Sunday Errata 2/18: It’s All Grand
Last week’s Stinger and the Rats post has become quite popular, thanks in large part to the mention it received in The Yourdon Report. And of the many appreciative, bemused, and/or automated responses it’s generated, one has touched me in particular: a brief comment left by my old pal, Irish Nick.
Nick and I met nearly ten years ago, back when I was a junior in college, and he was pursuing post-graduate work at Colby: he was an exchange student from Cork — who’d never seen more than six people congregated in one place at one time — and I was absent my intended roommate, who had suddenly (and mysteriously) transfered to Boston College.
Nick was a poet, I was a writer. He’d recently suffered a rough breakup, and I was entering Year Three of my own. He looked like Mel Gibson, circa Mad Max, while I (because, by Year Three, I was slowly losing my mind, and had dyed my hair to match) looked like Jared Leto from Fight Club — either before or after Ed Norton rearranges his face, depending on how much I’d had to drink the night before. To quote Nico out of context, we were like two pissholes in the snow, we two.
Today, Nick’s married, and lives with his wife and son in Pamplona. Consequently, I haven’t seen him since the wedding, and would like to dedicate this Sunday Errata to an Irish idiom I learned at that blessed occasion. See, I’d always enjoyed how Nick referred to all things — people, places, and events — as “grand.” I’d ask how a lecture went, and he’d go, “Oh, y’know — it was grand.” Why say something — or someone, or somewhere — was good, or okay, when you just as easily call it grand? Damned classy.
So, the day before Nick’s wedding, when his mom (a sweatheart) asked how I liked the hotel where I was staying, I replied, “Grand!” You know, because it was perfectly nice — but I wanted to slap a little Irish on it. Anyhow, she recoiled — and then decided to indulge my mistake, explaining that “grand” (as it’s bandied about in Cork) actually means, “Fine, and fuck you very much for asking.”
How was your weekend? Well, if you watched a little TV, did some laundry, and hit the snooze button a few times, it was fine. If water damage caused the guest room’s ceiling to collapse while your sister-in-law was visiting, so she got to share the big bed with your wife while you slept in the bathtub? Then it was grand. Next question.
(Looking back, I’ve got to put all that Nick’s ever said into perspective: everything — and I mean absolutely everything — was always absolutely and unequivocally grand … suggesting he’s been begging me to shut the hell up for nearly a decade. Huh. Well, tough shit for him.)
A somewhat long-winded introduction to this week’s Sunday Errata, perhaps, but I wanted to give Nick his due. So, Nico, thanks for reading along; as always, hugs and kisses to you and the family. As for the rest of you out there, a smattering of recent events that I can now accurately categorize as grand:
• The Run-Up to the 2008 Presidential Elections? Grand.
First, let’s be clear: I’m meant to prepare myself for the 2008 election now? Then I’d like to officially declare the run-up to my 32nd birthday. Seriously, the first primary is nearly eleven months away — and yet the first debate’s being held in April? And I’m supposed to start paying attention to what Hillary’s saying in Iowa, or what the Australian Prime Minister thinks of Obama, now?
Here’s my stance: unless Obama hits a kid with his car (bonus points if it’s a little, blond girl), or Hillary drops the Z-bomb (Zionist), or Mitt Romney declares all Quakers are pussies, I refuse to acknowledge any campaign rhetoric until October. Go do your fucking jobs, you humps! You’re elected officials — we’re not just voters, we’re your bosses.
• The Run-Up to War with Iran? Grand.
Speaking of which — we all see this happening, yes? There’s zero room for misinterpretation, right? Look, even two years ago, we’d all hang our heads and whimper — Bush’s administration seemed just that powerful. Whether or not they bothered to justify their whims (WMDs, 9/11, planting the seed of democracy, WWJD), they could push any policy through Senate and Congress — and the media, scared of its own shadow, said nothing.
But it’s a new day! Instead of pissing around with non-binding resolutions on Iraq, maybe write a binding resolution on Iran? You know, before we’re stuck in a much larger country, with a better prepared army and funds to match our own? (Consequently, every time Bush rattles his saber, the price of oil goes up. You want to talk about “emboldening the enemy?”)
• The Run-Up to the 2007 Major League Baseball Season? Grand.
Actually, I couldn’t be happier. Pitcher and catchers have reported to camp, meaning the long, cold winter’s finally over (despite all evidence to the contrary)! I’ve been deprived of the Yankees since October — and, even more devastating, it’s been since September that I last set a fantasy lineup. Five months! My joy is like a preemie, clinging to the promise of life.
No, the “grand” stamp comes courtesy of Lis. I can’t imagine her problem: I’ve joined two fantasy leagues, which are holding back-to-back drafts on 3/24 and 3/25 (each a 4-5 hour affair), the latter necessitating that I drive down to Philly for the night. I mean, what’s to complain about? Countless posts will surely follow; in the meantime, I have 87 hours of research to do.
• The Run-Up to American’s Next Top Model? Grand.
And this is my penance, watching this tripe with Lis. By the way, I heard Tyra got fat. Seriously — like, 161 lbs. That’s fat. I mean, faaaaa-aa-aat. FAT. If I were her, I’d cancel the show and get my fat ass back to the gym. Considering the camera adds 162 lbs.? Yeah, I’d think long and fat about postponing production at least 14 months.
(Did it work? No? Crap.)
And finally …
• The Run-Up to my 30th Birthday? Grand.
Hard to say whether you should expect another post on this topic — I might just duck the subject for another two weeks, then act all surprised whenever someone brings it up.
But, last night, my parents asked how I was feeling about the big day, and I came up with this response: back when I’d first graduated college, and was liable to stay out till three or four in the morning, I always felt there was the Early Portion of the night (7-11), and the Late Portion of the night (11-4) — and that there were, accordingly, the early and late stages of each Portion.
For example, if a friend was meeting us out “early,” and it was already 10:30, I might wonder if something had happened — because he was running late, within the context of the Early Portion. But if another friend had made plans to join us “late,” and he showed up at 11:15? I’d consider him prompt, since 11:15 was only a matter of minutes into the Late Portion of the evening. Make sense?
Anyhow, at 29, I’m ticking down the final seconds of the Late Portion of my 20s; it’s my sincere hope that, within a matter of months, I’ll come to see myself as comfortably occupying the Early Portion of my 30s. Or so say. Fucking INXS formed 30 years ago, and that’s a long time. You remember what happened to Michael Hutchence, don’t you?
(That was ten years ago, Nico — hard to believe.)
