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If someone put a gun to my head and told me to sum up Dublin at this very moment, I'd go with this:

Imagine that an Irish person was telling you this. Insert brogue. "So I was on the bus, like, going past Grafton Street. Absolutely gorgeous day, but the sun was just after going behind a cloud, and it was starting to get grey. There was this group of knackers on the bus, probably just past their Junior Certs, absolute jonners. They start commenting on the sun going down and then one of then raises her fat little fist in the air, extends her middle finger, and to the sun says in her little skanger voice 'faggot.' Like, she called the sun a faggot for going behind a cloud. It's the sun! It's what the sun does! Ah, jonners."

So if someone asks me to sum up Dublin, it will be the time that a teenage girl wearing a tracksuit with overly straight hair and too much eyeliner raises her middle finger to the sky and calls the sun a faggot.

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(Ms. O on Jun 23, 2008 3:12 AM) If someone put a gun to your head? Are you missing Oakland, girl?

In other news, I (randomly) bought a ticket to go to Tokyo in nine days. I'm very excited, as I'm a big fan of ramen. However, this means I won't be able to see Morrissey when he plays here at the end of the month. Sigh.

Today I was talking to a friend of mine about places that would be good to live. He ruled out a few, and then I said "But what about London?" Pause. "Giddy London?"

"Ah Jaysus. Ya fookin' Yanks." It's really a shame that more people don't appreciate my sporadic interjections of Moz lyrics.

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(sheila on Jul 1, 2008 12:03 AM) i saw morrissey a few months ago. neener!

I don't know what happened. I've always liked London, I've even loved London before. Over a year ago I secured a visa for myself, which was one of the hardest things I've ever done--it involved compiling over 100 pages of original documents and affidavits--and then never moving. It wasn't an easy breakup for me, but I thought Dublin was a more stable relationship; Dublin would appreciate me more.

But then after seeing London again, so dashing, so handsome, I've started to reconsider. Things haven't been going well with Dublin for the last little while. We don't have any serious problems, but it's those day-to-day issues that are the ones that I can't handle. It's the things that I initially loved that are starting to irk me. It's too small. It's too laid back. There's no Ikea. We're just not as compatible as I once let myself believe.

But then I start to wonder--is this about me or Dublin? Why haven't I lasted anywhere, settled down? Since leaving my parents' house at 17, I've moved to New York, to California, to New York, to California, to Dublin, to California, to Dublin. I've never lasted more than a few years each time. Is my inability to geographically commit an endearing foible or can I just not keep my wanderlust in my pants?

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On this trip, it was a day in the People's Park in Berkeley. In general, I sneer at hippies, but on this day, they made me nostalgic. In Dublin, naked men in their sixties with tattoos do not smoke marijuana in public parks. In Berkeley, they do not only this, but at the same time they bend over and do stretches so their old man balls jiggle and they have looks of proud contentment on their faces. When my eyes weren't arrested by the senior testes, they were focused on the stage where a quadriplegic with a stick in his mouth was pointing to letters on a chart and a woman next to him was reading his words aloud.

I A-M am, I am, H-A-P happy, I am happy T-O to B-E, I am happy to be, H-E here, I am happy to be here, I- in T-H the P-E-O-P, I am happy to be here in the People, P-A-R-K, T-O-D-A, I am happy to be here in the People's Park today! Weak applause all around.

The quadriplegic, as it turns out, is running for president of the USA. (Watch his YouTube video here) Between the dogs named after characters in Greek mythology led around by gutterpunks with tattooed faces, the overwhelming smell of patchouli and pot, the mentally ill man screaming randomly and thrusting his middle finger high into the air, the sagging, naked men, the overweight lesbians waving pink flags of solidarity, the dreadlocks, oh so many dreadlocks, the pot brownies and politics that didn't include Hillary, Obama or McCain, I thought to myself, welcome to California.

But really, it was the weather that got me on this trip. I've been in Ireland for over a year, and I can remember one really nice, sunny day. Sunny enough for a sunburn almost. This isn't saying much as I get pink if I stand too close to a toaster. But there was a sunny day last summer. June 9th, I think. After that, it rained 70 days in a row, and that was my summer. These last two weeks in California have been painfully gorgeous. The weather is the one thing that I think will stop me from staying in Dublin forever. I miss the sun.

Other California moments. I stayed in the Tenderloin which is rather strangely, the home of all of the mentally ill people in the country as well as a large portion of its crack, and most of the nicest hotels in San Francisco. I saw a man walking around in a fur coat, a woman sitting on the sidewalk trying to slyly smoke crack with a coat covering her head, another woman sitting on the curb, stripping wire that trailed seven or eight feet behind her, a man sleeping contentedly in a puddle of his own urine, crack dealers standing on corners five deep, a woman standing in an intersection, eyes rolling crazily all over the place as if they hoped to escape this cracked out, insane body that held them captive as she gyrated her hips wildly, hoping to pick up a date, a few dollars for more rock, completely unaware that her tube top had long since slipped to far below her navel and that her nipples were also wall-eyed.

There's a game they play in the Tenderloin called "That's Not a Crack Rock." When you see someone crawling on the ground, picking up any little scrap of dust, jibs of dirt, rocks stuck under people's shoes and then smoking it, they are a contestant. I once saw an interview with the woman whose life the movie Rush was based on, and she talked about how as a undercover police officer, it was the moment when she found herself crawling on the floor of a hotel room searching for jibs of crack that she realized that she had hit her bottom. In the Tenderloin, they hit their bottoms before lunchtime.

When I was on the BART train a man walked on wearing a sandwich board that said in two-inch high letters "THERE'S POOP IN THE MEAT." He was passing out flyers for a vegan action organization. Next to me, a man popped out his jewel-encrusted gold grill, and meticulously cleaned it with his BART card, nonplussed.

Later that night, as I drove through the 24 hour Taco Bell at 2 am while listening to 2Pac, I thought to myself, now this is California.

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(clare on May 27, 2008 3:06 AM) in NY-f'n-C, they call "That's Not a Crack Rock" ghostbustin'. it usually happens around dawn or so.

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When I was in elementary school, I found my two favorite authors the same way. Both of them had covers drawn by Edward Gorey, a gothic-style illustrator who is best known for his morbid work detailing the gruesome deaths of children. We had an anthology of his work at home, which I would pore over, aghast, and have since stolen from my parents.

John Bellairs and Joan Aiken both had Edward Gorey drawings on their covers, and I bought both of their books initially based on this fact. As a hopeful writer, this sort of frightens me, because I've been told that writers have almost no input on the covers of their books. Especially for youth, the covers are more important than anything else. John Bellairs wrote spooky mysteries about orphaned boys exploring gothic New England and there was a fair amount of magic involved, but spooky magic, not geeky magic. I re-read two of them while I was home, and they weren't as great as I had remembered, but were still pretty wonderful. I remember in around fourth grade that I used to come home from school and make myself a pot of Top Ramen and read John Bellairs. I had some theory about these two things going well with one another. Despite slightly matured taste in both literature and foodstuff, I can't say that I was wrong.

Joan Aiken was my favorite author as a child, hands down. So much so that when I was thinking of moving to London, I had a serious look at real estate in Battersea because of her book titled Black Hearts in Battersea. I'm not kidding. Aiken wrote fiction for children that imagined an alternate history of Britain under the rule of James II. As a California-educated tot, this was my first and practically only exposure to the English monarchy, and was very confused in later life to learn that the Hanoverians had won and that the Romans never invaded the Americas.

In retrospect, Aiken's books were so rich and wonderful that I'm shocked that so few people my age had ever heard of her. Maybe it's an America thing, but I've never met anyone that has read her books. In fifth grade I got a copy of The Stolen Lake and after hurdling through it, wrote on the inside cover, "The Best Book in the World" and my name with a flourish. I even went on our local radio station's book show, on the week that they featured kid's books to review The Stolen Lake. I remember having my mother coach me beforehand on the pronunciation of "Aiken" and "Dido Twite," the main character. In my head, I had been calling her Dee-do.

I've re-read Aiken's books, and I still love them. Just a few years ago she released two more in the same series, The Wolves Chronicles and somehow I found out and got them. I pre-ordered the last one. I didn't even realize that Aiken was still alive, but was delighted that more of these books were coming out. It was only this week, when going through my childhood books and doing some subsequent Googling that I found out that she had passed away before the book I had pre-ordered was released. This made me sad. I loved her books so much that I wish I had written her a letter telling her so, or sent her a recording of my radio plug for the series. Somehow I managed to write to Corey Haim and join his fan club, but not to Joan Aiken.

During my time-wasting, I also found a picture of Aiken, and she looks very different that I think I would have imagined, but absolutely perfect. She looks like a tough-talking, no-nonsense English woman who would write books for children that were absolutely beyond their comprehension and yet completely and utterly absorbing and thrilling. I'm going to read The Stolen Lake again, and then on to my next favorite, Dido and Pa.

I just looked up this series on Amazon and saw that although most are out of print in the US, they are all currently in print in the UK. Which is, of course, great news for nerds like me. Most interestingly, some of theme appear to be really popular on this side of the pond. The Wolves of Willoughby Chase is even taught in schools over here! The sad news? They've given them all new, matching covers and done away with the Edward Gorey drawings that had originally lured me into the series.

Links:
Wikipedia - Edward Gorey
Wikipedia - Joan Aiken
Wikipedia - John Bellairs
Guardian Article about Joan Aiken
Black Hearts in Battersea
The Stolen Lake
The Wolves Chronicles
Dido and Pa
The Wolves of Willoughby Chase

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When I was in third grade or so, I read Cheaper by the Dozen. I remember that I picked it because the reading level was fifth or six grade, so I thought it would make me look smart. Even at eight, I was an asshole.

I loved that book so much. I remember when I read the follow-up, Belles on Their Toes, there's a post script that says that one of the dozen children, Mary, died of diphtheria at the age of six and how horrified I was. The descriptions of the bobs and 20s fashions fascinated me. At the, I hated my brother and loved the idea of having a bunch of older brothers who wanted to help make me incredibly popular.

I read all of the Nancy Drew series at the library, and there were dozens and dozens. I read the originals and even started into the new series that made Nancy a little too modern for my taste. I remember her hair being described as "titian," a word I've never heard before or since.

I think I probably read read every middle grade book in the library. When I think about how much I read then, as compared to now, my head spins (not literally). Now, I read a book every six months or so. This is mainly because Google Reader has taken over all of my free time, filling it with tales of nipple slips and other salacious celebrity gossip.

Other books that I read during that time were delivered to my house in big brown grocery bags from the daughter of my parents' friends. Vida was older, cooler, and had new wave haircuts. I read every book she gave me. This was the path to coolness. One was The War Between the Pitiful Teachers and the Splendid Kids by Stanley Kiesel. This was the most unbelievable book ever, and there isn't even a listing for this guy on Wikipedia. I'm bringing this back to Dublin to re-read, because I suspect that much of it was beyond me. It was the darkest, most ridiculous piece of children's literature, ever.

(Big Alice is a girl who was raised in the wild by wolves or dogs or something, but has come back to help the kids win the war against the adults. Mr. Bullotad is the muscled, bullying gym teacher. Here, they are in an epic battle that Big Alice is winning.)

excerpt:

At some period in the past, during the times that Big Alice was given the privilege of participating in human, cultural affairs, she had been exposed to an Appreciation course. That experience had left an indelible mark on her mind.
"Na-chin-skee! Na-chin-skee!" she abruptly began to yell.
Mr. Bullotad was red as a beet and gulping great breaths of air. "What? What?" Mr. B. gasped. He was ready to collapse. "Na-chin-skee what?
"Na-chin-skee! Do Na-chin-skee!"
"Oh my God!" cried Mr. Bullotad. I never saw Nijinsky!"
"Na-chin-skee! Do Na-chin-skee!" continued Big Alice, moving closer.
"I never saw him, I tell you!" screamed Mr. Bullotad, tears in his eyes.
Big Alice opened her mouth and displayed her canines.
Mr. Bullotad executed a beautiful entrechat.

endexcerpt

* Didn't know what an entrechat is? It's a jump in ballet during which the dancer crosses the legs a number of times, alternately back and forth. I remember looking this up in the dictionary and giggling wildly when I read this book.

Absolutely effing hilarious. And as usual, I didn't actually get to the two authors that I had started this post intending to write about, but I'm too sleepy right now. To be continued.

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(Liz Wing on May 8, 2008 7:27 PM) Look me up if you're visiting SF sometime soon.

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(Lina on May 6, 2008 2:06 AM) Kammene, I'm delighted to hear that because now that brings my grand total up to 6 readers per week!! Once I get to 20, I'm going to start posting regularly. Tell everyone you know. :)

(kammene on May 2, 2008 10:34 PM) You're an amazing writer.Literally. I've been reading your stuff for about 6 months now, I've read archives too, i can't stop. :D

The last time I was in New York, my brother and grandmother and I took an hour-long cab ride to Lollo's assisted living facility. After 45 minutes, my grandmother insisted we leave. As we walked out my grandmother said acidicly, "Get enough compliments in there?" I'm not sure if this is a sign that she genuinely believes that compliments directed towards her grandchildren are an awful thing, or if some small part of her realizes that perhaps she should be the one that thinks my brother and I are amazing. What's particularly nice about Lollo loving me is that as a non-relative, she doesn't have to. As we were getting back into the cab to take us straight into rush hour Manhattan traffic, I realized that if my actual grandmother were just a friend of the family, I would never make this journey for her.

Wisdom is meant to be passed down from generation to generation, wizened old women telling the offspring of their offspring knowledge they have picked up along their journey, secrets they have learned to lead a better life. On our last visit, I was confessing how I used the New Yorker as a barometer of my worth--the more I had piled around the house unread, the more filled with self-loathing I become. I rarely have less than three waiting insistently at my kitchen table, and have, at times, it pains me to confess, gone up to as many as eleven. I half-heartedly try and blame this more on the international mail system that often brings two or three of the weekly issues on the same day than any shortcomings on my part. Lollo raised her non-existent eyebrows at me and said in a strong Austrian accent, "Something I have learned is that you don't have to read every article of every New Yorker. I used to try when I was young. There just isn't enough time."

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(rachel on Apr 21, 2008 10:17 PM) You're lucky she's giving you compliments! When I was in my teens she was relentlessly commenting on my cellulite and general bad grooming. It might have been justified, but how was it her business??

--Lifehacker is like, the best site ever. I realized this long before I realized that it was created by an awesome girl who used to sit a few desks down from me at my old job. This has made me depressed. Why? Because I'm bitterly jealous.

--When I heard that Heavy Metal Parking Lot was being released on DVD, I was delighted. (Heavy Metal Parking Lot is a 1986 documentary that interviews fans in a parking lot before a Judas Priest concert.) Then I heard about Neil Diamond Parking Lot and I was really excited in a sort of post-ironic way, and then I felt a little sick. Then I took a nap.

--The New York Canon: Books From Norman Mailer to Rem Koolhaas, 26 works of lapidary New Yorkitude.

--A tribute(?) to my old neighborhood, The Tenderloin. This site is amazing, it really captures the essence of one of the most horrific places in America. I look at these pictures when I'm writing and it inspires me. To bathe. This was the neighborhood that I once got mugged by a topless transgendered woman who was holding a hammer and had 2 henchmen with her, also carrying tools. I sort of miss it. I mean, where else would you get a story like that?

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The gigs are incidental. Mainly they just get in the way of the craic.

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In college, one of my classmates in a writing class was so unbelievably uncomfortable-making that words defied me at the time to describe her here. The class was young adult novel writing, and we were all writing very thinly-veiled books about ourselves. Hers, however, was painful in its obviousness, as it was about a girl of mixed race with a learning disorder, same as the author, as she had been proud to explain to the class on her first day. She was one of those people who you could just tell would spend way too much time in the gym locker room naked. Like, fixing her makeup and hair before she had gotten dressed and not bothering to cover herself with a towel because we're all women here, right? But at the same, you could just tell that she was secretly hoping someone would say something to her so that she could be indignant about how badly she was being treated. Her writing was sort of like that too.

The quality of the prose I'm willing to write off to the learning disability, but the content was sort of jaw-dropping in its narcissism. The main character was a younger version of my classmate in all aspects, except better looking. "Ayana was not fat, nor was she thin. She was just right." Ayana's creator, however, was sort of a fatty, but you could tell it was the sort of thing that she fixedly would refuse to admit because she was "just right." This is, let me emphasize, completely different than the I've-got-a-few-extra-pounds-but-go-fuck-yourself attitude that I myself sometimes adopt and which I believe is completely acceptable. This sort of personality type relies on stating the world is one way, a way that they are really good looking and never at fault, when the rest of us can so clearly see that the world is not that way. Then they sit around and wait for one of us to finally say something, to finally get to the point where we just cannot go on listening to how the earth or flat or how the sky is red and to point out how the world really is, so that they can use it as more proof of how horrible people treat them.

The character in her tales, Ayana, suffered persecution at the hands of her un-understanding classmates, a martyr for mixed race children with learning disabilities everywhere. And that's why I really shouldn't be blogging about was absolute drivel this girl was forcing me to read, because it's sort of horrible to be abusing this poor, self-satisfied girl who probably has been given a lot of grief in her life for being different and so obviously proud of that fact. Were her character fat, I think, I could have forgiven a lot more.

My current class has one of the same type in it. He's writing a book about his struggle with bipolar disorder, which if I'm being honest, is exactly the sort of book I like to read. Of course he's managed to take all of the fun out of it, and made what should be an interesting and terrifying life story completely uninteresting. He's a huge, angry looking man, who cutely refers to himself, and all sufferers of the disorder, as "polar bears." Last week he came into class and, having decided that writing a novel was too hard--keep in mind that this is a class entitled "Finishing Your Novel"--that he would write an instructional manual instead, based on a pamphlet that he had picked up at a doctor's office that he kindly provided us with. As the only person in the class capable of either giving or receiving constructive criticism, I questioned the purpose of re-writing a pamphlet but including no new content. The information is already out there, I said, everyone already knows how to find it. What they don't know is your story, and that's probably more interesting for everyone to read. The polar bear nearly blew a gasket and, shaking the binder he had so neatly organized and numbered over the past few weeks, shrieked like a petulant child "But I've worked so hard on this!"

A week later, he came back with a personal essay that he was going to include in his polar bear manual. The personal essay was interesting, in the way that people writing about how shitty their lives are is always interesting, at least, that's what I bank on here, but the overall tone was so irritating that for once, I was actually forced into silence. The point of his essay was that he was a victim of this disorder, and that most everything he did and does should be excused for it. This is exactly the sort of thing that were he writing "fiction" like the rest of us, one of us would finally raise our hands and say "Is it intentional that your character is coming off as a selfish, self-absorbed fucktard? Because, like, if that's intentional, you've done a really great job."

However irritating I find this guy and his subsequent angry comments on my work--he clearly has not forgiven me yet--I can't help but hear that high-pitched screech "But I've worked so hard on this!" as I'm absorbed in my work. I've finished the first draft of my novel and am now in the tedious process of re-writing it, trying to force it into some semblance of order and narrative. There are things in it that I know don't work, but I'd rather try and find a way to write around them rather than just scrap them completely. My re-write has become about just adding more and more, and taking nothing away. I can't cut that paragraph or scene, I've worked too hard on it, my inner polar bear rages. So now I'm trying to learn to let go, both in my book and my life.

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(Lina on Mar 28, 2008 1:45 AM) What did you call that class? The Vagina Dialogues?

(Frances on Mar 26, 2008 1:48 AM) This post practically begs me to start thinking back to my classroom-bound creative writing days. Those were scary times!