Stately, plump Buck Mulligan...
At around 2 pm today I'm at the bank, filling out a deposit slip. I go to fill in the date, and something seems oddly familiar. June 16. What is that? Why is that sigificant?
Then I remembered... It's Bloomsday.
Bloomsday is a holiday celebrating James Joyce's novel, Ulysses. The story is about a day in Dublin: June 16, 1904. Well, it's about a day in the life of Leopold Bloom, one of Dublin's few Jews, on June 16, 1904. It's also about a day in the life of a lot of other characters, and how the entirety of what we can know about in life can go on in one day in Dublin. That's what I get from it, anyway.
I'm a Ulysses nerd. A serious one. I wrote my college honors thesis on two chapters in the book. I even took a vacation to Dublin - alone - and followed the footsteps of Leo Bloom and Stephen Daedalus. I had lunch at Davy Byrne's Pub, just like Bloom, and hiked out to a watchtower on the beach where Stephen lived with Buck Mulligan.
Normally I have something planned for Bloomsday at least a week in advance. One year I saw stars reading the book at Symphony Space, another year I took the day off and wandered around. Last year was the 100th anniversary, and I foolishly assumed that something cool would be taking place at a bar called Ulysses in the Wall Street district. Well, they advertised that something cool would be taking place, but I foolishly assumed that the two million drunken traders looking to cheat on their wives would clear out so the Joyce nerds could discuss usurpers and organ meats. I asked HG to meet me in the midst of this madhouse - so he could see what the whole thing was about. When I showed up, I could see his head peaking out of the crowd, looking at me like: "Is this what you wanted to show me? A sea of sleazy Long Islanders in rumpled Dockers high-fiving each other's ass-pinching technique?" He said on his way there he crossed paths with an older gentleman in a Joyce t-shirt leaving the bar, shaking his head with a puzzled look on his face.
This year I completely forgot about it.
Baby brain, countless deadlines, lack of Internet exposure until just a few days ago... all are worthy excuses, right? And this city is a crappy place to attempt to celebrate. I can't get no Bloomsday satisfaction in the NYC.
But the real problem is: I am old. This is not self-pity, it's acceptance. I am too old to celebrate my birthday with my former gusto, I hardly ever get dressed up for Halloween anymore, I stay in most New Year's Eves - so why should I be bothered to get bothered about Bloomsday? My passenger will prevent me for simply going out to have a pint, so what is left?
I figure a blog entry is effort enough. That, and I may tackle this article I printed last year and never got to. It's the original review of Ulysses from the New York Times.
Oh, if you want a little taste of the book, they're broadcasting readings on WBAI in New York, 99.5 FM, tonight from 7 pm to midnight.
Then I remembered... It's Bloomsday.
Bloomsday is a holiday celebrating James Joyce's novel, Ulysses. The story is about a day in Dublin: June 16, 1904. Well, it's about a day in the life of Leopold Bloom, one of Dublin's few Jews, on June 16, 1904. It's also about a day in the life of a lot of other characters, and how the entirety of what we can know about in life can go on in one day in Dublin. That's what I get from it, anyway.
I'm a Ulysses nerd. A serious one. I wrote my college honors thesis on two chapters in the book. I even took a vacation to Dublin - alone - and followed the footsteps of Leo Bloom and Stephen Daedalus. I had lunch at Davy Byrne's Pub, just like Bloom, and hiked out to a watchtower on the beach where Stephen lived with Buck Mulligan.
Normally I have something planned for Bloomsday at least a week in advance. One year I saw stars reading the book at Symphony Space, another year I took the day off and wandered around. Last year was the 100th anniversary, and I foolishly assumed that something cool would be taking place at a bar called Ulysses in the Wall Street district. Well, they advertised that something cool would be taking place, but I foolishly assumed that the two million drunken traders looking to cheat on their wives would clear out so the Joyce nerds could discuss usurpers and organ meats. I asked HG to meet me in the midst of this madhouse - so he could see what the whole thing was about. When I showed up, I could see his head peaking out of the crowd, looking at me like: "Is this what you wanted to show me? A sea of sleazy Long Islanders in rumpled Dockers high-fiving each other's ass-pinching technique?" He said on his way there he crossed paths with an older gentleman in a Joyce t-shirt leaving the bar, shaking his head with a puzzled look on his face.
This year I completely forgot about it.
Baby brain, countless deadlines, lack of Internet exposure until just a few days ago... all are worthy excuses, right? And this city is a crappy place to attempt to celebrate. I can't get no Bloomsday satisfaction in the NYC.
But the real problem is: I am old. This is not self-pity, it's acceptance. I am too old to celebrate my birthday with my former gusto, I hardly ever get dressed up for Halloween anymore, I stay in most New Year's Eves - so why should I be bothered to get bothered about Bloomsday? My passenger will prevent me for simply going out to have a pint, so what is left?
I figure a blog entry is effort enough. That, and I may tackle this article I printed last year and never got to. It's the original review of Ulysses from the New York Times.
Oh, if you want a little taste of the book, they're broadcasting readings on WBAI in New York, 99.5 FM, tonight from 7 pm to midnight.
posted by j.m. at 4:01 PM
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