In Lieu Of An Update On Chelsea, While I Finish My Assignments, A Short Story

 Guilty By Association

           Guilty by association: I tailor KKK uniforms. I always feel uneasy telling people that -- not because of the moral ambiguity involved in such work, but rather my phrasing. Is “uniform” the correct word to be using? Are they team?

Maybe I’m overanalyzing. I'm sure they wouldn’t mind me using the word “uniform”: it’s basically their mission statement, after all. I would say “outfit”, but it makes them out to be a gaggle of seven-year-olds at a dance recital. Ever been to one of those? I have, and it has taken years to suppress it. I don’t know what I fear worse -- a grove of Klansmen, or a mob of mothers living vicariously through their future-slut Sugarplum Fairies. Now I just go for the eye-candy.

The legal ones, I mean. Get your mind out of the gutter. Ah, Gutters -- tributaries of the roof. I wonder who invented the gutter; I would have liked to have seen the guy who said, “I know what I will contribute to society: I will make all the rain  go to the same particular place, instead of letting it fall to the ground naturally.” Someone should have told him to get his mind out of the gutter... Now some pro-gutter aficionado is probably rolling his eyes, calling me a Philistine of home economics. And I’m sure he will later explain to you how gutters are an underrated modern advancement, and you will likely end up agreeing. And I don’t blame you. This mob mentality is typical; when it rains, it pours, that sort of thing. Perhaps it’s even a part of human nature: hence, my line of work.

Like I was saying, I’m not proud of this. And I’m a proud person, I’m not too proud to say it. Do those negate each other? Maybe I’m not as proud as I thought. But the bills don’t pay themselves – just everyone else. When you think of it that way, making money is the epitome of selflessness: ‘You can’t take it with you’, as someone once said. Imagine if banks upheld that policy.

I once entered a bank with a buddy of mine, and there at the window on the other side of the counter was the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes on. I told my buddy, I said, “I think I want to ask that cashier lady out on a date”. My buddy quickly responded “teller”, so I did. The woman naturally recoiled from my advances, so I withdrew.

I know a thing or two about withdrawal. My mother was a heroine addict – she couldn’t get enough of Jane Austen. Once we couldn’t go on vacation because the BBC had just released a new miniseries. I still have never seen the Grand Canyon. She said she wouldn’t be able to enjoy the scenery without knowing how Pride and Prejudice ended. I found this mildly humorous because in terms of unpredictability, watching Pride and Prejudice is like watching Classic Sports. After twelve hours of Colin Firth’s expressionless face, I wondered how anyone could be satisfied with any conclusion other than unspeakable homicide -- but, as expected, Smart Strong Woman gets her Frumpish Antagonist, and all is right in the world; my apologies for the spoiler. I hated my mother for her addiction. Sure, my father was an actual heroin addict, but it never stopped us from having fun. Talk about a shot in the arm. Oh well; You can’t take it with you, as I said before that someone said before... I don't know if the phrase currently applies, to be honest. But it certainly makes shopping more harrowing.

I knew a man who would return his entire living room every ninety days to the local superstore, capitalizing on their generous return policy. I would  see him moving his couches, big screen television – everything – into a little $20-a-day rent-a-van quarter-annually. “Are you moving?” I would ask, knowing full well he would later return with a new batch of everything. He would smile, maybe wave a little. It was sort of our thing. 

Last November, though, he rolled into his driveway with that old blue Buick of his empty-handed. “What happened?” I asked him. And he stamped out a cigarette as he said, “I just realized what I have been doing with my life. And it made me a little sad, I suppose.” And with that, he went inside.

About a week later, however, the truck is back. So I take my stroll down the block and ask, “Are you moving?” in my typical cadence. And he smiles at me and replies, “I think I’m going to, yes... I think that I’ll give it a try.” And turning his keys, he drives off, never to be seen again. And even though I made that story up, to alleviate my hearing that he had shot himself inside his empty living room, I smile nostalgically. Because I would have respected that, you know? Trial and error...

Someone once asked me how I got into what I do, and after careful consideration I responded, “by getting out of what I did.” And I was pleased with myself, because I hadn’t really told him anything about me at all.

So, funny story...

So I'm talking to Haley on the internet, and I'm describing my new "girlfriend" that was implicitly supposed to be that seal that has shown up in so many of my posts. 

Meanwhile, my uncle Mick sends me a message on Skype saying he's in my old stomping grounds in New York for the week. 

I try to hold conversations with both of them: 

With Mick, I start talking about the Twins, his trip, etc.

With Haley, I start describing the 'attributes' of my new lady:

• She likes to swim
• Thick, brown hair
• Big eyes
• Usually covered in an oily substance
• Distinguished features

... etc.

My punchline was going to be sending a picture of Cindy Crawford in a bathing suit to Haley. I googled for the perfect one, and when I finally decided I cut-and-pasted the web address so that she could see it, and the joke would be over.

It turns out the joke was on me.

I had pasted the photo into my conversation with Mick instead. I waited a couple minutes in pained silence for a response. I tried to justify it to him, but there was no way to explain myself sending a bikini-clad model to my uncle from out of nowhere. 

Finally, Mick sent a reply: "I have no idea what that is". 

I tried to explain it a little further: 

DYLAN: i'm so sorry this is a ridiculous comedy of errors. this is why you never have two conversations at once, you end up sending a swimsuit-clad model picture to your uncle who is waiting for a business meeting! oh man, so much for multitasking. I am writing an explanation on my blog as we speak. I am doubled over in laughter. i'm sorry Mick that's beyond ridiculous that I sent that to you.

a moment passed. 

MICK: Gilleeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It turns out that someone else who Mick was meeting for business had taken his computer, and had mistaken me for a guy named Gill. 

MICK (or whoever he was meeting): Gilleeee did you send mike that naughty girlee picture!!!!

I signed off, in complete embarrassment. And we left it at that. 

I still feel gross. But I can't stop laughing about it.

The worst part was that Haley witnessed the whole thing on webcam, so now I'll never be able to live it down. 

Anyway, just thought I'd share.  

Happy Easter! (Here's some catch-up for those eggs)

Something was different about Easter this year; besides being in a different country, I mean. There were no tears, no lingering frustrations, about this morning. I sat in mass carefree, for the first year that I can really remember. The reason being is that the Easter Bunny over in Dublin is much less maniacal than the one back in Minneapolis. 

For years, I was tormented by increasingly aggravating locations of my Easter basket, accompanied by the nonsensical off-the-cuff clues that my father, his messenger, would grant me, and then justify in retrospect. In contrast, my sister's basket was likely to be found at the foot of her bed, or just underneath the coffee table, so while she munched away on delicious treats (like my kryptonite, Starburst jellybeans) I was left questioning if there even was a God on the day I was supposed to be celebrating his resurrection. All the while, Mr. Clues would sit on the living room sofa, donning his ancient red-robe that covered not nearly enough of his legs, a cowlick to make Alfalfa Switzer envious, silently laughing through his nostrils as he generously offered up another clue. 

I remember one year specifically that my mother pulled my into the bathroom, with puffy eyes and snot dripping down my face, and whispered with great emphasis the euthanizing words, "Look... behind... the drawer... in the living room!". I promptly did as I was told, and then pretended like I had come upon it by my own resources: we're a proud bunch, we Lambs. Even when covered in snot, we're proud. 

Outside of windows on the roof, hung by coat hangers behind an unused swinging door, underneath glass bottles in the recycling... and that's just ages 7-9. Some years it would be eight o'clock in the evening before I found it, having to give pause to my expedition to allow time for mass and a family party or two. Even in later years, when I would boycott the search altogether, the smug look on that disheveled man's face would bore into me to the point where, even at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, I was convinced that this would be the year that I would defy the fates and prove him wrong. It never happened. I have dreaded Easter ever since... and simultaneously can't wait to do the same thing to my kids one day. 

This year, Kathleen and I spent the morning at Easter service, followed by a nice brunch at Elephant & Castle, home of the best omelette in Dublin, and home made ginger ale. This was a great capper to an eventful week with my lovely aunt, which I believe warrants a Top 5:

1. The Dramatized "Stations of the Cross" at St. Mary's Church: We walked out, and Kathleen instantly said, "that will be burned in my memory for the rest of my life". Without saying much else, for fear of being struck by a bolt of lightning on this most sacred of days, I will say that if you told me that Christopher Guest had directed it I would believe it without hesitation. Put on by all local parishioners, the event showcased a tooth-optional Jesus, Simon in street clothes, an overly-contemplative Centurian guard (clearly the Brando of the bunch), and a howling group of female high-priests, who harmonized their unexpected shrieks like a chorus of stray dogs to the wails of Mary Magdalene (okay, bring on the lightning, I couldn't resist). Really, the best show in town. 
2. High Tea at the Shelbourne Hotel: This place was so nice it had its own barbershop next to the restrooms. Located right across to St. Steven's Green, the Shelbourne was one of those places that you never want to be rich enough to actually afford. It was fun to sample, however, and boy did we ever: a three-level feast of scones, sandwiches, and various pastries. 
3. Trip to Glendalough: A beautiful day in a beautiful part of the country, headlined by Irwin, our tour guide (and someone who should not be given a microphone -- I think he ended his sentences after every word), that had us (particularly me) cracking up all the way down and back. 
4. "All My Sons" at the Gate: Len Cariou, of Guthrie and original Sweeney Todd fame, was the lead, and was very good. It was interesting watching an American play performed by predominantly Irish actors, particularly because all of them had different regional dialects
5. Lamb Alley: I had been meaning to get over there, if only for the photo opportunity. Turns out, that's about all there was: it was most certainly an alley, with barbed wire and beer bottles decorating it. So much for our namesake! 

• Honorable Mentions: Easter Mass with the archbishop of Ireland, lunch at Bewley's Cafe

London finished up in fine fashion, as well. Noah and I went on a Jack the Ripper tour, and ended at a bar, The Ten Bells, that supposedly all of the slain prostitutes once frequented (a wonderful marketing ploy to say the least). The Tower of London was a highlight for me, since they were highlighting the controversy around Richard III (one of my favorite Shakespeare plays) and showcasing the armor of Henry VIII (who had the codpiece the size of a baseball helmet due to his terrible syphilis, the profile was quite amusing). We checked off the London Eye, Big Ben, Abbey Road, and Buckingham Palace, and spent Monday afternoon in Hyde Park on a paddle boat, attempting to catch a goose. 

Anna and I went on an adventure, setting out to find some graffiti art by this guy Banksy , who has kind of made a name for himself in New York but is originally from London. It turns out, his artwork was painted over, but it led us to the El Dorado of graffiti art. It was like walking through a museum, inside of this government-approved tunnel on Leake Street. It was a great payoff to our impromptu scavenger hunt. 

Before London, Katie and Tim were here! They flew into Dublin before heading westward to where the real action is, scenically speaking, then looped back for the last couple days before flying home Friday morning. The first day we were a little concerned that Tim was dying: a combination of jet-lag and sickness made a guy who's chipper even after a 70-hour workweek look like he was on his last legs. Luckily, he recovered in fine fashion, and they seemed to have a great time (I think taking over 600 pictures). I credit the mediocre Apache pizza, which we picked up and ate in their hotel room the first night,  as the miracle remedy that brought him back to good health. 

We did manage to squeeze in the Book of Kells that first day. I don't know what I was expecting, but for all the fanfare, it's one page of a (granted, well crafted and historically significant) book. Kathleen informed me that they change the page every day, however, so maybe after multiple viewings I'll get a better sense of it (though at eight bucks a pop, I'm skeptical). Anyway, check it off for experience. The Long Room upstairs in Trinity College, however, stole the show, stacked floor-to-ceiling with old books and statues of famous writers. 

I was writing Acts 2 and 3 of Bernie when they got back, but we managed to still have some fun as well. We went to dinner at Gruel (aka Sam Shepard's bathroom encounter) and they gave me a sampling of the pictures they had taken and the sights they had seen. I was glad that Tim was back to good, even clueing me in that T-Rex arms actually faced upwards and therefore were not as useless as depicted (believe it or not, it was relevant the conversation at the time... not sure how we got there, actually). We headed over to the Stag's Head pub afterward, on the recommendation of playwriting teacher Michael West, for a couple pints and more merriment: putting me in the perfect condition to write thirty pages when I went home (hey, it worked!). 

The next day we met for brunch at my favorite breakfast place "The Joy of Coffee" (I also took Mike and Haley there... I'm sort of a broken record), and afterwards made the leisurely walk to the Guinness factory. I personally thought it was better than Jamieson, for a couple of reasons: one, you could tour it on your own, instead of following a tour guide (though I believe they have that option as well), and two, there is a seven-story high bar (one of the very few skyscrapers in the city) with 360-degree windows where you can enjoy your pint that comes as complement with the ticket. There was a sign in the factory that read 'There's Poetry in a Pint of Guinness', so I figured there must be a play in there as well, if you had enough of it. Again, afterward, I walked home and knocked off my entire third act... I'm not one for superstitions, but...

Anyway, it's been great to have so many visitors and to visit new lands, but, as I told Liz in an email on Good Friday, I could use a couple days in the tomb myself! Unfortunately, it looks like a busy week: a history paper and an edited draft, full day of class on tuesday, class and a play on wednesday, and thursday/friday helping Jake with his final music video (not in drag... that I know of). The weekend is atypically free: I couldn't afford the ticket to Seville, but Chelsea heads in the following weekend to be the better cousin of the two of us. I guess her friend Munch is coming too. I'll be breathing easier by then. 

Here's a hodgepodge of pictures from the past couple of weeks (my computer's on overload, so I might have to upload more later. I'm also uploading some clips from The Stations onto my YouTube Channel, so check in on the sidebar in a little while to see what you missed). 

I think I've made myself sick from Starburst Jellybeans, so I'm off to remedy that. If you see that Bunny, punch him for me, will ya? 

- D

The Aran Islands

The gang ventured Westward to the Island of Inis Oirr, the smallest of the three Aran Islands, just off of the coast of Ireland's mainland. The island boasts about 250 full-time residents, probably four streetlights, and just about as many pubs. We stopped in Galway on the way over and spent the afternoon perusing through street markets, walking the beach along Galway Bay, and squeezing in some fish and chips at McDonaugh's (?), which Susanne dubs "the best in Ireland" (we got cod -- they were out of the ray). Erin recommends the mushy peas for a lighter vegetarian alternative.

On the Island, we were treated to a home-cooked meal at one of the pubs (the name escapes me at the moment), which warmed us up a little from the nasty weather outside. After checking out the local night life (read: drinking some really cheap Guinness with a few, shall we say, regulars), we called it an evening and snuggled in at a local hostel. (Some slept more soundly than others: I apparently snored -- uncharacteristically, of course). 

After a nice light breakfast, a local woman came in to talk about the island, and its rivalry with the two other islands Inishmore and Inishmaan. After that was free time, and I took the opportunity to walk along the rocks at the coast of the Island -- probably my personal highlight. We met back up for lunch at the same pub we had dinner in, and from there were treated to a horse-and-carriage ride around the Island. The driver took us to a shipwreck on the far coast, and we were allowed to explore a little bit as the sun finally decided to come out. 

We had to hurry back to catch the last ferry off of the island (we made it). On the way back, a rescue helicopter practiced emergency landings on the back of our boat: an added bonus as we sat on the ferry's deck. The four-hour ride home went quickly enough, thanks to our driver Francis' two young grandsons providing entertainment from their "bunk beds" in the overhead compartments.

Currently, I am with Kristine and Noah in London (!) visiting my pals Anna and Jordan for the weekend. Anna is studying with the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts this semeseter, while Jordan is taking advantage of NYU's study abroad program in the Film / TV writing focus. Today we walked Abbey Road (great picture, I'll upload it when I get back), and saw an awful, awful production of the musical Blood Brothers on the West End, breaking my "consecutive plays I liked" streak at four. Tomorrow should be more eventful; Buckingham Palace, London Eye, Tower of London, the Globe, and a Jack the Ripper tour in the evening. We fly back Monday night, so it's a quick jaunt but a fun one nonetheless.

I am pleased to say that I have finished a draft of "Madoff In The Garden", as I am calling it. While it still needs a lot of work, to type the words "End of Play" after 90-plus pages (most of them written sometime in the past week) is an exhilarating feeling, and I treated myself accordingly to a pastry at the local bakery. 

Irish playwright Mark O'Rowe came to speak to our Contemporary Irish Theatre class this week, which was a little awe-inspiring since we had just read two of his plays and watched a movie that he wrote the week before. He was so down to earth and made me excited to be writing, which is all I could ever hope for in meeting influential writers. I just rocked a paper in that class as well, so consider my step spring-loaded academically speaking. 

Kathleen flies in on Wednesday morning, and I am very excited to be spending the Easter Holiday with her. I will report on our outings, as well as the rest of this trip, very soon.

Your April Fool,

Dylan