I Like To Be...Part 2
Just in case I'd moved in the past three years and hadn't noticed, I re-took the test at politicalcompass.org. And lo, I've hardly moved an inch. I am -1.88 economically and +3.28 socially, placing me where I belong in the Authoritarian Left. Not sure where this would put me in Congress, but that's not something I need worry about.
I wrote an article on the subject once for the YDN and, acceding to a request, the archival link to me can be found at http://www.yaledailynews.com/Search.aspx?Search=nick+baldock. As well as my articles, you can also find a bad review I got for 'Betrayal,' which was almost fair enough. I mean, I don't like the play. I don't like Pinter and I don't like Beckett, and Pinter on Beckett -
'I don’t want philosophies, tracts, dogmas, creeds, ways out, truths, answers, nothing from the bargain basement. He is the most courageous, remorseless writer going and the more he grinds my nose in the shit the more I am grateful to him'
- neatly illustrates why. Recondite nihilist scatology is not a sign of brilliance.
I also once wrote a piece on the whimsical nature of desire, which has again been occupying my thoughts. Why do some people make the heart leap and the pulse quicken while other, perfectly attractive people, have as much erotic effect as - well, as Beckett?
But this is not directly connected with my American diary, other than the fact that I left DC for New York and my friend Henry took me out to the Phoenix, which is a rather dingy gay bar in the East Village. I have a fantasy idea - I nearly wrote Platonic ideal, but that doesn't seem quite appropriate in the context - of gay bars, which involves studs in their twenties throwing themselves at me in an environment of perspex, chrome and formica. (Goodness knows why, because I'd hate to live in an environment of perspex, chrome and formica). The lighting is subtle and flattering, the music at a level not necessitating conversation conducted at a volume akin to the Heathrow flightpath. The latter in particular is not conducive to flirtation: sidling up to someone and yelling 'I SAID, YOU'VE GOT NICE EYES' somehow doesn't quite catch the mood.
That's not a very original chat-up line, but then I've never used a chat-up line. I've used lines intended to evince interest, but that's not quite the same thing. 'I'm new here, can you tell me how the library works?' was fairly successful, but difficult to repeat. I once accidentally invited a line by wearing silver-glitter nail varnish, but that's a whole different story. In fact, my dating career can more or less be summed up by Eartha Kitt: 'think of all the fun I've missed, / Think of all the fellas that I haven't kissed.' Maybe a short series for later.
But anyway, this place seemed to be under-populated, cold, and frequented by the middle-aged types who wear strange haircuts and unflattering sleeveless clothes and generally look at you in much the same way as do fish in aquariums. And the walls needed repointing.
Fortunately I had Henry with me. Henry will be eternally blessed for suffering through the tribulations of my Adventures in Dermatology, and for once meeting me in Starbucks and refusing to leave me until I'd bought a new pair of trousers to replace the shoddy and vast corduroys I was wearing. Henry gave me pep-talks and, by occasionally telling me to 'get over myself,' probably provided better, and certainly cheaper, therapy than a psychiatrist. Incidentally, the Yale department responsible for this branch of well-being is called 'Mental Hygiene,' which evokes horrible images of sterilisation and white-coated people snapping rubber gloves and claiming that it won't hurt a bit.
(Even more incidentally, Sweden abolished compulsory sterilisation in 1976. How long before compulsory genetic manipulation of the embryo? Just wondering).
I met a brilliant friend of mine late that night, had a couple of drinks and a slightly emotional farewell - another case of appalling timing - and then I went back to my Club. I've always wanted to be able to say that, and thanks to the Yale Club of New York, I can. In truth, the accommodation isn't much above a decent-ish Holiday Inn, but it's convenient and relatively inexpensive and exclusive enough to appeal to possibly a not very nice part of me. When I grow up and get a real job, I want to join the Oxford and Cambridge Club, but it's far too expensive.
Playing with the TV, I discovered a marvellous channel that only played songs from musicals. No visuals, apart from wallpaper. My students would regard this as Hell. Even in a gay bar I'd consider it somewhat outre. It's the sort of indulgence that should be shared only among the select; rather like gnosticism, but without the mystic self-justification. Much in the same way of initiation, though, and the Cathars would probably have had a contribution to make.
And then the following morning I watched Liverpool play 45 minutes of beautiful football as they defeated Aston Villa 3-0, then packed my bags and caught the train to New Haven.
I wrote an article on the subject once for the YDN and, acceding to a request, the archival link to me can be found at http://www.yaledailynews.com/Search.aspx?Search=nick+baldock. As well as my articles, you can also find a bad review I got for 'Betrayal,' which was almost fair enough. I mean, I don't like the play. I don't like Pinter and I don't like Beckett, and Pinter on Beckett -
'I don’t want philosophies, tracts, dogmas, creeds, ways out, truths, answers, nothing from the bargain basement. He is the most courageous, remorseless writer going and the more he grinds my nose in the shit the more I am grateful to him'
- neatly illustrates why. Recondite nihilist scatology is not a sign of brilliance.
I also once wrote a piece on the whimsical nature of desire, which has again been occupying my thoughts. Why do some people make the heart leap and the pulse quicken while other, perfectly attractive people, have as much erotic effect as - well, as Beckett?
But this is not directly connected with my American diary, other than the fact that I left DC for New York and my friend Henry took me out to the Phoenix, which is a rather dingy gay bar in the East Village. I have a fantasy idea - I nearly wrote Platonic ideal, but that doesn't seem quite appropriate in the context - of gay bars, which involves studs in their twenties throwing themselves at me in an environment of perspex, chrome and formica. (Goodness knows why, because I'd hate to live in an environment of perspex, chrome and formica). The lighting is subtle and flattering, the music at a level not necessitating conversation conducted at a volume akin to the Heathrow flightpath. The latter in particular is not conducive to flirtation: sidling up to someone and yelling 'I SAID, YOU'VE GOT NICE EYES' somehow doesn't quite catch the mood.
That's not a very original chat-up line, but then I've never used a chat-up line. I've used lines intended to evince interest, but that's not quite the same thing. 'I'm new here, can you tell me how the library works?' was fairly successful, but difficult to repeat. I once accidentally invited a line by wearing silver-glitter nail varnish, but that's a whole different story. In fact, my dating career can more or less be summed up by Eartha Kitt: 'think of all the fun I've missed, / Think of all the fellas that I haven't kissed.' Maybe a short series for later.
But anyway, this place seemed to be under-populated, cold, and frequented by the middle-aged types who wear strange haircuts and unflattering sleeveless clothes and generally look at you in much the same way as do fish in aquariums. And the walls needed repointing.
Fortunately I had Henry with me. Henry will be eternally blessed for suffering through the tribulations of my Adventures in Dermatology, and for once meeting me in Starbucks and refusing to leave me until I'd bought a new pair of trousers to replace the shoddy and vast corduroys I was wearing. Henry gave me pep-talks and, by occasionally telling me to 'get over myself,' probably provided better, and certainly cheaper, therapy than a psychiatrist. Incidentally, the Yale department responsible for this branch of well-being is called 'Mental Hygiene,' which evokes horrible images of sterilisation and white-coated people snapping rubber gloves and claiming that it won't hurt a bit.
(Even more incidentally, Sweden abolished compulsory sterilisation in 1976. How long before compulsory genetic manipulation of the embryo? Just wondering).
I met a brilliant friend of mine late that night, had a couple of drinks and a slightly emotional farewell - another case of appalling timing - and then I went back to my Club. I've always wanted to be able to say that, and thanks to the Yale Club of New York, I can. In truth, the accommodation isn't much above a decent-ish Holiday Inn, but it's convenient and relatively inexpensive and exclusive enough to appeal to possibly a not very nice part of me. When I grow up and get a real job, I want to join the Oxford and Cambridge Club, but it's far too expensive.
Playing with the TV, I discovered a marvellous channel that only played songs from musicals. No visuals, apart from wallpaper. My students would regard this as Hell. Even in a gay bar I'd consider it somewhat outre. It's the sort of indulgence that should be shared only among the select; rather like gnosticism, but without the mystic self-justification. Much in the same way of initiation, though, and the Cathars would probably have had a contribution to make.
And then the following morning I watched Liverpool play 45 minutes of beautiful football as they defeated Aston Villa 3-0, then packed my bags and caught the train to New Haven.
posted by BoB at 10:07 AM
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