a bit more honest... and wrote for example about my feelings for...

It is a grasp at the hope that some of my thoughts are worthwhile and that someone else might find them elucidating or at least entertaining. I have a whole essay prepared on why Bertrand Russell was a cunt.

....all this it is, but it can easy be justified, in my case at least, as a travelogue that allows me to communicate with all my friends. I mean that IS why I write it.

How the hell did TS Eliot write that when he was only 21? How can someone at that age understand what it is like to be middle aged and lonely? He wasn't even in England yet when he wrote it... But he was in England when he was my age. I guess I'd better write "The Waste Land". Hey, we both lived in St. Louis too.

He must have gotten housed (a munsonian term of the Indiana dialect of American Standard English meaning roughly: to be rejected or scorned by a woman after delivering either an open or guarded signal of affection) a hell of a lot. Well he couldn't have been lonely once that poem got published.

Though it's probably more famous now for all the odd places it's quoted in Apocalypse Now.


I can't believe that 40,000 people are dead in the subcontinent. Moreover, I can't believe how much less thought I've committed to this as opposed to New Orleans. People are people, and I know about as many in New Orleans as I do in India... but its hard to focus on a place, when one is totally unfamiliar with the context. On the surface, it looks the same... looting, incompetence... but it is interpreted so much differently. Except maybe by Pat Robertson claiming that God is striking down infidels.

It is this sort of thing, not really the supposed "problem of evil", that really convinces me that the Semitic conception of God is false. Are we to believe that essentially simple, God-fearing people are to face His wrath at moment's notice? Are Islam and Christianity both invalidated by this? I mean there are always "outs"... The Muslims worship a false god... New Orleans was Sodom (when in fact, there are probably quite a few Protestants and Catholics there)... God will reward those people in the afterlife who didn't sin in this one. I just don't find those convincing. Not in Akkad, not in Judea, not in Baghdad.

Plato probably would. For him it was inconceivable that good things could happen to bad people. In fact, in the Republic, claims that Homer and the tragedians should be banned because they portray this as the case. Notably, Odysseus' life having a happy ending after causing Ajax to commit suicide and abandoning his men. I think that the book of Job offers a better answer, in so much as it is answers anything (ironic, the Semitic book undercutting my opinion in the Semitic theology).

Also ironic that Platonism informs Christianity's (well some forms of Christianity's) beliefs to the contrary...

I think I'm going to audit the Arabic philosophy course here.. the prof is world renowned and only one person is taking the class... and I'm curious as to how the Muslims interpreted Aristotle and why they burned Plato.


Also, if anyone talks to my dad before I do, tell him to stock up some H5N1 vaccine... because I don't trust the NHS here to have any.. though its nice to think the Turks and Romanians are slaughtering thousands of birds so I won't get the sniffles.

Forgive me a bit of self-indulgence (if this whole enterprise isn't), this is my favorite poem though. (supplanting "Ode on a Grecian Urn")

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
T. S. Eliot
S`io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, `` What is it? ''
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening.
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains.
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys.
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me.
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ``Do I dare?'' and, ``Do I dare?''
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: ``How his hair is growing thin!'']
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: ``But how his arms and legs are thin!'']
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep. . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: `` I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all''--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: ``That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.''

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow, or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
``That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.''
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.


I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.




Five Jess Jan

I saw the movie "Night Watch" last night. It was pretty terrible; I must admit. Visually, it had some interesting effects... it was probably the first movie out of Russia to use "matrix" type stop-motion digital cinematograpy. There were some interesting effects with the subtitles too. (obiously meant for foreign consumption)

On the other hand, I hate Mtv editing, and the plot was practically incoherent. That said, the movie raises interesting possibilities. It utilized Russian... as well as medieval Greek mythos. This is a part of history that is vastly underserved. The possibilities are boundless as from Syria all the way to Novgorod, there is something of a superculture (insofar as it spans several other cultures.. but I think its super too) that can be mined for cohesive cultural and ideological frameworks. These can, of course, be used to examine the human questions that any other culturally extroverted society explores.. Kurosawa in Japan for example.

The movie used a lot of imagery from Russian folklore.. the bird turning into the woman... and the witch at the beginning was clearly a Baba Yaga archetype (I was waiting for the chicken legs). The Byzantine references to curses on virginal women were also interesting.

I wish someone (with more skill at storytelling) would take up these stories and make them relevant again. Perhaps Nikita Mikhailkov (by the way... I would highly recommend his movie "Burnt By the Sun"... magical realism turned against Stalinism!). There must be SOMEONE out there with enough vision and skill...

There are still some of the original tenants left in Portman Place (where I live). Today, as I was leaving, I saw a man who looked to be about 70 (though I suspect he was much younger), arms spotted with military-ish tattoos.

"Good morning young man."

"Good morning, how are you."

"Oh, not too bad, aching, drunk, cold."

What was noteworthy was not what he said, but how he said it. No trace of sarcasm at all in his voice. In fact, it straddled the border between stoicism and downright cheefulness. Stiff upper lip indeed. Then again, maybe he knows that his apartment is now worth several hundred thousand pounds and he can buy it at a huge discount from the government.

....


I'm totally reformed now. I really dislike Asian girls (with the exception of those whose first name ends in "a" and I have had a platonic relationship with for something between 10 years and and a month...wow that really does fit all the particular people I can think of...). I was in Tesco today... buying a liter of water...I was waiting in line with a Japanese dude behind me and his girl friend standing adjacent to me so we formed roughly an isoceles right triangle. I was counting out my 44 pence, and without warning...she spins around and throws her arms around her boyfriends neck (more specifically his Junichiro Koizumi/Johnny Tanaka mullet) and blabbers something unintelligible to me but simultaneously amorous and annoyingly spritely in tone... But more relevantly to me, she knocks into my hand and scatters my change over the 4 corners of the store. So now the line is long and everyone is waiting for me to bungle around the floor...where I am unable to recover the requisite 44 p and thus am still forced to break a £20 note. She utters, "SO SOLLY" (seriously) and her and her boyfriend scamper out the store before I can bitch slap both of them.

I am DEFINITELY not giving back the knife my grandfather made from the propeller of the Zero that crashed into his ship now. And some kamikaze will have to continue to wander in Shinto hell.

Self-Deprecating story of the day (the more astute of you will be able to fill in the subtext and get the most enjoyment out of this):

Ok, I had a date tonight. First date since....

I am sitting in the school library at 5, about to leave and do some quick shopping, and then go home and shower and meet the girl at 7. Well, I check my email and see one from a friend labeled "URGENT". So I check it, and my friend who is a lawyer says:

I need your urgent help. Do you know anyone studying LLM in London U so that
he/she has access to the Institute of Advanced Legal Studies Library? I am
looking for a case in a law report called "All South African Law Reports"
which is only available at the IALS library.

I would be most grateful if you could help. I need the case urgently. The
full citation of the case is: McIntyre en andere v Pietersen NO en Andere
[1997] 4 All SA 401 (T). The citation stands for All South African Law
Report (Transvaal Provincial Division).

Thank you very much in advance.


So I email my Russian friend in law school and then email my friend to alert my friend what I've done and give my new London number in case anything else is needed.

5:05
Then I get a frantic call, a weak and weary voice telling me that the case is needed by tomorrow for court.... I'm a bit hesitant... but the law library is only about 15 minutes away walking briskly. I'm a grad student so should be able to get into any federal library... and certainly I know how to get a book quickly... take it to the union and fax it off by 5:30... be home by 6:10...shower and be back on the tube by 6:40... and then be an acceptable 5 minutes late. (though that killed me with the Malaysian in leather pants... I guess I never learn) And I DO try to be loyal to my friends.

5:20
So I get to library, my shirt covered in old man racquetball sweat.. and surprise surprise...my student ID isn't enough... I can't enter without becoming a member. So I fill out a form and wait for the elderly gentleman to enter all my information into the computer... asking me to spell out everything I've written as my name looks odd to him.

5:49

I get into the library. Look on the floor map index for which floor has the reference number I need. It's L2, the basement. I run over to the elevator and see a sign:

Elevator out of order. To retrieve a book from the basement, fill out a request form and give it to the librarian. Books will be retrieved on the hour and half hour with last request taken ten minutes prior.

5:51

I hand the librarian my form... and he tells me he should have the book for me in 40 minutes... Ok now I'm gonna be really late. It's time for:

TXT SENT: Sorry got out of class late-can we make it 8?
TXT RCVD: C U @ 8

TXT RCVD: Did you get the article yet?

Waiting in library...

6:30 (damned if they aren't punctual)

The librarian emerges up the stairs with a solitary book.
"Here's your book sir"


I can't help but notice that this article, save the summary, is written in Afrikaans, a language I'm 99.9% certain my friend can't read.
I race over to the copy machine... plunk down a pound (btw.. I have £30 to live off for 2 weeks b/c my atm card expired) copy the pages and race to the ULU (union).

6:40

Of course, the copy store w/ a fax machine is closed.... what to do... scan and send! I'm nearly running down Regent Street looking for an internet cafe. The first three don't have scanners... finally, I find one that does but:

"The scanner and the printer are the same and you'll have to wait until people are done printing."

The Japanese girl using it prints her impressive resume of waitressing and cooking in impressive sounding prefectures in Japan in the hope of waitressing in a Japanese restaurant in London 3x, and then leaves the third copy dangling from the machine and leaves without paying.

6:55

Shit

TXT SENT:I'm really sorry, I'm gonna be another 30 min late. I promise I'll make it up to you
Finally, I can use the printer/scanner.

The guyfumbless with the wires and helps other customers constantly coming in for about 10 minutes.. and FINALLY the scanner works. The pages are scanned and emailed to me. £1.20

7:15

TXT RCVD: U know just forget it.

GAH

7:30

So, I get a computer and forward the email to my friend (this step required because I didn't remember the email off the top of my head). £1

TXT SENT: Let me know when you get the email and if you can read the atchmnt

TXT RCVD: I'm at home now and going to bed, I'll look at it tomorrow

MISSED CALL: JON (roommate)

TXT SENT: Sorry about the laundry dude, I'll be back in 45 min to take it out.

TXT RCVD: Do you have the landlord's number? We have a problem.

"Hey, Jon what's up?"

"Apparently, our plumbing is leaking into the apartment below us. We need to talk to the landlord."

.......

I've tried to contact the landlord repeatedly... maybe I'll post the letter I sent him tomorrow... and have never spoken to him. So Jon might be calling him now... but I don't think we're going to hear from him until I don't pay rent next month.


What, did you think I was going to run out of money?

One would think that the British would have suitably strong cold medicine to combat the unsuitably virulent diseases they have floating around here. The fact that I woke up no less than 10 times last night (and the night before... and the night before...) choking on my own sputum suggests otherwise. What I wouldn't do for some good old Nyquil, Robitussin, or Sudafed. What the fuck is "Buttercup Cough Elixir"? It just tastes like alcohol and castor oil.

I think that the melange of races and peoples here facilitates the most insidious and pestilent diseases known to mankind to breed under the sidewalk puddle skies of London. I mean the table that the Bengali guy was coughing all over in chinatown which is then wiped up by a gay Cantonese waiter with a dirty napkin that the that the Hungarian stripper wiped her mouth with is where I probably sat my elbows as I ate dinner last night. And this probably mild compared to the bacterial and viral vectors in the tube!

Ok, I really hope my mom doesn't read this but I have a confession. I live in a former council flat. That is... projects. It turns out that the projects in London are on such valuable property, that the poor were shipped out to Essex and Wessex and these were sold to landlords. It's similar to what's happening in Chicago (see Cabrini-Green). So all this hassle... all this wasted time... all this frustration at the punk ass landlord has been to live in the ghetto. I should have just moved to Brixton because while I might be even a little more likely to get shot there.. at least its cool.

My main gripe though is the fucking shifty Arab estate agent who lied to my face about what would be in the apartment (dryer).. and now the landlord and the agent keep passing the buck. But I have a reputation to keep here. In Europe Greeks are known to be cunning... like Jews in the US... So I'm not about to be made a monkey of...


And also... it has the fucking most uncomfortable couches ever constructed. I think granite park benches would have been nicer. Luckily for me, the chance of me ever bringing home a girl to one of them is -72.3254% (meaning its more likely I get pushed off the Tower Bridge)


My mistake here was the fateful phrase, "I trust your judgment". Sometimes I take this pan-Orthodox solidarity stuff too far. (One of my roommates is Bulgarian).

Meh, I feel like shit now. Damned English weather. I didn't get sick at all last year.

I had dinner with my aunt and uncle Wed. night.. I'm going to have to write about it in the other blog.


Ministry of Sound last week was a bit of a letdown. I mean, I didn't get to hear the "real" dj's, but it wasn't all that elaborately decorated. It was pretty much just three black rooms with some big cartoonish mirrors hanging from the ceiling... there was a VIP room...