Hot Time, Summer in the City

It officially reached some stage of being "hot" today in Dublin. Harry the Friendly Maintenance Man reckoned it was about 20 degrees Centigrade (conversion to Farenheit? You're asking the wrong girl-- I stopped doing Math in the 90's). All I know is that standing in the sun, talking to my neighbor Zed (from Ethiopia), my neck was sweaty and I wished I had bloody brought a tank-top or two.

Since it is summer, this also means my allergies have come out in full force. Weird: they've gotten worse since I've aged. My eyes itch, which they didn't last year; and my throat sometimes feels raw, which it didn't last year either. Last year I was 27, still buying time on the later end of my mid-twenties. Apparently, this means I was also one year healthier.

I still hate summer, but I prefer summer in Ireland to any other summer I've experienced. It's still cold enough at night to wear a jacket, but you could comfortably wear sandals. I don't know how the Irish could swim in a lake or a pool or the ocean in this type of summer, as it never reaches awful humind scorching point as it does in Michigan.

Occasionally, I envy the Irish. Very occasionally. And mostly when it comes to things like climate.

One Dull Soapbox, Part Two

Well, I do feel sort of bad about slamming Michael Jackson so hard. A friend, Courtney, emailed me yesterday to tell me where I'd gone wrong in my analysis-- and really, her arguments were more logical than mine (though I do have to say mine have more style).

So, to balance out the diatribe of yesterday, I will now list five reasons to love Michael Jackson:

1. Off the Wall
2. Thriller
3. ABC
4. The glove
5. The moonwalk

Surely we all have fond memories of these things. Share your fond memories of Michael Jackson with your mates at work today to make up for the bad karma I sent into the world.

One Dull Soapbox, but....

OK, I'm not the first person who will be commenting on this today, as it's all over the headlines: butI'm not sure the King of Pop deserves to roam free, or even that he deserves to bring up his own children. I firmly believe if he were a poor piece of white trash fighting 10 counts of child molestation that he'd be found guilty and locked up like a vicious, rabid animal.

The Michael Jackson verdict alone is proof of America's blurred moral conscience. The reasoning goes something like this: child sexual abuse is awful, but slightly more palatable when committed by a billionaire. How can the jury convict someone who's given so much to our troubled world? They really couldn't, without feeling terribly guilty about it.

Since when does having a few platinum records and a hellvua lot of money entitle someone to live by a different code of rules? When did our collective sense of right and wrong begin to fray? Several children have been permanently hurt here-- their self-esteem crushed, their identities eroded. It will be difficult for them to have healthy intimate relationships, to trust people
and to trust themselves.

A jury had no problem convicting Martha Stewart and sending her to the slammer. In a fit of greed, she'd kept private some important information and made some money off it. She's probably paid an amount equalto or more than what she stole in fees and court costs. And we're going to toss Michael Jackson back into the world without a second thought of punishing him?

What kind of society creates, enables, and allows a code of class-based moral duality? Would Michael Jackson care about what happened to YOU if you were arrested for a DUI or for drug trafficking, or breaking and entering, or manslaughter? Would he camp outside the courthouse waving posters affirming your innocence? No. He'd be lying in his tanning bed in Neverland with a pet snake crawling next to his leg, or riding around on his ferris wheel daydreaming and licking an ice cream cone. And like any other very rich person who can buy themselves into or out of any situtation, he'd think your sentence was well-deserved: you do the crime, you do the time.... unless you're just like him.

The Best Night of my MultiCultural Life

I should've written this post much sooner, because I think enthusiasm shows up best in writing if you put it all down as soon as possible: the details and such are all fresh in the mind... still pretty and vivid and stuff. But anyway, I wanted to share with everyone:

Friday night I went out in Dublintown with a grand and diverse group. I rode the bus downtown with my friend/neighbor, Niall, and we met a bunch of people at the Irish Film Institute in Temple Bar. The crowd included a French couple, Vanessa and Dmitri (sp?); a German guy, Joachim (YO-heem, say it with me now-- YO-heem); an Irish couple, Owen and Mary; and Niall's sister, Ciara. We saw _Rebel Without a Cause_, which I've always wanted to see-- and it was everything I hoped it would be... brimming with 1950's cliches: greasers, girls, cars, knife fights; apron-wearing moms who bake cakes; high school cliques, etc. And, now that I'm on this point, I suppose these things are not cliches: the theme of the movie is classic, and I'm sure if you cared, you could find Greek tragedies dealing with the same types of conflict. All I know is if James Dean showed up at my high school, I'd gladly pull a knife on any girl who tried to carry his books-- it would be my job, after all, to make the new boy feel "at home".

Then we went to dinner at the oddly-named Pizza Stop. I'm not sure if this is a command or an assertive suggestion. But, my pizza was tasty with anchovies, shrimp, and crabmeat. The conversation was uplifting and interesting, covering many social and cultural topics: French wedding customs (Dmitri and Vanessa are getting married next year), Irish local government (Owen works for an office that discovers misspent money and punishes people for it), computer-applied translation programs (Joachim), Graceland (myself), and on and on. The total bill was e111.96 or something like that, which in this town is a massive bargain for such a large crowd.

We then proceeded to meet my other neighbor, Riona, and her two friends Aine and Gillian, and then we all went to a club called the Turk's Head. The music was fraternity-party average (How many songs can Destiny's Child do that sound exactly the same?) but the company, as before, was great. We left not soon after a minging Indian man kept asking me for my phone number, though I showed him my wedding ring and told him I was happily married. Niall led us all out of the club, made sure everyone had a way to get home, and then he and I caught a disappointingly quiet NiteLink bus home to DCU.

Niall had earlier promised me that riding the NiteLink would be an adventure: a bus of swashbuckling pirates, transsexual prostitutes, drunk nurses still in their uniforms, and hobos. No such thing. I guess all that means is we'll have to get our United Nations group together to go out again, so I can ride the bus home and prove at least one of my two hyoptheses: 1) that Niall is a liar, or 2) that there are no nurses in Dublin.

Slainte!

Aunt Becky's Chicken Salad

It is rare that Po' Bastard shaves off sheets of culinary arrogance and posts a recipe from someone else. However, during the recent visit from Grandma Marcie and the two great aunts, Becky and Vonnie, Po' Bastard was treated to a sandwich spread so tasty and divine, she thought it best to share it with you.

Aunt Becky's Chicken Salad

Ingredients:
-1 large tin chicken breast in water
-Mayonnaise (and yes, it must be full-fat) or Miracle whip
-Sweet relish
-salt and pepper, if you think it's really necessary

Method:
Drain chicken and flake it into a bowl. Stir in enough mayonnaise to make the chicken of a spreadable consistency (like tuna, see?). Add sweet relish to taste. Spread on toasted white bread and enjoy like the wee piggy you are.

Notes:
-If you're lucky enough to get your hands on a Sally Lunn bun, from Bath, Somerset, England, put the chicken salad on that. It's like a big puffy hamburger bun, but with a buttery taste like brioche.
-You could add things like chopped onion and a sprinkling of dill; and I suppose you could even put a slice of cheese or tomato on the sandwich, but I wouldn't risk it. I am now convinced that nothing beats the taste of pure, unadulterated FULL-FAT mayo with sweet relish.
-Eat with a large side of very crunchy, very salty, very American potato chips like Ruffles.
-People who will like this recipe: poker players, playahs and their accessories, the Olsen twins nutritionist, Monica Benzin.

For my Scrapbook: Evan's First Proper Barf

Andrew's family (Mom, and Aunts Vonnie and Becky) are visiting us until Friday, 6/3. They were kind enough to relieve us of our parenting duties late this afternoon and early this evening, so we went out on the Dublintown-- just to some shops and to an Italian Taverna in Meeting House Square.

Then we came home, and then I stopped in on my friend Niall to make some arrangements about seeing a movie next week, and then I went back home, where I was greeted with the following sights, sounds, and smells: Aunt Vonnie, bent over rubbing carpet with handtowel; Aunt Becky, rifling through Evan's drawer for clean PJ's; Marcie, holding screaming Evan; Andrew, frantically searching bathroom cupboard for infant Motrin. Me: come home in the midst of the Sick Circus, going, "What's going on?" trying to give directions as to where to find things like medication and clean PJ's, etc. Meanwhile: smell of regurgitated Heinz Mixed Fruit.

It had to happen sometime, this barf thing. And I knew it was coming. I really did. I just didn't think it would be anytime while Evan was a little vulnerable precious person living under my roof. I thought it might happen when he's in college, gone on a bender, and come home to spray it in his own toilet (that he must get up and clean in the AM).

We'll see what tomorrow holds. Hopefully Evan will wake up and be his usual Happy Dude. If not, I see a visit to Dr. McHugh in our near future. And a big bottle of Calpol for Evan, and a big bottle of Something Else for me.