Brendan 的个人资料Desperately Seeking...So...照片日志列表更多  |  工具 帮助 |
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2月6日 Friday FeastsFor someone who holds spelling and punctuation in such high regard, I can make some very silly mistakes sometimes. It was Jodi, my caustic Canadian chick friend that bought a kettle for my folks, not Jody, my tall Texan guy friend. I'm sorry. Appetizer I really like Crunchy Nut Cornflakes; they're sweet, but for some reason because they have nuts in them I can delude myself that they're providing some much-needed nutrient. I couldn't get them in Korea though, so I ended up with an industrial size box of Quaker Oats from CostCo. They were all pretty good, though after the first week I was on cinnamon overload. Soup I can't really think of anything that I've bought for the house. I was going to buy a kettle back when we needed one, but Jodi beat me to it (and just so you don't think that my friends regularly buy household goods for my home I should explain that she bought it to thank my parents for giving birth to a son who willingly gives up his bed for weeks at a time so Canadians can sleep comfortably). Before Christmas my room was a mess. Many years of accumulated crap was threatening to overtake the few shelves I had, so that they looked like this:
(If you look beyond my delight in drinking that bottle of Coopers Pale Ale you'll see some seriously overloaded shelving.) In the redecoration effort, my mother did most of the buying, while Rose and I (read: mostly Rose) did a lot of the work, including stripping wall paper, filling cracks in those walls, sanding and varnishing shelves, dusting books and washing pint glasses, and moving furniture, so that my room looked like this for a while:
Then it began to take shape: And now it looks like this: And the reason I'm answering this question in this way is simple: I bought the paper-scraper, half the paint, and the varnish for the room. (Also there are a number of people who wanted to see what this much-talked-about redecoration looked like, and I haven't got around to sending them photos.) Salad Lots of Korean commercials were funny, but I can't really think of any right now. This one for Berlitz is quite good: as are all the Carlsberg commercials, like this one:
Main Course Damn, Cinnamon Monkey is the sort of thing I'd come up with! Saffron Sidewinder. Dessert I haven't cried since Saturday. Appetizer When I was a teacher it was at least 5 times. Now it's more like 2, depending on what I'm reading or listening to. Soup My main sunglasses are black and kinda big in the eye with wide legs. They're very cool. Salad Moscow. Main Course The beer is very good, not as good a lots of places in England, but certainly better than Dublin, and miles better than Seoul or Valencia. Dessert I like purple skies and burnt orange skies, but only at the times of day - dusk and dawn - that you expect to see them. I can't imagine it being that colour all the time, because it's not even blue all the time! How our biggest employer no longer employs anyoneThe worst thing about being unemployed isn't the soul destroying feeling when you wake-up every morning and realise that the most important decision you're going to make that day is whether to watch Diagnosis Murder or Murder, She Wrote, nor is it the lack of finances that cripples your social life, nor is it even being told by a journalism graduate that your commerce and Spanish degree is "irrelevant", the worst thing about unemployment is discovering that there are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people out there employed in jobs that have been created solely for the purpose of employing people. I've nothing against this sort of thing when it results in tangible benefits for the rest of us (I mean Hitler achieved near-full employment during his early years and Germany got a super road system out of it), but when it results in more levels of bureaucracy and deeply frustrated citizens, I have to rebel.
Case in point: the Northern Ireland Civil Service. Every contact I've had with the Civil Disservice has led to feelings of confusion and intense anger. Last week I fired off an e-mail to one department to complain about the service, or lack thereof, that I had experienced. Over the following week I received no less than three e-mails, all from different areas of the organisation, but all saying exactly the same thing, telling me that my complaint was important to them and that someone would be in touch to discuss it. After the third e-mail I got fed up and wrote a letter to a newspaper and, amazingly, they printed it. On the very same day that my letter was published I received a letter from the manager of the department in question apologising for the way I had been treated. I didn't need a letter. I wrote to them via e-mail, I expected, and would've been happy with, an e-mail apology (e-mail, letter, or over the phone it would have still sounded insincere!) but instead I got three pointless e-mails and one unnecessary letter. That means four people are employed to do jobs you could have trained one monkey to carry out.
And it's not just in the customer complaints department where this desperate attempt to justify job titles is evident.
Despite frequent ads in the classified sections of our newspapers, the civil service no longer really employs anyone other than Human Resource consultants. These guys are supposed to help the civil service employ the right people, but rather than do this via resumes, references, and interviews, they're using the all-pervasive aptitude test. In the 17 years of my formal education I must have sat hundreds of tests and exams. Not one of them was as complicated in its administration as these aptitude tests.
The tests themselves aren't that bad (well actually, the first one I took involved a lot of maths without the aid of a calculator - I haven't had to do maths without a calculator in 13 years!) but the way they are administered is insane. You'd think they'd simply put the test paper on the table, put the answer sheet next to it, and wish you luck. Not so. They leave you with the answer sheet, and, it being multiple choice you can't simply write your name or index number on it, instead you have to fill in countless little circles that represent the letters and numbers of your identity. Then they give you the test paper and stand over you like hawks in case you try to sneak a peek, while the nominated speaker recites a monologue in a voice dripping with such boredom that you know she's done this 10 times already that day, and yet she still hasn't learned it by heart...After that you can take a few practice questions, but it's not as if they're located on page 1 of the paper, nor can you fill in your answers on page 1 of the answer booklet. Instead they'll be on page 7, with the answers to be completed on page 4. Then they'll read out the answers and explain them, at length. These practice questions, rather than warm-up your brain for the activities ahead, are so easy that they lull you into a false sense of security. When you open the test your head is addled through boredom and you can hear small yelps of panic as the candidates read the real questions. So then you'll do the actual test, which can be found on page 3, and fill in your answers on page 9. Then they take that question paper away, and you move on to another paper, but with the same ridiculous routine of practice and answer and rules and explanation. Again, none of this is necessary - it's simply a way for the HR firm to justify its own existence, and commission, to the civil service.
I sat there thinking two things: 1) This stupid, and 2) I can do better than this.
What's worse than all that though is the fact that the tests, as far as I can see, don't really test you in any meaningful way, nor does the way they're administered help to select the best people for the job. For one thing I don't know anyone who would really try to perform a serious calculation without a calculator. In fact, considering the fact that Excel is a prerequisite for most office jobs these days I have to wonder if people even really use calculators that much anymore. In the same way, the verbal reasoning tests require you to read a passage and then answer questions relating to it. But what do you do if you spot spelling and / or grammar mistakes in the passage or questions? (!)
What really grinds my gears though is when candidates don't follow the most basic instructions before they even get into the centre. Because, if you believe what you read in certain papers, there are a lot of bad people out there pretending to be me and you in order to get jobs, and benefits, and healthcare, and free taxi rides, you're now required to bring 7 pieces of identification to do anything. For the civil service exams you're supposed to bring photocopies of these documents. At least 1/3 of the candidates didn't, for whatever reason, do this. I cannot understand why; the excuse that you don't have access to a photocopier doesn't wash with me - I don't have access to one, at home or in work, but I can think of about 10 people who do (and that's not even considering family members) not to mention the fact that there are copy shops all over the city that'll do it for about 15p a page. Personally, if I were in charge and someone failed to follow the first instruction for the test, they'd automatically be disqualified. Same goes for people who don't bring calulators. I didn't have one but had to borrow from a cousin because it said in the invitation, in bold type, that they wouldn't be provided. They were. Again, no calculator, no jobbie.
When you see the civil service process from the inside you begin to understand why the service is so poor on the ground, and when you consider that the sort of people applying for the jobs can do long division but can't follow simple instructions you'll understand the meaning of the phrase "red tape". At this rate, the civil service is eventually going to employ more citizens than it actually serves, and I'll still be waiting for a sincere apology from a real person.
1月23日 Friday Feast 176Appetizer Can't decide between beer and coffee. I guess I'd have to go for coffee, because I can happily drink that anytime - even I can't drink beer in the morning. Soup Two Christmas cards that I rescued from the trash (I don't mean I took them from the trash, I mean I kept them instead of throwing them out, which is what we do with mail that can't be forwarded or returned to sender) - one shows a beautiful image by Louis Haghe of the Nave of St.Peter's in Rome, the other a quote from John 3:16: "For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life." My coffee travel mug that Brittany gave me which has photos of our summer fun inside the thermos lining. A portable CD player that a nice lady in work lets me use to listen to audio books so that I don't go insane. Salad 10. (Interpret that as you like!) Main Course England has lots of places with terrible names, like Scunthorpe and Slough, but to change them to something better would be a waste of a great gift. I'd rather go for something silly and frivolous, like changing Dublin to something like Little Belfast, simply because it would annoy the hell out of the super-proud citizens. Dessert My mother. My father. (This is topical - she's buzzing around the living room as I type, looking for books that she's implying I threw out!) Otherwise: children yelling. Children laughing. Happy Birthday To MeThe problem with Christmas and birthdays is that you don't get to have an opinion about anything.
In the run-up to the Yuletide season if someone asks you what you think of a certain colour of shirt say, or the work of an author, or a television program, you really can't answer. The reason of course is that they may already have bought said item, or be intending to buy it for you, and your disgust at the idea of someone wearing a peuce silk shirt, or reading Russell Brand's Booky Wook, or watching 24, will hurt and offend them.
Someone told me they thought the whole idea of telling people what to get you for your birthday was crass and pointless - why not just buy it yourself? they argued- but I think it saves a lot of trouble and embarassment and awkward moments when people risk buying you something as a surprise present that you'd never in a million years choose for yourself. (This was the same person who still complains about the time I bought him something I really thought he'd use - vinegar. I realise vinegar isn't a particularly exciting gift, but for someone showing a budding interest in cooking I think you could do much worse.) When people ask me what I want for Christmas I tell them, whether they choose to get it for me or not is up to them. But when they ask me my thoughts on a certain band, or opinion of a particular cologne, I usually prevaricate and hope they'll choose wisely (or have already chosen wisely!). And seeing as my birthday follows closely on Christmas I basically don't get to have an opinion on anything for about 10 weeks, this is especially hard for someone who is as spectacularly opinionated as I am.
This year most people asked me what I wanted and then got me some of it, but the best presents were the ones I hadn't expected (which shows my friends and family have great taste!), and the cards and messages I got were even better; but the best thing about my birthday was celebrating it with my whole family, a number of close cousins, and my girlfriend - some of whom turned up as a surprise, and that's about the only safe surprise you can risk at a time like this. Fascist FashionMy boss is the sort of person who doesn't like confrontation, (which begs the question why she is working for a large, faceless organisation populated by over-worked, under-appreciated trade unionists) so I could tell by her "I'm sorry about this but please don't hit me" expression that she had bad news for me. She told me, apologetically, that my shirt didn't comply with the dress code. Now I wasn't particularly surprised; it was a University of South Carolina football shirt, and the name of their team is the Gamecocks. The name never fails to amuse me, especially when I'm in the Palmetto State where, for reasons of expediency, it's shortened to Cocks, so that all over the place you'll see bumper stickers and shorts and caps with "Go Cocks", "Cocks Rule", and, once, "I
 Cocks", but I could understand how it might offend someone of a more sensitive nature. However, it wasn't the name of the team that was the problem, it was the fact that my shirt bore the name of a place."A place?" I asked, perplexed.
"Yeah. No football (meaning soccer), rugby, or GAA shirts, nothing with political slogans, no FCUK, and no place names," she explained.
"You're joking," I tried.
"No, 'fraid not", she giggled, nervously, then retreated to her desk.
I couldn't believe it. I sat for the next few minutes mentally sorting my wardrobe, censoring my gear to suit the latest version of the dress code. When I got home I went through my drawers and took stock of the situation.
I have 29 t-shirts, 3 polo shirts, 1 rugby shirt, 1 GAA shirt, 4 long-sleeve shirts, and 5 hoodies.
Of the 29 t-shirts, no less than fifteen, more than half, are no longer permitted where I work. That means I can't wear the shirt that says where I went to college (University College Dublin), or any of the shirts I've picked up on my travels: the one from Longboards Surf Shop in Puerto Rico, the one bearing a nice embroidered image of the Statue of Liberty in NYC, the one I got at a bachelor party at Ike's Korner Grille in Spartanburg, SC, the one from Belfast, Maine - which usually works as a conversation starter and couldn't possibly offend anyone! - and many more. I can't wear any of the shirts I've been given as gifts: 2 shirts my aunt gave me that mention Hawaii and the USA Olympic team from the 1996 Olympics which took place in her state, or the one Brittany's friend Tom gave me advertising his tree service in Mount Desert, Maine. I think my US Marine Corps and Coast Guard shirts probably break the political and place name rules, and I'm afraid to wear my John Deere shirt because Massey Ferguson is a popular tractor brand here and I wouldn't want to offend any farmers up from the country to work in the big smoke. I could probably get away with wearing my Campus House shirt because that phrase is the sort of nonsense you read on clothes these days, but it is an actual place - a Christian worship centre in Indiana (running the risk of offending any non-Christians in work if that ever gets out!).
The rugby and GAA shirts are out, but I knew that anyway.
Of the 3 polo shirts two are banned: one refers to my county GAA team - Antrim, the other advertises the tree service again (I'm like a walking commercial for that company!).
Of the longsleeve shirts at least two are gone: one is for the USMC (political as well as geographical) and the other is the original South Carolina shirt that started this sartorial book burning. A third proclaims my love of Beer Chiang from Thailand, but as it's in Thai I might get away with it.
All of my hoodies are prohibited for they are variously branded Spartanburg, the US, Purdue, Canada, and Guam.
I can understand the rules regarding sports tops, political tops, and even FCUK, but I can't for the life of me figure out the problem of clothing that has the name of a place on it. And from the sounds of conversations overheard around the proverbial watercooler, neither can any of my coworkers. Perhaps it's time to join a Union... 1月19日 No Country For Old MenTHAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees - Those dying generations - at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect. An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium. O sages standing in God's holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity. Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
W.B. Yeats Sailing To Byzantium 1月16日 Feast One Hundred & Seventy FiveAppetizer Conor. One 'n' please. I already have two names, i.e. my name in English and Irish, which is complicated enough, especially when you're trying to cross borders, buy plane tickets, and prove you haven't been engaged in tax evasion for many years! I did go through brief periods in my childhood when I wanted to be called such classic monikers as Axel Foley, Templeton "Faceman" Peck, Michael Knight, Marty McFly, Mitch Buchanan, and Nico Toscani, names that will allow you to follow whatever TV show or movie I was obsessed with at the time. I realise there are two David Hasselhoff characters in there, which could be worrying, but it would be worse if I'd plumped for Steven Seagal's alter-ego Gino Fellino from 1991's Out For Justice instead of the slightly more plausible Nico Toscani from his debut Above The Law. Soup I honestly can't imagine being a fashion designer, but I do like the color green, regular jeans like the ones that were widely available when I was a kid, and cashmere scarves. Salad Does shaving count?, because it sucks. I wish I could simply wish myself clean-shaven, and it would happen. I find it a pain having to pay extra-special attention to my face in the shower pre-shave, then massaging in the gel, then actually shaving - trying to get close enough without cutting yourself is not easy - then the feeling of moisturiser as it dries on your skin (Yes, I moisturise, big whoop wanna fight about it?!) Main Course I don't like walking into a bathroom and seeing the shower curtain closed, because when I was a kid I saw a movie about a knief-wielding maniac who lurked behind people's shower curtains until they'd come, unsuspecting, into their bathroom (surely the room in the house where you're at your most vulnerable?) before jumping out and slicing them to pieces. Dessert A cinnamon-scented candle on the fireplace A bottle of Sam Adam's Winter Ale on the bookshelf. Have I Got News For You on the TV. FillerI'd really like to write about some of the stuff I come across in the course of my duties in the Dead Letter Office, but as I'm bound by the Official Secrets' Act until a year after I terminate my employment, I'll not get around to that until next March, by which time I should hope to have something more interesting to write about! And, I don't want to simply post a Friday's Feast directly after another Friday's Feast, so instead I'm going to upload two videos of songs I heard and liked on MTV Dance in the wee hours of this morning. Now that's a sentence I'd never thought I'd write.
1月10日 A feast of cornucopian proportionsFeast One Hundred & Seventy FourAppetizer
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8月17日
Just a hunka hunka burnin' love?
I'm an Elvis fan. As a child, I suffered for being an Elvis fan. Kids used to make fun of me. Bigger kids. I stuck with The King in spite of all that. However, this story takes the biscuit:
8月16日
Reno: The Biggest Little City In The World
The last time I came to Reno, things were very different. I had spent the summer working for my uncles - framing houses under the Carolina sun from 6 a.m. until around 2 p.m., gruelling, backbreaking, thankless work. By the time I got to Reno, I was in serious need of a laugh and a beer. Luckily, Eamonn is the sort to readily provide both. Back then, he and Rosie and a bunch of their friends had moved to Reno for one year to study at UNR. Most of us were under 21, which meant we couldn't really go into the casinos, and getting served in bars was difficult. Now of course Reno was one stop on my tour of the US and I was in highspirits, while Eamonn and Rosie were PhD students. I hadn't seen Eamonn in almost two years, but it was as if hardly any time had gone by. He and his girlfriend Rosie have a beautiful apartment just outside the city - it's big and bright, and it looks as if they've lived in it forever. Eamonn let me get settled into their guestroom while he went to make coffee; we took it on the balcony, overlooking one of the complex's swimming pools, and caught up on each other's news. It pleased me no end to hear that my old schoolmate was doing so well in his career, although I could hardly follow the nature of his work and research! When Eamonn returned to work, I checked my e-mail and went for a swim in the icy waters of the pool.
Eamonn and Rosie returned at lunch and, no doubt in an effort to make me feel at home, took me for Vietnamese food. I took no end of stick from Eamonn for showing off by thanking the waitress in Vietnamese. Later that evening some friends of theirs and some of the new students from Ireland came over for burgers and beers, again on the balcony. We sat chatting until after it got dark, and in the back of my mind I had the thought of how nice it is to live in a place where the weather cooperates throughout large parts of the year, so that you can actually eat comfortably outside in the evenings. Moving inside, Eamonn bored the new arrivals to Reno by showing pictures of my first visit there, when we had all rented a minivan and driven to San Francisco for the weekend. I didn't know whether to be ashamed or proud that I was wearing the same shorts back then that I had on me that night.
I got into a nice routine in Reno: I'd get up shortly after they left for work, make coffee, then upload photos and e-mail people until we all went for lunch. Some days I went swimming, but the water was so cold that it was no fun alone. They were kind enough to loan me a car and a cellphone while I was there, so I had the option to pop down into the city if I felt like it.
One night we decided to go to the Rodeo. None of us had ever been to one before, or knew what to expect. I don't think any of us had ever seen a rodeo outside of those shows with names like "When Animals Strike Back!". The Reno Rodeo is a big deal, with cowboys coming in from all over the country. There were more stetsons and boots in the ring than I'd ever seen in one place, and most of the men sported belt buckles bigger than my face. Like baseball, rodeo can appear quite boring on TV - usually you're waiting for some action, which in rodeo terms means someone getting gored by the bull. In real life however, it can be quite fascinating. For one thing the arena was full of families all having a good time. You could get beer, but no one appeared to be drunk. There was also plenty of food, of the deep-fried and bbq variety. Like every other event in the country, we started off with a rendition of the national anthem. Then some cowgirl who had served in the Middle East rode in on her horse carrying the flag. Then they had a prayer to thank the Lord that we could all be there that evening watching guys ride bulls, and to pray for others who were serving overseas to provide the freedom to sit there watching guys ride bulls.
Riders in the rodeo have to stay on the bull for something like 8 seconds, which doesn't sound like much, but it is. Most of the riders managed it, or very close to it, so I couldn't understand how they are judged. Apparently it has something to do with the way they ride the bull, like if they bounce up and down in the saddle too much or something. In any case, we found ourselves cheering for each and every rider, simply because we were in awe on them - anyone who can stay on a bull for even 4 seconds deserves a prize, and a strait jacket for wanting to do it. During the intermission a bunch of kids are allowed into the arean, wearing football helmets, and they let them ride sheep - the kid that stays on the longest wins. It was hilarious, and demented.
When it was all over they opened a beer tent complete with bar-dancing cowgirls and Kenny Chesney songs. Waiting to order, I somehow caught the attention of the cowgirl nearest to me who proceeded to do a sort of lap dance on my head. I'm sure it sounded like a dream come true, but it wasn't, and it made me glad that I don't have the sorts of friends that ever thought it would be a good idea to hire a stripper for my birthday. When it was all over I didn't know if I should pull her off the bar and give her a stern talking to, or be polite and slip a $1 into her leather chaps. Instead I did neither, but took her photo on the way out.
On Friday Eamonn got off work early and took me to a microbrewery for lunch. We weren't hungry, so instead took our calories in liquid form. There are so many microbreweries popping up in the US these days that it amazes me to think anyone is still drinking Bud Light. We each ordered sampler trays, and enjoyed all of the beers immensely. Before we knew it though it was time to get Rosie from work (in actual fact we were late, having really caught up on each other's news - the beer helped loosen our tongues!) and we went for dinner to yet another microbrewery. This time we did eat, as we had a long night ahead of us. A friend of theirs from Ireland was playing at one of Reno's many Irish bars, and we were going along to watch. The bar itself wasn't very Irish but the crowd certainly was - it was as if the entire 3rd year science class from Queen's University had upped and moved to Reno. The music was good too.
On Saturday Eamonn's boss was throwing a belated wedding party at Lake Tahoe. Having only ever flown over the Lake I was quite excited to actually see it, and I was not to be disappointed. The water is a beautiful deep blue, and the sun bounces off it into the distance, where the snow still lies on the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Some of the bravers members of the company, including Eamonn, went for a swim in the icy waters of the Lake, I had a bit of sense and so stayed on shore drinking beer. In the evening we discovered that there was a drive-in movie complex in the city, and we headed there to see Knocked-Up. I didn't particularly enjoy the movie, although the drive-in experience was cool. We sat in deck chairs with our blankets and coffee, watching the movie on a huge screen, and listening to it through the car radios. It was very cheap too, I think $6, which is cheaper than any other movie theatre I've been to, and that was a for a double feature - Pirates of the Caribbean 3 was showing afterwards.
On Sunday Rosie made us a proper Sunday lunch - the first I'd had in 18 months - complete with Yorkshire pudding and roast beef. For dessert Eamonn served homemade Smores from his grill. It was a great afternoon. We drove around downtown that evening, getting some pictures of the casinos at night. My last two days in Reno were spent roaming around the downtown area, where they've created a pleasant riverwalk along the riverbank. The evening before I left we all went to a casino for a buffet, and ate way more than was good for us.
I had a pretty excellent time in Reno, and I was very glad to be able to travel there and see my friends again. Hopefully Eamonn and Rosie will be home at Christmas, and I'll have the chance to repay them in kind. As sad as I was to be leaving Eamonn, I was off to Chicago - a new city - and to see Stef!
8月15日
Leaving L.A. and returning to Reno
On our return from Las Vegas Tom and I stopped in 29 Palms, the town that has grown-up around the US Marine base where Tom is stationed. The nickname for the town is "An Oasis of Murals", because on every available gable is painted some mural or other, usually relating to the US Marines who live and serve in the town, but also that show some aspect of life in the desert. It was slightly bizarre to be in the middle of the Mojave and be surrounded by huge murals of men in camoflage holding big guns, and I'm from Belfast.
The following day, Tom was on duty so I drove into Palm Springs to mail some stuff home, check my e-mail, and have another look around. One convenient aspect of life in PS is that parking on the streets is free, something you don't find in most American cities these days. I stopped into a coffee house to use the internet; the owner, a Syrian, knew Tom and was very pleased to have a friend of the father's in his store - he treated me to some sinfully sweet baklava while I drank my coffee and used his seriously-overpriced internet connection ($10 per hour!). I walked around Palm Springs for a while, popping into various little stores, buying postcards, and greeting people on the street. Palm Springs has the convenience of the big city, with the welcoming ambience of a small town, that's if you have the money and right background though.
On my last day in California, Tom decided it would be best if we spent the night in Laguna Beach, which was much closer to LAX than his Palm Springs apartment. Laguna Beach is one of the most affluent areas in the country - just driving around I saw more foreign cars than I think I've ever seen in the US. We had a delicious dinner overlooking the Pacific in the Hotel Laguna, a wonderful old hotel which is probably older than most American cities. Over dinner, Tom and I talked about all manner of subjects, and I realised at the end of the night, as much as I was looking forward to moving on and seeing other friends and my family, I would've quite happily stayed on there a little bit longer. Having spent my last few weeks in Asia feeling rather homesick, after a week in the US I realised I felt rather at home.
I was up early the next morning to catch the Airport Shuttle to LAX. Many of the airlines at LAX are introducing machines that allow you to check-in without seeing an agent. This is a great idea, as long as you don't have any baggage, have a confirmation number for your flight, and don't have a complicated Irish name. Unfortunately, I had a bag to check, I never get a confirmation number from Expedia when I buy tickets, and my last name befuddles even the most advanced computer at an airport. None the less, the lady in charge of the herds at the airport insisted I stand in line, outside the terminal, and wait to use a machine. Of course the machine wouldn't let me check-in, like I knew it wouldn't, and I ended up standing in another line to see an agent.
My confidence in Alaska Airlines wasn't boosted when I saw the plane we would be travelling on - it had rotors on the outside! Now I'm sure this is perfectly safe, but the only time I've actually seen the rotors on the outside of a plane has been in an Indiana Jones movie. However, the crew on-board the plane were incredibly friendly from the start, and dressed as they were in shorts, poloneck t-shirts, and sneakers, I figured I'd at least enjoy the last flight of my life. The flight turned out to be rather smooth, and our captain was the sort who likes to keep his passengers posted about where in the sky they are. As we were flying over some of the most beautiful and diverse landscape in the country - LA, Sierra Nevada Mountains, Lake Tahoe - I was only too happy to look out the window and watch the ground below, even if I could see the rotorblades turning a mile a minute.
Although I had been to Reno before, I had forgotten that baggage claim is the last thing you do before you leave. So it was that I found myself walking past my old friend Eamonn as he stood patiently waiting for me at the gate. Never one to shy away from public displays of affection, Eamonn lifted me off the ground in a huge bearhug, which I took as a sign that he had seen the plane through the window and was surprised I had made it alive. I was back in Reno, Nevada.
8月14日
Cafe Nervosa
Having spent most of my waking hours between the ages of 15 and 19 behind the bar at a coffee house, it's a wonder that I'm even alive:
8月13日
PostSecret
About a month ago Britt and I went to a Sunday service at the Purdue Campus House with Stef. During the service, the pastor mentioned the PostSecret website. I've been checking back every Sunday to read the updates, and they've just posted this video. I think it's an interesting and cool project, whether or not the secrets are made-up or not.
8月9日
Battle of the Sexes
This evening Stef and I played some boardgames with her father and his wife. One of the games was Battle Of The Sexes. I'd never heard of it before, and to be honest, I think it sucks, but we had fun playing it.
The object of the game is to advance your pawns across the board, the first team to reach the other side wins. The guys ask the girls questions about subjects that only guys are supposed to know about, like football, home repairs, and music, and vice versa. The guys won tonight, but only by a fluke - there are certain wildcards that allow you to advance, or force you to return to the start - the girls were unlucky enough to pick a card that forced them back to the beginning. If it hadn't been for that wildcard, the girls would've won, because they knew more about the supposedly-male subjects than we knew about the alleged female subjects.
While I didn't really like the game, it did cause me to think about this issue, about how the lines between male and female pursuits and interests has blurred - but mostly only on one side (can a line blur on only one side? I guess that's badly phrased. Perhaps I should explain.)
When it came to questions of sport, Stef knew plenty about football - a traditionally male dominated pastime. In the same way, the questions on music were about things like grunge and heavy metal, which I really wouldn't have assigned to one sex or the other. I suppose if I had to I would associate heavy metal with guys, but I don't think you'd get a bunch of girls claiming to hate heavy metal in the same way that you'd have a bunch of guys insist that they can't stand the ballet! Likewise, Stef's stepmom knew plenty about home repairs, and TV, and other themes that she "shouldn't" have!
On the other hand, when it came our turn to answer, we were forced to guess on more than one occasion. Questions about fabrics, fashion, food, and cosmetics had us stumped! I've never felt more like a caveman in all my life!
So it would seem that, while it's OK for girls to follow football, it's not alright, or at least it's not as accessible, for a guy to follow fashion. That's hardly an enlightened statement, or attitude, but it's about the only interesting thing I could say about that boardgame.
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