Call me Chekhov

A day, like a story, needs an arc to end. This is the dilemma I face at 2:30 in the morning, after spending my day off reading a novel (Eureka Street, for class) and consuming double-digit cups of tea, not leaving the house except for a brief half-awake foray to the baker's for a loaf of bread and box of said tea. I now buy cheap tea (Ireland's favorite, the box says) and have it with a spoon of sugar--a far cry from my loose-leaf Darjeeling days. The teaspoons here are truly teaspoons, though, while the tablespoons are more like shovels.

It helps that Eureka Street (Robert McLiam Wilson) is a pretty easy novel to read, to stop, and to start again. Bombs in Belfast with one-liners with profanity that you'll have to consult me in private for, as I've been informed that we have younger readers around.

In other news, I received an e-mail by "an avid reader of Dublin on Nitrogen" asking that I mention an unnamed NYC band on the blog. Apparently my posts on classical masterpieces and experimental contemporary music convinced him that I was looking to expand into the genre of forgettably mediocre indie rock. What can you do, people just pulling at me from all directions in an attempt to reach the coveted "Andrew's friends and relatives" demographic.

On some blogs, people post e-mail addresses with an invitation to bombard that person with angry e-mails. I'm going to try this. Any one of you who has pent-up aggression, please misdirect this aggression to: Congratulations! It worked! If it elicits the proper response ("Please remove my e-mail address, my inbox is overflowing and paramilitary groups are threatening my family. Sincerely, Bryan.") then I will throw a celebratory dinner. You're all invited, provided you fly to Dublin.