The Imminent Fiction

Go Away!

2006-11-20T13:26:00.000-08:00

Or, to be more specific, go here.

I'm no longer updating this blog. All future entries can be found at my web site, along with all kinds of fascinating information about me, and other things, but mostly me.

See you there.

Do I ever update this thing anymore?

2006-09-19T00:32:00.000-07:00

NO.

Kidding. I'll soon be moving my main blog to my web site. Remember those cute little "under construction" animated GIFs that were all the rage in 1997? Imagine one of those here.

I will be blogging with far more frequency once I get everything up and running. Stay tuned.

Five Years

2006-09-11T10:22:00.000-07:00

Is that gash in your leg
Really why you have stopped?
‘Cause I’ve noticed all the others
Though they’re gashed, they’re still going
‘Cause I feel like the real reason
That you’re quitting, that you’re admitting
That you’ve lost all the will to battle on

Will the fight for our sanity
Be the fight of our lives?
Now that we’ve lost all the reasons
That we thought that we had

Still the battle that we’re in
Rages on till the end
With explosions, wounds are open
Sights and smells, eyes and noses
But the thought that went unspoken
Was understanding that you’re broken
Still the last volunteer battles on

Battles on
Battles on

-The Flaming Lips, "The Gash"

Love means never having to say "baaaaaa"

2006-09-08T13:25:00.000-07:00

Ever since the debate on gay marriage really picked up steam two or three years ago, the most vocal conservative pundits have argued that if you let homosexuals marry, the next thing you know people will be marrying goats.

I always thought they were full of gas, but as it turns out, they were right.

Well, thanks a whole hell of a lot, Netherlands, Belgium, Spain, Canada, and Massachusetts. Are you happy now?

Featherbottoms and Hoopleheads

2006-08-30T22:13:00.000-07:00

Question: What are the two best television shows to be produced in the past five years, obviously destined to be ranked amongst the greatest artistic achievements ever shown on the medium, both of which were prematurely killed by their stupid networks after three seasons?

Answer: Arrested Development and Deadwood.

This past Sunday, HBO (stupid HBO) aired the final episode of their neo-Shakespearean Western masterpiece, Deadwood. Planned to run for at least four or five seasons, this unbelievably brilliant show had its throat slit after only three, leaving most of the denizens of this crazy town hanging in uncertainty.

The show's creator, David Milch, has promised that a pair of two-hour movies will be produced to complete the story. I suppose 4 more hours of this wonderful show is better than nothing, but it's certainly not as good as a full 12 hour season.

Unfortunately, the same can't be said for Arrested Development. I suppose one should commend FOX (stupid FOX) for putting this bizarro thing on the public airways in the first place and keeping it alive for two and a half seasons based solely on a rabid core audience and brisk DVD sales, but they never really gave it a chance. AD was shuffled all over the schedule, promoted lightly, and then its final four episodes were all squirted out in one 2-hour block last winter against Monday Night Football. Blechh.

But now I'm done complaining. The good news is that both shows are available on DVD (the third season of AD was released this week). If you missed these gems the first time around, your life can only improve by giving them a shot.

Both shows have much in common:
- each have ridiculously awe-inspiring ensembles of the best actors working in the business at their prime;
- each have a very specific tone that only improves as you get used to their unique rhythms;
- each reward viewers with complexities that almost demand multiple viewings;
- each feature plenty of foul language (on AD it's bleeped out to brilliant comic effect ... on Deadwood, not so much with the bleeps).

One of the biggest criticisms I hear from people who have sampled Deadwood in particular is that it's probably one of the most vulgar works of art ever created, in terms of language. Well, I can't really argue that point. There's a lot of bad words. But there is a method to the madness here, in that the cussin' is worked into the dialogue with a Shakespearean cadence, which becomes even more apparent in Season Two as several characters launch into convoluted monologues. Season Two also features Garret Dillahunt as Mr. Wolcott, easily one of the greatest villians ever shown on television ... maybe only eclipsed by the Season Three villian, the amazing Gerald McRaney (yes, that Gerald McRaney) as the odious George Hearst.

I can understand if you can't get past all the f- and c-words. Sometimes the show does pour it on a bit thick. But the acting (especially the wonderful Ian McShane, Robin Weigert, William Sanderson, Dayton Callie, and Brad Dourif) is superlative across the board, and the writing, directing, and art direction support the story brilliantly.

There is no way I could pick out individual performers for Arrested Development, I would just end up naming them all. This show even made has-been guest stars like Henry Winkler and Liza Minelli hilarious. And I could never try to pick out my favorite bits, since most of them build off of other bits, sometimes from earlier in that same episode, sometimes from episodes two seasons prior. But I will say that Tobias Funke (David Cross) pretending to be British nanny Mrs. Featherbottom makes me laugh every damn time. Hard.

One of my favorite bands, Spock's Beard, sings a song with the lyric: "We made a land where crap is king, and the good don't last too long." True. Maybe the good don't last, but we can be thankful they exist at all.

Scientists Are Dumb

2006-08-25T13:42:00.000-07:00

What is this bullshit I'm hearing about Pluto getting demoted as a planet?

I blame Bush.

But seriously: once again, the little guy gets crushed. I thought America was supposed to be about the spunky, scrappy underdog standing up for himself and getting what he deserves. Ha! This is just another example of all the big planets ganging up on the little planets and taking away what was theirs.

Apparently, those bully scientists used typical politically-correct rhetoric to justify their robbery, claiming that if Pluto is considered a planet, then we have to let all kinds of ice-balls be planets, too. So, if one kid gets a popsicle, then all kids need to get popsicles, or else nobody gets anything.

We can't all be Saturn. Few planets get to be a Neptune or Venus. What hope is there now for the Plutos, if they are excluded from the solar system, banished to the perimeter, told "you had your fun with the big boys, now go play with your little dwarf friends."

Unfair!

As a tribute to this ex-planet that shares its name with Mickey Mouse's dog, here's a photo of me at work, circa 1989.

Jamopalooza Oh-Sicks

2006-08-23T14:11:00.000-07:00

My buddy Derek has this crazy old house in Orange, and instead of a living room, he's designed the front area as a music stage. (Bear in mind, this is Orange County, where "old" means it was built in the 1950s.)

As you can see, he has his wall of guitars, a full electronic drum set, neighbor-enraging amplifiers, and a guitar-effects pedal board so one could go all Joe Walsh if the mood struck. Click here to witness the full photographic splendor.

Once or twice a year, he invites his friends over for an extended jam session. Pictured above from left to right is Derek, a madman guitar freak; Tom, no slouch on the skins; and Steve, thumping along with the bass just to make sure everyone knows there's a foundation for this jam, kiddies.

A few years back I was invited along during one of Steve's birthday parties, and I was lured into the jam as a victim of my karaoke weakness. I'm no musician, but I can do a bit of plinky-ploncky on the keyboards, and if you tell me which note to hit on the bass guitar I can finger it in rhythm. Most importantly, somebody's got to sing into those microphones, and I just happen to know all the words to Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girls".

This past weekend we pulled off quite an epic jam. We usually get through about 50-75% of each song, and when you don't know the words, it's best just to make them up. The most successful renditions we came up with were probably "Baba O'Riley", "Rocky Mountain Way", "Freewill", "You Shook Me All Night Long", "Ziggy Stardust", and an Alice In Chains medley I didn't know too well.

Every year, I'm equally stunned that nobody in the neighborhood calls the police.

I now have one year to learn the piano intro to "Come Sail Away" for Jamopalooza Oh-Seven.

The funniest scene in "Snakes On A Plane"

2006-08-22T15:03:00.000-07:00

It happens near the beginning. A couple coming back from their honeymoon in Hawaii are sitting in their seats, trying to relax, as yet unaware at just how many mutherfuckin' snakes are on the mutherfuckin' plane.

The husband's fear of flying is causing him to freak out, and his wife is trying to calm him down.

"If you're so scared of flying," the wife asks, "why did you want to go to Hawaii for our honeymoon?"

The nervous husband looks at her, smiles, and says, "Because that's where you wanted to go."

In unison, the three women sitting behind us in the theater all went "Awwwwww."

Bwah!! Now, that's comedy.

Airline Safety

2006-08-18T00:10:00.000-07:00

With reports of wackos mixing together chemicals intending to blow up planes in England and an incident where some crazy lady in West Virginia got a whole airport shut down, I feel it's necessary to point out, today of all days, the real reason you need to be careful when taking to the skies.

Flying is still the safest form of mass transportation, but as these people who recently flew to Newark discovered, it's not people with shampoo bottles you have to worry about.

Bruno Giovanni Quidaciolu Jr.

2006-08-17T18:05:00.000-07:00

I was genuinely sad to hear of the death of actor Bruno Kirby, of complications relating to leukemia. I always liked him, with his beady eyes and that squeaky, East Coast voice. He was like a chipmunk version of Joe Pesci. Poor guy was only 57 when he passed away on Monday.

His two most famous parts were probably the ones playing the best friend of Billy Crystal. In When Harry Met Sally, Kirby was the guy who married Carrie Fisher and got that horrible wagon wheel table. In City Slickers, he was the friend who convinced Billy Crystal and Daniel Stern to go on the dude ranch vacation.

Kirby had a good sense of which sequels to do, and which ones to avoid. He played young Clemenza in The Godfather Part Two alongside Oscar winner Robert deNiro. He was also smart enough to avoid appearing in the putrid, mega-bomb sequel, City Slickers 2: The Legend of Doing The Same Stupid Jokes About Sheep Again So We Can Get Paid.

He also appeared in This Is Spinal Tap, The Freshman, Good Morning Vietnam, and a bunch of others. I guess his last big role was in Donnie Brasco as a psycho mobster.

Three years ago I did a triathlon to raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. Sadly, Kirby's death proves there is still work that needs to be done.

Phase Two

2006-08-15T13:07:00.000-07:00

Today, we officially transition from a "Hey, I went to Ireland!" blog to a "Hey, I wrote a crazy book!" blog.

As many of you know, a few months ago I implemented my Cunning Three Part Plan to go from being a frustrated, unpublished author to becoming a frustrated, published author. Phase One was the trip to Ireland, to sharpen my scribe skillz, and one of the main things I learned there is that skillz is actually spelled with an "s".

Phase Two is to finally get this novel I wrote out into print, with paper and ink all glued together and everything. This is what I've been working on since I returned from my trip. I actually wrote the majority of this book around 1997-2001, and I've been doing the Agent and Publisher Tango ever since. I've got encouragement and positive feedback from publishing industry people who aren't my direct relatives, but I was unsuccessful in snagging a legitimate publisher. So, I've decided to do it myself.

I used to poopoo self-publishing, thinking that any hack with a few hundred bucks could self-publish any garbage they could scribble. Well, to be honest, that's still true. BUT, since the advent of the Internet, self-publishing has gained a certain amount of legitimacy, in that the services the reputable self-publishing companies provide have improved to the point where if you were to walk into a bookstore, you wouldn't necessarily be able to tell the self-published books from the ones released by "real" publishers.

Obviously, I would prefer to have the marketing and distribution muscle that comes from a "real" publisher, and achieving enough legitimacy to sign with one is my eventual goal. Until then, though, I'm going to do it all myself, prove that my stuff can sell, gain some momentum, and finally ... FINALLY ... get this manuscript off my desk once and for all and focus on the next thing.

Which brings us to Phase Three, writing the next book. Oh yeah, I have to do that too. The whole story is in my head, I just have to type it all out. To quote one of my heroes, Douglas Adams: "Writing is easy. You only need to stare at a piece of blank paper until a drop of blood forms on your forehead."

Here I go ...

!THE APOCALYPSE!

2006-08-10T14:23:00.000-07:00

If you don't update your blog on a regular basis, people will stop reading it.

I really shouldn't go a whole week without something interesting to say. Or to find something to complain about. (One of my friends pointed out to me that I was using my blog to "complain", but to be honest I've been actively trying not to turn this into a whiny screed, so it was a tad disheartening to hear I'm apparently not being very successful).

Unfortunately, it's been a pretty uninteresting week. Which is a good thing, in terms of life, but a bad things, in terms of blog.

So, I linked to a couple of guys who do nutty things with bottles of Diet Coke and Mentos. It doesn't have much to do with the apocalypse, but that seems to be a popular topic nowadays, so if I use it as a title, maybe I'll get some hits on Google.

I'm suing PBS

2006-08-03T13:32:00.000-07:00

In my post "Ending Credits", below, I described how the exploding economy in Ireland is changing the country. Apparently, the PBS program Wide Angle totally stole my idea and did a whole program on this topic, called "Mixed Blessings".

Sure, PBS aired the program in July when I was there, but that doesn't mean I still shouldn't sue them for taking my idea. I am back in America, after all.

Here is the website for "Mixed Blessings". You can also view the entire program online.

Mister Kurshnov

2006-08-01T12:20:00.000-07:00

At the Vons I go to near my home, they have this unsettling customer service policy. After you've paid for your food, they take the receipt from the register, tell you how much you have saved using your Vons Club card, and make a point to say your name.

I understand why they do it, but I always feel sorry for these poor checkout workers, who are often confronted with confounding last names. Like mine.

It happens every time. They pull the receipt and charge straight into their patter: "You saved a total of 14 cents using your Vons Club card today, Mister ..."

Without exception, this is when the panicked pause occurs, as they get a glimpse of this German nightmare of a name, with all the weird repeating letters. Some valiantly forge ahead, interpreting their own special version of how to pronounce it, then confidently hand the receipt to me in a motion clearly indicating "Go away now." Others will ask if they got it right, and no matter how painfully they've mangled it, I always just tell them they're correct.

The moral of this story: it's not so easy to come up with interesting things to write on a blog when you're not in a foreign country.

Irony

2006-07-31T07:53:00.000-07:00

I was up for 26 hours straight, from the time I woke up in Ireland until I finally collapsed in my very own bed in my very own home. In between was lots of walking, busing, planeing, delays, new airplane tires, a missed connection, several airline meals (some of which I was forced to pay for, some not), and my parents being very kind in picking me up at LAX despite the later-than-expected arrival time.

So I wake up on Sunday morning, after a mostly mild and wet Irish summer, ready for the blistering California heat wave ... and it's raining. Oh, life, you are funny.

Ending Credits ...

2006-07-28T00:57:00.000-07:00

... and, To Be Continued.

My Ireland trip may be ending, but this blog will continue. I have further adventures that await me back home, and I invite everyone to come here and share them with me. I cannot promise I will be able to post so very many pictures of cows, but I'll try to fill that empty space with something interesting.

My good friend Ireland and myself, we have something in common. We have both reached a period of transition in our lives.

When Ireland joined the European Union in 1973, it was the poorest country in the community. In 2006, Ireland is now, per capita, one of the richest countries in the world. In economic terms, it was a whiplash-fast transition, and the shockwaves still have not settled.

In an earlier post, I called Galway “the Irvine of Ireland”. Let me elaborate. A month ago, when I arrived here and first drove in on the bus from the airport, the first building I saw leading into Galway was the Jaguar/Land Rover dealership. In my wanderings throughout the city, I see nice, modest, cookie-cutter houses being built everywhere that are three inches apart from each other and selling from €300k to €500k (equivalent to about $380,500 to $634,000). The streets and pubs are filled with young, well-groomed people with nice clothes and iPods. Traffic is really bad in the afternoons. There are very young children everywhere. You can walk the streets at 2am and feel perfectly safe. If there are poor people around, you never see them.

To those of you reading this who have ever been to Irvine, California, I ask you: does all of this sound familiar? I choose Irvine specifically because although it’s a beautiful place to live, many criticize it as being the epitome of soulless, faceless suburbia. (Not me, though. I’ve lived in faceless suburbia my whole life, and honestly, it’s worked out pretty well.)

The Irish are enjoying their new wealth. They call it the Tiger Economy. In the New Ireland, ancient churches are sold to developers; the young people that flooded out of the country during the depressions of the 70s and 80s to America and Australia and England are now flooding back; The Troubles of the North have achieved a peaceful truce that is, for now, holding.

But with any sudden prosperity, come problems. Some believe that the Irish are losing their Irishness. The use of Gaelic as a viable language is in its death throes. A country that used to have a problem with emigration is now struggling with rampant immigration. There are now 200,000 Polish people living in Ireland, and I hear many of the same complaints about them that I hear about Mexicans in California: the Poles are willing to work for much cheaper wages than equally qualified Irish. And it’s not just the Eastern Europeans coming here. The second-most spoken language in Dublin is no longer Gaelic, it’s Mandarin Chinese.

While the Irish are embracing American-style prosperity, they are also embracing American-style genericization. They don't want to be poor anymore, which is fantastic, but what is the ultimate price to this country's unique identity? And what happens when the tiger gets tired of running and goes to sleep? Americans, for the most part, are used to the cycles, and are rather adept at riding out the economic lulls. What about the Irish? How will they respond to the inevitable turn of the tide?

As for me, I've had a great time, but I'd by lying if I said I wasn't thinking about home.

FIVE THINGS I MISS ABOUT HOME:

1. My peeps! (That's you.)
2. Clear sinuses.
3. Reasonably priced food. Hell, reasonably priced anything.
4. Sleeping in a big-boy bed.
5. Driving my car.

I don't want to end this on a negative note, so I will say that I've had a great time, got a lot of writing done (not only the nonsense on this blog), and I've even made some new friends. I've loved the weather, I vastly prefer July in Ireland to July in SoCal. For the most part, it's been very mild and comfortable here. I even enjoy the rainy patches, it never rains in July back home. Other than that brief couple of days in the 30s, the weather has been a wonderful respite.

Today we have our closing reception, and tomorrow it's a 7am bus ride to Shannon Airport. See y'all on the flip-side.

Slainth Mhath

Supermeáin (or, a Meáin For All Seasons, if all seasons were cold and rainy)

2006-07-27T12:34:00.000-07:00

Inis Meáin (or Inishmaan) is the middle of the three Aran Islands, off the coast of County Galway. Our visit there today was the final field trip of my Ireland adventure. (Sniff.)

I'm sure I'll have terribly witty things to say about this trip later, but I don't have time to type it out right now. One of the apartments here is having a farewell party for the writing group I wish to attend.

So, for now, you can spend some time with the pictures I took at Inis Meáin. The theme of the Coole Park pictures was Trees, and the theme of these pictures is Rocks.

What's Fonzie Like?

2006-07-26T07:54:00.000-07:00

He's cool. Or, in this case, Coole.

If I know my friends, I know they can't get enough of Lady Gregory's contributions to Irish Literary Theatre in the early twentieth century. So, I don't need to go into that in great detail. On Monday we visited Coole Park, where Lady Gregory had hosted raging keggers with the likes of William Butler Yeats and George Bernard Shaw.

Lady Gregory was a patron of Yeats, which meant she gave him money so he could concentrate on his writing. Now, that's a gig I need to get. I'm going to send off an email to Match.com right now suggesting that they add an "artistic patrons" sections to their personals.

We also visited Thoor Ballylee, a medeival castle that Yeats purchased and used as his summer home. You can click here to see the pictures of Coole Park and Thoor Ballylee. Expect to see lots of trees.

Hurling

2006-07-25T00:49:00.000-07:00

Hurling is the national sport of Ireland.

No, it isn't what drunken Irishmen do by the side of the road at three in the morning.

It's a field game, kind of like field hockey, but faster. I've been watching a wee bit of hurling on the telly before going to bed at night, and it is far more entertaining than dull-as-dirt soccer.

Each player has a wooden paddle called a hurley. The hurley is roughly the length of a baseball bat, but skinnier and with a flat end to whack at the ball, which is about the size of a baseball and made from leather.

Now, here's the awesome part: unlike field hockey, in hurling you can pick up the ball and run with it! And, if you have the ball, other guys can tackle you! Sweet!

The goal posts at each end of the field are shaped like a big capital H. If you whack the ball between the goal posts above the middle bar, that's 1 point. If you manage to get the ball under the middle bar (which is closer to the ground and guarded by a goalie), that's known as a "goal", which is worth 3 points.

What's cool about the game is that if nobody is harassing you, it's possible to pick up the ball, give it a solid whack, and if you're accurate, score from almost anywhere on the field. That makes hurling a very high-scoring game, and if one team falls behind it's actually possible (and exciting) to watch them try to catch up again.

Also, as the ball is getting whacked up and down the field, other guys are waving their hurleys around, frantically trying to hit it to their teammates. Sometimes they hit the ball, sometimes nothing, sometimes another guy's head. Helmets with facescreens are optional, and it seems only about half the players choose to wear them (probably the ones that have taken a hurley to the noggin in the past).

The way they score the game is a bit strange. They separate the points and the goals. (Remember, points are the shots that go over the middle post, goals are the shots that go under the middle post into the goal area.) For example, the final score of last night's match was: Galway 2-11, Limerick 1-21. That means Galway scored 2 goals (worth 6 points) plus 11 points, while Limerick scored only 1 goal (worth 3 points) but managed 21 points. So, the final score was actually Galway 17, Limerick 24. It's odd, but you get used to it quickly.

Hurling fever: catch it!

Acrobatic Water Boat Men

2006-07-23T13:14:00.000-07:00

Click here for more pictures, of my day in Roundstone and from today’s Art Festival parade.

Each summer, Galway hosts its International Arts Festival, which attracts not only visual art but theater, music, dance, street performance, improv comedy, and literature. Oh, and a dog show.

I had heard of this art festival before I came here, but I didn’t realize what a big deal it is. There are some significant names here: one of the plays being performed is directed by Alan Rickman; musical acts include David Gray, UB40, Simple Minds, and the Tiger Lillies; performances from the Whose Line Is It Anyway? telly show; and showings by artists that, if I knew anything about art, I’m sure I would be impressed by their presence.

The International Art Festival is so international, though, that many who live here in Galway feel that the festival gives short shrift to local artists. And so, a group of Galway-based artists, arts groups and promoters have a second festival running concurrently, called Project 06. This second festival has everything the big International festival has, but concentrating on Irish talent. (Don’t call them a “fringe festival”. They don’t like that.) The Project 06 offerings are a great alternative, because the majority of their attractions are inexpensive or free (by comparison, a ticket to see a Galway Arts Festival performance runs from €20-€45, while most of the Project 06 shows average around €5-€10).

My approach to the two festivals has been: Cheap To Free. I’ve seen some live music, street performances, and a play called “How The West Was Won,” a well-performed farce about the day in 1984 when Ronald Reagan visited Galway. I also saw the Official Art Festival Parade, which wound its way through the city center this afternoon. The weather was dodgy this morning, but it cleared up in time for a cool and gorgeous parade afternoon. It was one of the shortest parades I’ve ever seen, which means it was one of the best parades I’ve ever seen. You can see highlights in the pictures link, above.

Well, I’m in the home stretch here. The writing program has a busy final week planned for us, with visits to Coole Park and the Aran Islands, another play, our final workshops, and a farewell reception.

(NOTE: The title for this post comes from the Art Festival program description of the parade: "Marvel at the acrobatic water boat men and the dazzling Coral Palace - just don't let the Giant Pike catch you!" I am happy to report there were no Giant Pike-related injuries today.)

Movie Review Haikus

2006-07-23T10:34:00.000-07:00

They have a really nice, new movie theater here in Galway. Big cushy seats, oodles of legroom, great picture and sound. And only one minute of commercials before the movie, instead of twenty.

I've been listening to poetry for the last three weeks, so I got inspired.

Superman Returns
A visual treat.
Superman lives. But next time,
Re-cast Lois Lane.

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest
Loved Davy Jones' crew.
Looking forward to part three.
Bit on the long side.

We went to this guy’s house

2006-07-21T09:03:00.000-07:00

The one in black, his name is Tim Robinson and he’s a writer that lives in a little seaside village called Roundstone. We sat in his garden as he did a reading from his book, and a poet and teacher named Eamonn Grennan read some of his poems as well. It was all frightfully civilized.

We had lunch at a pub called The Shamrock. How’s that for Irish? The only way it would have been more archetypically Irish is if they called it The Leprechaun’s Shamrock. Food was good, though.

After lunch, Robinson took us on a walk of the coastline, where the above picture was taken. He told us about the local history and geology of the place. There were a lot of cows hanging about, and one student from Arkansas made a funny observation: the people from Arkansas were fascinated by the ocean, while the people from California were fascinated by the cows. I felt slightly guilty for having a burger for lunch. But only slightly.

I’ve got more pictures, but I’m too lazy to load them up now. I’ll post the pictures later, but for now, here’s an appetizer:

Gotta have some hot stuff

2006-07-19T13:59:00.000-07:00

I'm trying to get used to Celsius. People in Ireland are flummoxed that it could get all the way up to 30! Hmm, what temperature is that when converted to Dumb American?

I wish it would get cold and rainy again. If I wanted this hot crap, I'd have stayed in California, where they put ice in their soda, I don't have to pay 2 Euro for it, and I get as much as I want.

“I don’t like science fiction”

2006-07-19T11:24:00.000-07:00

For those of you who have never participated in a fiction-writing workshop before, let me describe the process to you.

The workshop consists of a number of fiction writers and a leader. Every workshop I’ve ever done has been in a university setting, so the leaders I am familiar with are always professors. Each student is expected to write at least one story to be workshopped, as well as read the contributions of all the other writers and give substantive comments to the author in a roundtable setting.

So, if you are masochistic enough to want to do this, follow these easy steps:

Step 1. Write a story. It’s kinda the whole point. The story should be about something you care about, deeply. DO NOT write a story you think the other people in class might like. DO NOT write a story to please the professor running the class. DO NOT scribble something out the night before class, people will know. If you don’t want to take the time to craft and shape and edit a story that’s meaningful to you, then you shouldn’t be writing. Think of the process of writing a story as a bologna slicer for your soul. After you slice off a thin piece at the top, you’ll still have most of it left, and yes it might be a bit painful at first, but look what you end up with: delicious, delicious bologna!

A student’s attitude towards their story can come in many varieties. Examples:

Student A: “My story is ass. I can’t believe I’m going to let people read it. Everyone will hate me for all eternity. Death is my only respite.”

Student B: “I am the second coming of Herman Melville. I will show all the other hacks in this class what real writing is. Make sufficient room for my genius!”

Student C: “I know my story needs work, but I feel better about it after reading everyone else’s crap. Yeesh.”

Student D: “When were we supposed to turn in our stories? I’ll have mine on … uh … Thursday. Promise.”

Or some combination thereof. Now back to the process.

Step 2. Make copies. This is so the other people can read it. Fortunately, in the workshop here in Galway, the school makes copies for us, which is great because this step can get a bit expensive depending on how many students are in your class.

Step 3. Wait for your turn. While you’re doing this, you’re reading other people’s stories and making your comments. Highlight those passages you like, to encourage the author to do more of that, and be diplomatic in your criticisms with the parts of the story that don't work. In some cases, this might be the entire story. I’ve read enough student-written stories in my day to recognize that most stories have a valuable idea at their core and some of them can be quite entertaining, but the writer needs to improve their craft to make the words they’ve chosen to surround that story more effective. Some stories are unreadably awful, and some are minor masterpieces, but both of these instances are rare.

Step 4. When it’s your turn, sit quietly and listen. The way it usually works is the students give their comments and reactions to your story first, then the professor(s) give theirs. Most people are pretty tactful in their responses, detailing the things they liked first before following up with the things they would want to see changed in future revisions. Usually, if someone outright hates the story, they just say nothing.

Most of the stories submitted by students are on topics personal to them, and with few exceptions, tend to be about rather dire topics. So far in workshop, I’ve read stories involving meth addiction, alcoholism, cancer, autism, Brazilian whorehouses, child abuse, tornadoes, World War II, suicide, and loneliness.

I chose to submit the first chapter of my novel for the workshop. Here's what happens: two aliens disguised as humans sit in a restaurant in Boston. They are former friends who are reuniting, and they have a long discussion about the nature of power. That's about it, until the end where one of the aliens, enraged by a sense of betrayal, commits an act of violence that sets up everything that later happens in the book.

First, the students gave their opinions. The feedback was mostly positive, I don’t think there is anything to be gained here in detailing their praise and criticism. One woman in particular nailed exactly the problems I’ve had myself with this chapter, and those comments are probably the ones I’ll most take to heart with the next revision.

Then, it’s the professor’s turn to give his thoughts. The first words out of his mouth: “I don’t like science fiction.”

Well, of course. He’s a professor, he’s genetically preprogrammed not to like genre fiction. I know that from workshops I took in college. Here's the typical story a professor likes: An old woman sits on a bus. She sees a young lady get on the bus, wearing a hat. The hat reminds the old woman of her past. The old woman gets happy, then sad. The old woman gets off the bus, goes home and eats a potato. The End.

Now, I can like the old woman story too, if it's written well. And there are genres that I don't really care for either, such as women’s romance. And, I admit, there is quite a lot of crap infesting the scifi/fantasy shelves at Barnes and Noble.

But, when it's done well, stories in the scifi and fantasy genre can be as emotionally devastating as straight-up, "literary" fiction. In the hands of a master, genre fiction can be a true gift to the human imagination. I could recount a long list of highly respected authors who have written in the science fiction and fantasy genres, but to keep this short I will give only one name of a guy who wrote some fantasy in his day: William Freakin’ Shakespeare.

This is a rant, I know. Bear with me.

No, I am NOT comparing myself to Shakespeare. I am not Student B (see above). I just think great fiction is inspiring and fulfulling, regardless of its genre.

The stuff I write is just as personal to me as the cancer story is to the girl who wrote it. In there amongst the lizardmen and decapitations, there is a point I’m trying to make, several of them in fact, that speak to the very core of who I am and how I process what happens in this world. That I choose to express those ideas in a fantastical setting shouldn’t automatically invalidate what I’m trying to say. If the story is crap, that’s fine, but don’t declare it crap just because bookstores don’t put it on the same shelf as the new Philip Roth or William Trevor.

Ahem.

After “I don’t like science fiction,” the professor did go on to tell me the things he did like about my writing. He pointed out specific passages he enjoyed until the end of the story, when the violence occurs and “my eyes glazed over.” No worries, his feedback was honest and he was up front about his own biases.

This brings us to the last step in your workshop process (finally):

Step 5. Selectively ignore all that bullshit. If your writing is good, it will find its audience. There is no story ever written that appeals to everyone. Your ultimate audience is yourself, because you’re the one who is going to live with your story longer than anyone. Your readership can choose to read you, discard you, adore you, or ignore you, that’s out of your control.

Now I have to figure out the second story I’m required to bring to workshop. I’ve got a good idea about an old woman on a bus.

The Isle of the White Cow

2006-07-18T00:48:00.000-07:00

Inishbofin is a protrusion of rock off the west coast of Ireland in County Galway. The Irish name for the place is Inis Bo Finne, which means Isle of the White Cow. As the myth goes, a couple of fisherman lost in the fog land on the isle and start a fire to keep warm. The flames burn away the mist to reveal on old woman riding a white cow down the beach. The woman strikes the cow, and it turns to stone. I'm sorry, did I call that a myth? Because I'm sure it totally happened.

All the students in the writing program, as well as our professors, spent the weekend on Inishbofin. We were very lucky to arrive during the best weather this place ever gets. Click here to view pictures of some truly spectacular scenery.

We all met at the University, where we boarded a bus that would take us to Cleggan, the little town where you catch the ferry to Inishbofin. As we are departing, Michael Gorman, one of our professors, had only one piece of advice for us. "There are no doctors on the island," he says. "So, just be careful." Keep this in mind for later.

I spent the bus ride looking out the window at the green and hilly outskirts of County Galway. At one point, I start hearing this strange noise. Like a mewling, a sound a cat might make. But that's crazy, there's no cat on the bus. But I kept hearing that noise. Then, in a reflection in the window, I see the girl sitting two rows in front of me is holding something that's squirming and covered in fur and whiskers. "Is that a cat??" I say loudly, and the girl in front of me shooshes. "The professors aren't supposed to know," she says.

The story is this girl Mandy found the stray kitten a week ago and has been keeping it in her apartment at Gort na Coiribe. She had to go on this weekend trip to Inishbofin, and decided the best solution was to bring the kitten with her. Now for three days she has to hide it, feed it, clean its kitty poop, and keep the thing quiet. She named it Fiona, like the princess in Shrek. Fiona survived the weekend intact, but I can't say the same for everyone in our group.

Now, backing up a bit. When we first arrived in Ireland, my roommate Trevor decided to get a bike, which was a good idea. He bought it used from some guy who promised to buy it back again at half price after the month is up. A pretty fair deal. Before we went to Inishbofin, the professors told us that bikes are very popular on the small island, so Trevor wants to take his. Another good idea.

Once we're there, Trevor and another guy named Greg decide to climb up the hill near our hotel. As Trevor is an experienced mountain biker, he decides he is going to ride his bike back down the hill. This, alas, was his first bad idea. Mountains are mostly soft dirt, where it is easy to get traction, but Inishbofin is a giant rock covered in short, slick grass. Trevor tries to cut across the hill diagonally, but soon loses all traction and starts heading straight down. Fast. He tries to avoid a ditch at the bottom, but rolls a 1 on his Reflex saving throw and hits it directly, sending him ass-over-elbow and landing on his head.

Greg, who witnessed this absurdity, has the decency to make sure Trevor is okay before laughing at him. I thought it was amusing that after being specifically warned to be careful, it took less than an hour for someone to almost knock his own head off. Happy ending: Trevor walked away with a nasty scrape on his forehead, a sore knee, and the reputation of being a bit of a spaz, but otherwise he's fine.

The rest of the weekend was a good time. It was a bonding experience, as everyone was staying in close quarters and ate all our meals together, so I got to know a lot of these people better.

The food was easily the best I've had in Ireland. This country is the kind of place that typically serves fries with lasagna, so it was nice to have a decent, well-prepared meal for a change. Apparently, the hotel we stayed at has won awards for its dining, and I could see why.

By far the strangest thing we discovered was inside the hotel's television room, Greg found a videotape that was labeled "The Nothing To Do With Toast Video". Understandably intrigued, we tried to get the tape to play, but none of us could figure out how to wire up the ancient, European VCR to the telly. The next morning, the telly itself was gone, with a flower vase sitting on the table where the TV was the day before. My theory? We were getting too close to the Toast Mystery, and we had to be stopped.

In any case, the best part of Inishbofin were the amazing views of the sea. Here's another link to the photos in case you missed it the first time.

This week: more readings in class, a day trip to Roundstone, and the start of the Galway Art Festival.

Revenge of the Film Fleadh

2006-07-14T13:11:00.000-07:00

I remember reading somewhere that film festivals have two purposes: 1) for good, small movies to try and build an audience; and 2) for bad, small movies to get shown a few times then die before they get inflicted on the general populace.

Tonight at the Fleadh, we had a number 2. I saw a Northern Irish film called "48 Angels", and it was pretty awful. I suppose I should have guessed from the title that it would be sentimental crap, but you can't guess at obvious writing and amateurish acting from a title. There were several walkouts, and under normal circumstances I probably would have followed, but I stayed because the air conditioning was giving me some relief for my sinuses.

So, that wraps up the Galway Film Fleadh for me. I saw 4 films, and 3 of them were very good, with only one dud. I'd say 75% is a pretty good ratio, I'm happy with that. I got to see the directors of two films speak about their work, said "hello" to a guy who had been in prison for 20 years then had a movie made about him, and pointed at one acclaimed British actor. Rather a good scorecard, methinks.

The festival continues over the weekend, but I'll be heading off to the isle of Inishbofin along with the rest of the writing class. I shall give a full report when I return on Monday. To all within the sound of my blog: have a great weekend.

Bride of Film Fleadh ... with Bonus Celebrity Sighting!

2006-07-14T02:40:00.000-07:00

Before Wednesday night's screening, I walked along the Corrib River, the swans cutting across the reflection of the evening sun, listening to Marillion on my iPod. A very cool Galway moment, and it couldn't have happened at home.

The screening was a documentary called "Running Stumbled", and it's essentially the world's most horrific home movie. A filmmaker living in California named John Maringouin hadn't spoken to his junkie father in two decades, but decided to head to New Orleans a couple years ago to spend ten days with his dad and his eloquent but equally strung-out housemate, Marie. Pretty chilling stuff. His father was a talented painter, but never sold anything, and his artwork hanging on the walls of his filthy house were cruel reminders of a life he never gave himself a chance to obtain.

Maringouin, the director, was at the screening and spoke afterwards, where he said that it was just two weeks ago that he shot the surprising epilogue to the film that showed his father, post-Katrina and living in a "FEMA trailer", had straightened out, got a pretty new girlfriend, and was creating rather beautiful paintings. I suppose as long as we're breathing, it's never too late for any of us.

Thursday night, the screening was another documentary, "The Trials of Darryl Hunt". It details the 20-year incarceration of Darryl Hunt, a black man who was accused, tried, and convicted (three times) of raping and murdering a white woman in Winston-Salem, North Carolina in 1984. You never know what a documentary is not telling you, so the only facts I have at this point are the ones the filmmakers choose to show, and it makes a pretty convincing case using DNA analysis and private investigations beyond the Winston-Salem police department that Darryl Hunt had nothing to do with the murder. The court was finally convinced as well, and after two decades in prison, Hunt was released.

As a film, "Trials" was good, and mostly relied on archival footage and science to present its case, which I appreciated. To me, the definitive "wrongly imprisoned" documentaries are Paradise Lost and Paradise Lost 2, both are incredible examinations of one of the most bizarre murder cases in American history. If you haven't already, you should most definitely Netflix them.

After the showing, the director was there to answer questions. And, surprisingly enough, so was Darryl Hunt himself, and two of his lawyers. This was the first time Hunt had ever been out of the United States. In both the film and in person, he was a soft-spoken, bashful guy, and rather than dwell on the injustices he suffered, he has devoted his new free life to a foundation to help other wrongly accused prisoners.

A crowd formed outside the theatre, as people wanted to talk to Darryl Hunt and mingle with the rest of the Artsy Fartsy festival crowd. I spotted a short older gentlemen with spiky gray hair and a scraggy beard, and immediately recognized him as actor John Hurt. So I walked up to him and said, "Excuse me, Mr. Hurt," and then put my hand up under my shirt and started pushing on the front, screaming, "Alien! There's an alien inside me!" Then I pretended the alien had burst through my chest, and threw myself to the ground, gurgling and flailing and spitting.

Okay, I didn't really do that. But I'm sure he would have thought it was hilarious! I was too chicken to approach him, so I mostly just pointed and poked the person nearest me and said, "Hey, that's John Hurt."

Film Fleadh

2006-07-11T13:12:00.000-07:00

This week is the Galway Film Fleadh (Film Festival), and I hope to snag a few screenings in the evenings. It's tough to tear myself away from the spectacle of the collegiate binge drinkers surrounding me, but I will make the sacrifice for art.

Tonight I screened (see, I used the word "screened", a term us Fleadhers use) a film called "The Wind That Shakes The Barley". It's a sympathetic portrayal of the "old" Irish Republican Army during the time before and after the Anglo-Irish Treaty of 1921 that established the Irish Free State. Cillian Murphy is excellent as a medical student on his way to London to become a doctor, who gets caught up in the struggles of his country and decides to fight alongside his brothers.

"The Wind That Shakes The Barley" won the Palme d'or at the 2006 Cannes Film Festival. That prize will probably get the film a limited American release, but it's probably too bleak to find an audience there. Here in Europe, "Barley" is causing quite the ruckus, especially amongst the British press who are lambasting the film and its British director for portraying all Englishmen as bloodthirsty, sadistic murderers. While I am sure some rather unthinkable atrocities did occur in that bloody time, I did think the film went overboard in its zeal to cast the British as villains of almost unspeakable brutality.

The acting and photography was excellent across the board, and it felt authentically Irish. It was predominantly filmed in county Cork, using as many locals as possible to fill the minor roles. It's a stark, but exceedingly well-made film, I'm glad I saw it, and I'm especially glad I saw it here.

The Cliffs of Moher

2006-07-10T02:02:00.000-07:00

I love this picture. It encapsulates one of the unyielding truisms of the human experience: Nobody Gives A Shit.

Click here to see the full set of pictures from my bus trip of the Burrens, including the Aillwee Caves and the Cliffs of Moher.

MY WEEKEND BY NUMBERS:

Number of daylight hours in Galway in summertime: 17

Number of hours it rained in Galway on Saturday: 17

Number of hours it rained in Galway on Sunday: 1

Hours spent watching the Wimbledon women's singles finals: 2.5

Commercials the BBC played before, during, and after the match: Zero

Hours I awoke earlier than I needed to Sunday morning, due to an alarm clock snafu resulting from my own stupidity: 2

Showers taken and bowls of cereal consumed before I realized it was 7:15am, not 9:15am: 1 each

Total number of hours of Sunday's bus trip through the countryside south of Galway known as Boireann (the Burren, or "great rock"): 8

Total number of empty seats on the bus: Zero

Number of librarians from Arizona sitting next to me on the bus: 1

Age of the Aillwee Caves that formed amongst the limestone hills of the Burren: 350 million years

Age of the tourist shop that formed amongst the entrance to the Caves: 28 years

Number of years ago bears were hunted to extinction in Ireland: 1,000

Percentage of bears, according to Stephen Colbert, that are "godless killing machines": 100%

Height of the Cliffs of Moher: 400 feet

Approximate number of tourists at the Cliffs of Moher: 394 bajillion

Number of tourists that left their empty plastic bottled water containers near the edge of the cliff, that I wished I caught them doing so I could call them "douchebags" to their face: 2

The number of Claritin pills I have consumed since arriving in Ireland: 10 (and counting)

Cost of one (1) load of wash using the machines at my apartment complex: €2.50

Cost of one (1) use of the the dryer: €2.50

Grand total of one (1) load of wash, not counting laundry detergent: €5.00 (approximately $6.41)

Total number of laundry cycles I plan to do while in Ireland so I don't go bankrupt: not many

Wish You Were Here/Dogs

2006-07-08T03:23:00.000-07:00

I realize the title for this post is the second (and third) Pink Floyd reference in a row. There’s a method at work here, so wait for it.

Also, here’s a whole mess o’ new pictures from the past few days.

Thursday night I decided to be sociable and hang out with The Kids. They were planning to head down to the city centre and do a wee bit o’ pub-hopping, and I tagged along. We started at a quiet place called Richardson’s, right off Eyre Square. The plan was to meet up with Elaine, the Galway student mentioned in a previous post. Her boyfriend was in some kind of punk band that were playing in the upstairs room at Richardson’s. We arrived early, so we decided to hang out in the downstairs area for a bit.

The downstairs area of this public house was more my speed anyway. It was quiet, casual, had genuine Irish atmosphere and a giant painting of Nora Barnacle on the wall. They also had a guy playing the guitar and singing classic rock songs in his Gaelic accent. We were there an hour or so before The Kids discovered that getting into the punk show upstairs was going to be €6, and I was highly relieved when none of them wanted to pony up to watch music that, frankly, sounded dated by 1981. They decided to vamoose, but at that moment 3G (Gaelic Guitar Guy) started singing Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here”. I asked the group to stay and listen, as one just does not leave in the middle of one of the greatest songs ever written. They were cool, and obliged the old guy.

On our way to the next destination, we crossed a bridge over the Corrib River that had the most moths I’ve ever seen in one place. Seriously, this bridge, it was crazy with the moths.

Next we arrived at Róisin Dubh, just as the sky was finally darkening (which occurs around 10:30pm in the summer here). This place was significantly more crowded than Richardson’s, and had a small stage in the back. We watched a couple of mediocre rock quartets churn through some basic chords, and I turned down offers to take home their free CDs. From there it was on to the King’s Head, which was exponentially more crowded. At this point, it was getting on to that time of night when everyone else is drunk and loud and clumsy and ugly, so my roommate Trevor and myself decided to call it a night and walk back home. Socializing accomplished.

Trevor is an interesting guy, I enjoy talking with him. He’s a graduate student from upstate New York, and like myself, he is a Phish enthusiast. It’s nice to have someone to talk to about music. He recommended a few bands he thought I might like, and I made him promise to give moe and God Street Wine a chance. He even listened to my theories about mid-70s era Rush, and I didn’t get the impression he was only feigning interest. He’s got a Mexican girlfriend who lives in Ensenada. Apparently, G.U.* is not a concern for Trevor. He’s an intense guy, and seems comfortable going his own way in life. I can dig it.

I spent a chilly, wet Friday night at the dog track, a short walk from my apartment. I’ve never seen greyhounds race in person. Zoooom, they go fast! They even had that little mechanical rabbit that shoots around the side of the track that the dogs chase, like in the cartoons. They had signs all over the place saying cameras were prohibited, so I had to take my pictures surreptitiously. I suppose I understand why they don’t want you taking snapshots, you never know how al Queda will use Irish dogracing technology against us.

EPILOGUE: The song playing on the speaker when I went to the bathroom at the Greyhound racing track? “Wish You Were Here”. No shit.

* (Geographically Undesirable)

If ya don't eat yer meat, ya can't have any pudding!

2006-07-06T01:53:00.000-07:00

I haven't been a full-time student in 13 years. So, I'm enjoying the novelty of walking to school each morning, sitting in class, and engaging my full attention in what the instructors have to teach me.

The classes are a mixture of lectures about dead Irish writers and readings from breathing Irish writers. We have read a couple of stories from James Joyce's "Dubliners", one of which I wrote about earlier. We've absorbed George Moore, W.B. Yeats, Lady Gregory, Patrick Kavanaugh, and more to come. I've enjoyed fascinating (well, fascinating to me) lectures on the evolution of Irish theater from its roots in communal mummer shows, as well as the rise of Irish literature written in the English language, and the cultural impact. Could true Irish literature be written in the language of the foreign aristocracy?

We've had two living Irish poets come in and give readings, and both of them are also teachers here at NUI Galway. Louis de Paor writes all his poety in Irish, partly to try and keep this dying language from disappearing altogether. Pretty interesting guy, and the way he looks and talks is pretty much the archetype of what you would think a Irish poet would look and talk like. Similar to Joyce, he lived away from Ireland for a long time, yet despite being away, he found his work still gravitating towards his homeland. Unlike Joyce, Louis returned to Ireland to live.

Rita Ann Higgins spoke to us yesterday, and she is the rare person that is actually from Galway. From the poems she read, I got the sense that she is obsessed with isolation, as her work is filled with images of borders, fences, big intimidating dogs, and keeping people out (or in). She spoke of the current "wave of greed" that has swept Ireland since the economic resurgence. The funniest thing she said in her Irish accent: "Cab drivers are so fooking nosy."

Nil Nil

2006-07-05T04:01:00.000-07:00

Did you know they are playing some kinda football tournament here in Europe?

I've been watching a bit of the World Cup since arriving here. My roommates were viewing a match a few days ago, so I stopped for a while to watch. I've also glanced at it on the pub televisions as I've been wandering around the city centre. The score is always zero zero (or nil nil, as they say across The Pond). It would seem to me that if these are really the best players from the best countries in the world, they would score more. But apparently, the players these teams field are the best defenders, which keeps the score low. Lower than low, actually, the score is nothing.

All the games I seem to catch are decided by penalty kicks at the end. What a crock. You train yourself for four years to compete in this tournament, play your heart out for 2 hours, and your team loses because your goalie decided to dive left instead of right to block the penalty kick? That's how England got knocked out of the World Cup. Sorry, but that's stupid. In most every other sport I can think of, ties are broken by doing the same thing you were doing the whole game. In football and hockey, you keep playing the same way you played before, and if time runs out, it's a tie. In baseball and basketball, you keep playing until somebody wins, goddammit! In soccer, you ignore everything that's happened in the last 120 minutes and play this separate mini-game that seems to have little to do with the skills of the players who just played the whole game. Bah. That's like playing nine innings of a baseball game, then deciding a tie by having a bunting competition.

I don't know if I could ever be a big soccer fan. Watching it makes me nervous, because their always leaping for the ball head-first. Don't they know they can knock their brains out of their head doing that? I also don't think soccer will ever become a major televised sport in America, because there are no breaks for commercials. All the major American sports (baseball, football, basketball) have commercial breaks built into the game itself. There is not a single major television network in America that's going to show 30 minutes of a match straight without a single break to evangelize to us about how much better our lives would be if we would only purchase heaping handfuls of Sprite and Cialis.

My favorite part of watching the World Cup in Ireland are the commentators who come on after the game. On American TV, post-game commentators are always perfectly chiseled gods with skin of the smoothest marble and each hair individually placed upon their perfect head. On Irish TV, you get these four cranky geezers whose mean age looks to be 70 and who appear to be pickled in Jameson Irish whiskey, grousing about corner kicks and whatnot. Those guys rock!

America Sings

2006-07-05T01:50:00.000-07:00

"And like a dream dressed in white
Fast as a trick of the light
You see the vision of every man"
- Spock's Beard, "4th of July"

(now, cue the big American patriotic "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay" music)

How was everyone's 4th? The Irish don't give too much of a shite about Independence Day, but the University was nice enough to give us visiting students an American-style BBQ, with burgers, hot dogs, cole slaw (John's favorite!) and beverages. For me, some baked beans would have made it perfect, but it was still very cool of them to put this gathering together and feed us. We did get some strange looks from Irish students on their way to the campus gym, probably wondering what the hell the deal was with all the American flags hanging about, and why they weren't getting free food.

I spent some time chatting with Elaine and Leon, a couple of Irish students who go to the University here. I tried to dig good information out of them about the fun, non-touristy things to do in town, the good places to go in the city centre, and they were very obliging. They encouraged me to try and make it to a hurling match if I can. Hurling is the national sport here in Ireland, it's kind of like a cross between soccer and baseball, and everyone has a bat. I asked about how to get to places like Cork and Dublin, and unfortunately, my options are somewhat limited. The train system here in Ireland is limited and expensive, the only train running out of Galway goes to Dublin. If I wanted to go to Cork, I would have to either rent a car (extremely expensive) or take the 4-hour bus ride. I would like to get to Cork if I can, as I know through my mother's geneological investigations that part of my ancestry came from that southern Irish county.

Connemara

2006-07-03T11:54:00.000-07:00

“Well, then. Now. I'll begin at the beginnin'. A fine soft day in the spring, it was, when the train pulled into Castletown, three hours late as usual, and himself got off. He didn't have the look of an American tourist at all about him. Not a camera on him; what was worse, not even a fishin' rod.” – opening lines of the 1952 film The Quiet Man

O’Neachtain Tours offers full-day excursions by bus into the various districts in the west of Ireland, and I decided to spend my Sunday touring the part of County Galway known as Connemara. Like John Wayne in the move referenced above, I did not have a fishin’ rod, but I did have a camera, and you can take a gander at the photos I snapped here.

Galway City is great, but really, it’s become the Irvine of Ireland. (I’ll write more about this revelation on another day.) Heading off into the north and west into Connemara, I got to see much more of what I typically imagine Ireland to be like: endless green hills, shaggy mountain sheep munching the grass at the edges of the thin roads, ivy-covered pubs with gray-haired blokes hanging about outside with their pipe and their Guinness … and the bogs! Ach, one cannot truly experience Connemara without a genuine loving appreciation for the flat, murky bogs. As I sat on the bus and watched the bogs from the window, I was reminded of that classic Seinfeld episode where Jerry and George steal the limo and Jerry is forced to pretend he’s Irish: “Tis a beautiful country though; lush rolling hills, and the peat, ah the peat.”

Ah, the peat indeed. Peat fans really owe it to themselves to take the bus trip out to Connemara. Our driver, an affable chap named Peter Kennedy, told us how the farmers would create all kinds of uses for the peat, including distilling it into rather a potent spirit.

Peter narrated throughout the entire journey, and he did a fantastic job weaving in tidbits about the history, geology, politics, and mythology of the Connemara area. Two very famous films were shot in this region: The Quiet Man, and the 1990 Jim Sheridan film The Field, starring Richard Harris in the Oscar-nominated role that allowed him a brief career comeback before his death. We passed by a famous stone bridge that is now called, with straightforward creativity, “The Quiet Man Bridge”, where the John Wayne character dreams of his youth. In the tiny village of Leenane, we saw the pub where scenes from The Field were lensed. Leenane is also famous for being situated at the mouth of Ireland’s only fjord, Killary Harbour. Little did I know when I woke up Sunday morning that later that day I would see my very first fjord in person. Such is the wonder of travel.

The centerpiece of the Connemara trip is a 2-hour stop at Kylemore Abbey and Gardens. The Benedictine nuns have been residents of Kylemore since 1920, when they had to flee their centuries-old home in France because of World War One. The nuns run a girls’ boarding school, but they are planning to close the school in 2010 due to the lack of new nuns to run the place. Girls today, they don’t so much want to become nuns.

Kylemore Abbey used to be Kylemore Castle. It was built as the residence of a sickeningly rich Brit named Mitchell Henry. He loved gardens, and built an intricate one next to the Abbey that is still maintained today. (Take a gander at the pictures to see this extraordinary place.)

Our driver, Peter, joked that if any of the young ladies didn’t return to the bus from our two-hour stop, we would just assume that they were persuaded to join the Benedictine order and stay at Kylemore Abbey as a nun. It was a good gag, and Peter was obviously fond of it, as he made variations on this same joke about 57 times both before and after the Kylemore stop. Ol’ Peter is obviously a proponent of a universal truism: the key to comedy is repetition.

Towards the end of our journey, as we approached Galway from the west, Peter invited anyone to come to the front of the bus and sing songs into his microphone. Two women obliged, one who sang a couple of traditional Irish ditties, and an American who sang “Amazing Grace”. Despite my occasionally karaokeish tendencies, I decided not to partake in the singalong. As a finale, Peter the driver sang the classic Bing Crosby-crooned “Galway Bay”, a song that I’m willing to bet 5 euros that my dad already knows all the lyrics for.

Next weekend I’m going to take another bus tour, this time to the Cliffs of Moher.

And the angels didst descend from the heavens …

2006-07-03T11:00:00.000-07:00

… and gaveth their crispy bounty to the most grateful of God’s creations.

Forsooth! My friends, I have discovered they totally have CRISPY M&Ms here! I used to eat these little buggers by the bucketload until some product marketing doofus somewhere within the M&M Mars conglomonster decided to yank them off U.S. shelves. But today, I discover, they are sold here in bonny ol’ Ireland! This alone was worth the price of the plane ticket.

Ireland = best. country. evar.

Get Thy Bearings

2006-07-01T14:12:00.000-07:00

Okay, I've got this whole Galway thing down now. I set forth upon my own walking tour of the area today, and I feel comfortable with getting myself around.

I started by ambling up a well-worn path along the Corrib River, passing a few ruins along the way. (I love ruins. I wish we had ruins just laying about in Mission Viejo. Europe's got ruins up to here, maybe they can lend us some.) I cut across some sporting fields, then back down one of the main thoroughfares towards the University. Then it was south to the bay, investigating its rocky margins and hoping the menacing-looking sky wouldn't unleash a torrent on my head. (It didn't. The clouds spit down erratically, as if to say, "We could totally go deluge on your ass, but we just don't feel like it right now.") Then, back to the city centre, navigating the currents of the prodigious Saturday evening crowds.

In all, a great day. My dogs are barking, but it was worth it. Here are the pictorial particulars.

(Hey, if that link to the pictures doesn't work, could someone let me know? Thanks.)

Money, it's a hit

2006-07-01T11:17:00.000-07:00

I bet this is what James Bond's wallet looks like.

The Dead

2006-07-01T02:28:00.000-07:00

"I'm learnding!" -Ralph Wiggum

Yesterday we had our first lecture, and it was an excellent presentation by a professor named Hubert McDermott, who has been teaching at the National University in Galway for 41 years.

Professor McDermott talked to us about one of the most famous short stories ever written, James Joyce’s “The Dead”, a story that also has a Galway connection. Joyce’s wife was a woman named Nora Barnacle, and Joyce wrote that the day they met, when he was 23 and she was 19, was the greatest day of his life. Nora was born here in Galway on Bowling Green, and was raised on Nuns Island by her grandmother. She eventually moved to Dublin, where she met Joyce, but before she did, she fell in love with a beautiful young man named Michael Bodkin. Bodkin died when he was only 17, which is one of the main reasons Nora moved away. Michael Bodkin is buried here in Galway (I’m going to see if I can find his grave), and he has a roundabout named after him just down the road from where I’m staying.

In the beginning of their relationship, Joyce always felt that the memory of Michael Bodkin was obstructing his connection to Nora, that he could never compete with this idealized ghost. One of the reasons he wrote “The Dead” was to attempt to exorcize this spectre, to free himself from trying to compete with a dead man for his wife’s attentions. Joyce and Barnacle left Dublin soon after they met and rarely returned to Ireland, as Joyce felt it was a dead country and Dublin was a dead city, full of the living unliving. “The Dead” imagines what life would be like for himself and his wife if they had stayed in Dublin, living dead lives, eternally haunted by this ghost of his wife’s first love.

EDIT: I've added this picture of the roundabout named after poor Michael Bodkin. The buildings seen in the background are Gort na Coiribe.

I Am One Million Years Old

2006-07-01T02:14:00.000-07:00

Most of the people on this trip with me are college students, and it seems most of them already know each other. Of the 30 or so students in this program, I am not the oldest, there are two women that look to be in their 50s, but being around all these kids is, shall we say, not what I'm used to in my daily experience.

My roommates, James and Trevor, have been pretty cool, but they are definitely part of a clique that already knew each other from SDSU. I am the outsider, but that's fine, I'm used to it. They did invite me to head into Galway City Centre the first night I arrived, but I was so brain-fuzzy from sitting on planes, trains, and automobiles that I couldn't contribute much. I did find their conversation fascinating, though, as the priorities of college students are far different than people who have been in the world for a while.

So, the Kids in the writing program here seem nice, but tend to close off in their own little groups. That's okay, I have other priorities. Today I intend to go exploring.

Gort na Coiribe

2006-06-30T13:54:00.000-07:00

Gort na Coiribe is the student housing community I am staying at. You pronounce it "gort na CARB-ey", in case you want to do so out loud. Right now. No, really, say it. Say it!

This place looks brand new. It's very clean and quiet, two adjectives rarely associated with student housing. I am sharing a townhouse with two other guys, James and Trevor. (My brother always used to have roommates named Trevor too. Weird.) The first floor is a common area, with a small living room, TV, and kitchen. The second floor has James' and Trevor's rooms, and I have the third floor all to myself. Score! There is another room up here, but it's empty, so the third floor bathroom is my own private domain.

I noticed that my bathroom sink has the water temperature colors reversed: blue has the hot water, red has the cold. This lesson was learned rather painfully, but I only needed to learn it once. Is that an Ireland thing, or a confused plumber thing? Is it related to driving on the left side of the road? I have a quest to discover the answer! Also, the shower is hilarious, the water comes out of this big white plastic box that sounds like it has a lawnmower engine inside. I've always been a guy who likes hot showers, but these Irish must LOVE their hot showers, because the temperature gauge on the shower goes from 1 to 9, and even on the lowest "1" setting I could probably bring a handful of uncooked spaghetti in with me and by the time I was done all it would need is some marinara and grated parmesan.

Gort na Coiribe is in a terrific location, a short walk to the University and to Galway City Centre. And right across the street is a Dunnes Stores. "Dunnes" must be the Gaelic word for "Walmart", because this place is ginormous. I walked over there to pick up some groceries (bring your own plastic bags, or else they charge you 15 eurocents each!) but they also have clothes, furniture, a cafe, pharmacy, record store, everything.

So, a surprising thumbs-up on the digs.

Here's my room, and the view from my window:

Plop

2006-06-29T15:18:00.000-07:00

I have arrived in Ireland.

Very green.

I am exhausted.

More later.

Sleep now.

Ériuland Awaits

2006-06-27T13:58:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I leave for Ireland, where I will be studying for a month at the National University of Ireland in Galway.

This is something I've been planning for over a year, and now the day has arrived.

I'm mostly going for the cultural experience, because really, how much more do I need to learn? I already know lots about Ireland. For one, it's one of those countries that have two names. Most people call it Ireland, but there are a few weirdos there who call it Éire in some made-up elf language. Me, I like to call the place "West England", and intend to do so at every pub I visit there.

The name "Ireland" comes from some drunken Anglo-Saxons who couldn't properly pronounce the name of Ériu, one of the patron goddesses of the Emerald Isle. (You pronounce it /ˈeːrʲu/. How hard is that?)

Galway sits in the center of the west coast. In that fake Tolkein language some people use there, Galway is also known as Cathair na Gaillimhe. The city is sometimes nicknamed "The City of the Tribes", because the city used to be ruled by fourteen merchant families (known as tribes). I'll be staying at a new student housing residence near the University, which is likely where I'll be posting my next entry after sitting on airplanes for a day.

I'll catch you all in the land of Ériu.

(If I see her, I'll say hello to Galadriel for all of you.)

In The Arms Of Nature

2006-06-26T18:37:00.000-07:00

So I was reviewing my site here (is there such a thing as too much green? Heavens, no). And just out of curiosity, I clicked the "Next Blog" button in the upper right corner. And it took me to this blog called, "En Brazos de la Natura". It was full of naked womens! Sitting in trees! And you could see their boobs! Bwa whaaaa? What the hell kind of internet is this, anyway??

Whatever you do, don't go searching for that other site. Because, you know, mine's better.

A Lumpen Pile of Blog

2006-06-26T13:13:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure I approve of the word "blog".

It sounds a bit like a Victorian-era venereal disease. "Oy, moocher! Careful with that dollymop hangin' around the drag, last fortnight she gave me the blog!" Or else it might be something your slovenly neighbor might leave a pile of in his driveway for months. "Is that dipshit ever going to clean up his mound of blog?"

In preparation for my own pile of blog, I have been reading other people's blogs to get a sense of what's expected of me. Apparently, the purpose of this thing is to describe in excruciating detail why my opinions are superior to those of every person who has ever (or will ever) live or die on this planet or any other. No sweat, I do that in my head every day.

If this first post is any indication, just think of the thick, creamy-frosting-filled brilliance to come. I'm really excited for you, that you get to read it all. And if you don't agree with my viewpoints, that's fine, go ahead and leave a comment so I can mock and berate you.

No matter what you think of me or my mound of blog, I'm sure we can both agree on one thing: we're both already sick of the word "blog".

(P.S. I just did a spell check of this post, and Blogspot's spellchecker tool does not recognize the word "blog". Who knew there was such irony on the internets?)