Hostel Conditions

Before I begin: I do not have extensive experience in hostels, nor was my experience with Erika exactly indicative of the hostel experience. I have heard rumors of some terrible, terrible places where one needs to sleep with his or her shoes on, and your wallet in tucked into your underwear.

That said, I don't know what everyone is so concerned about with hostels. To save money on our trip to London, Erika and I stayed in a hostel about forty minutes outside of central London in a neighborhood called Acton Town (or Acton). The Windmill was mostly a pub. Situated on the corner of an extremely ethnic community (meaning that there were a variety of ethnicities; I think Erika summed it up best: you don't hear a lot of English accents around here). For those familiar with London, Acton is right on the border of Zone 2 and Zone 3. An all day Tube pass for two people from Zone 3 to Zone 1 costs around 14 pounds. This is pertinant information when considering the cost of the stay: a double bed room cost $23 per person per night, or roughly $96 for the entire stay. This was a private room, with a shared bathroom.

Granted, we definitely got what we paid for. The carpet in the room was threadbare at best, and at worst, there was an iron shaped burn on the carpet where someone failed to iron a shirt correctly. The bed was a cheap frame with not the nicest of mattresses on it. But, it was clean, the sheets were washed before we got there, and it was quiet (which is something that not a lot of hostels can boast).

The bathrooms left a little to be desired, and one morning there was quite a backup. But these allowed for moments to meet new people. The first day, Erika had a broken conversation with an Italian woman waiting to shower. The next day, I had a pleasant conversation with a German guy, about our age. Knowing a little German was a nice trick here, and he was impressed that, as an American, I could speak a foreign language. Inside, the bathroom were boarder line deplorable. The tub had no curtain, and no shower. There was a detached head that you held and, as you squatted in the tub, ran over you. Because most people ended up shooting water into the bathroom, as I did (and am sure Erika did as well), the linoleum had swelled, bubbled, and in places, separated entirely from the floor. This gave the floor an unnatural squishy feeling that was at once pleasant and horrifying. The toilet room was little more than a closet with a window that was surprisingly open for how low to the ground it felt. The locks on both left a lot to be desired, and when Erika had to pee late at night, I was recruited to stand guard (a good practice when staying in places like this anyways).

Another fun fact I learned while at the hostel: London has some huge bees. To air the room out, Erika opened the window which didn't have a screen, and we went down to eat at the pub. Once we got back, as we were about to nod off for a nap before hitting the town, we heard what I thought was someone's cell phone on vibrate left on a rickety table. We investigated the window to find a bee the size of a quarter trying to fly out the closed window and protesting greatly. It didn't seem to realize that it was stronger than both of us and could overpower a better part of the hostel with little resistance, so it remained trapped between the curtain and the window frame. We left it there for a while, hoping that it would fly out on it's own volition, as we tried in vain to sleep again. After a few fruitless minutes of nervous tossing, Erika and I corralled the beast out the open window using a Tuper-ware lid and sheer will power. We never opened that window again.

Despite all of these drawbacks, I would stay at this hostel again without question. The people there really made the experience. It is run by an older Irish woman who seems to live in the bar and carries herself with a stern determination that both Erika and I mistook for disapproval. Erika, whose mother is Guatemalan and whose father is Irish, was a little worried that her Latina appearance might raise some eyebrows. Luckily, she was one drop in a pool of unrecognizable ethnicities that lives in Acton. Nonetheless, as she handed the woman her card, she looked at the card for a moment, and then at Erika. Then back at the card.
"Doyle?" The woman said, not cracking a smile, seemingly glaring at Erika over her glasses.
"Yeah..." Erika said, nervously.
She looked back at the card, and then at Erika.
"Where did you get that name?"
"Oh. Um...my Dad is Irish."
At this the woman perked up.
"Oh? From where?"
At this moment, an argument I had been making with Erika became clear to her. See: in America no one identifies him or herself as American. Instead, as a country of immigrants, everyone identifies him- or herself as their lineage. For instance, Erika constantly tells people that she is half Guatemalan, half Irish. While this might be true on some cultural level, she is really American. Just like I am (though, often times I tell people that I am Irish, when I am stateside). In America, this is how people explain idiosyncrasies, like Erika's taste for Latin food, and her inability to show up on time: these are all because she is Guatemalan. Here, though, she is American. And when I stressed against claiming to be Irish here, Erika thought I was trying to deny her heritage.
When Erika made the claimed that her father was Irish (i.e. from Ireland), this woman rightfully thought that Erika's father had come over to America from Ireland, and that Erika was essentially a first generation Irish-Guatemalan-American. This is not the case, and Erika was stuck having to explain that her father, an American, did not reveal where his lineage had originally come from generations ago, when some number of great-grandfather or mother came overseas.
The woman was crestfallen because Doyle as a popular name in her part of Ireland (the part she actually came from in her life time), and there may have been a chance that she knew her parents.
When we got back to the room, Erika said, "Oh....I get what you mean now. I am American, because the real Irish people are actually closer over here."

Despite this initial confusion, the woman was really rather pleasant. She struck up a conversation with us, told us where we should go if we visited Ireland and was pleased to see us for the shorter trip the second time we came through.

Beside her, the bar staff was really friendly. Erika spoke Spanish with the bar girl who was actually from Spain. The bar regulars were pretty nice, as well. When we got there, Erika had bought along my guitar from home. As we crossed the bar to go upstairs, an older gentleman at the bar yelled, "Hey! Can you play that thing?"
No, I thought, I just like to carry the case around. It goes well with my shoes.
Being polite, I said I did, and he asked that I bring it back down when we came back to order food. I played a small set for a few regulars in the bar on a Friday afternoon. They were very appreciative, and used the opportunity to spin yarns, tell tales, and do other cliched things that older Irish men tend to do. Had he a walking stick, a pipe and a wool sweater, I might have mistaken myself for being in the Gaelic country side, and not a busy corner in London.

Again, this hostel was far from ordinary, at least as far as some stories I have heard. It was, though, hostel, hotel or guest house, a really nice stay. I don't know if any of my loyal readers are going to be in London any time soon, but if you are looking for a good hostel to stay at that is close to central London (the Tube got us there in under a half hour), cheap, clean(ish) and friendly, then one could do worse than The Windmill.

Three if by train

Public transportation allows for the traveller to get a good sense of who really lives in the country. This is particularly true if you take, say, the ex-con friendly Greyhound bus in America. When Erika came in, it was cheaper to land at Heathrow International Airport in London, rather than the considerably closer Birmingham International Airport in Birmingham. This requires two trains and a subway trip to get here totally approximately six hours among the English and Welsh.

The two trains are run by alternate companies: Arriva Trains, which run from Aberystwyth to Birmingham and the Virgin Trains from Birmingham to London. The difference could not be more stark. The Virgin trains are clean, modern, have well lit cabins and toilets. Each seat has an electronic message board that informs the potential rider if the seat is available or reserved. The tables are clean and the floor isn't suspiciously sticky with random food stuffs left behind by the previous riders. The Arriva Trains, on the other hand, are like a war torn version of the Virgin Trains. The seats are faded and worn, threadbare in places, the stuffing pushing through the seats. On the return trip from London, the floor was covered in a mess of food that was at times crunchy, at other times soggy. There are no electronic messages letting people know which seats are taken and which are not.

The scenery that the two trains go through is also in stark contrast. Most of the time, I leave or arrive in Aberystwyth too late or early to really see what the country side looks like, but the Arriva Train tends to weave its way through hills and sheep farms. The landscape is gorgeous: rolling hills, dotted by the occasional village full of ancient houses and pubs. The sheep fields push right up to the train lines, and they stand and watch the trains go by, idly chewing the grass. The sheep were a particular interest for Erika, who has spent most of her life in the suburbs of Chicago where sheep are not a regularly seen. She was a bit exhausted from the time change when we left London, so she slept through the English country side, but said, "Wake me when there are going to be some sheep." Once in the sheep-infested country side of Wales, she would squeal each time a collection of sheep were close enough to the train to see clearly, especially so if there were lambs with them.
"OH! Look at the babies! They are so cute, the baby sheepies!"
"I know. Don't they look delicious?"
"They don't eat those cute things do they?"
[Pause]
"Right? They don't?"
"Oh no, Erika. Those live long, fulfilling lives. With names and houses and things."
"Good. I wonder what the funerals look like..."
I am pretty sure the jaded Welsh on the train were getting a little annoyed with her youthful exuberance, but the lambs were pretty cute. They would stand by the fence watching the train approach, and then once the train went roaring past, they would take off running in all directions, looking over their shoulders to see if the train was following. I couldn't tell if they were scared or were playing some game the train was not aware of.

The Virgin Trains cut a straight swath through Central England, which is not unlike Central Illinois: flat farm land stretching away in either direction for miles, coupled with dingy industrial towns where the sky and the buildings are a sort of sooty gray color. Because London is such a congested city, there are not a whole lot of semi-truck traffic, and these trucks are then routed to the major cities around London (like Birmingham and Rugby). This makes for a less than attractive train ride, but luckily, the train is so luxurious that it doesn't matter what the scenery looks like.

The Virgin Trains, traveling between major cities in England, calls at several stations, and there is never a question why. The stations are huge, centrally located and occupied by dozens of tired looking business travelers. Birmingham New Street is particularly crowded. On my train ride in January, when I first arrived, I got off at Birmingham New Street which is after the stop for the Birmingham Airport. This time, as the train pulled in to the Airport station, I noticed that Erika's ticket said we needed to transfer there. I hustled her off the train and boarded the Aberystwyth Train across the platform. We were two of maybe six passengers that got on the train there, and immediately found seats in the wheelchair priority seats. This afforded us some killer leg room, though we did feel guilty for taking a seat intended for the friends of crippled passenger. We told ourselves, had someone in a wheel chair boarded the train, we would move, but I know I silently prayed for that not to happen.

It turned out that was a good decision, as half of Birmingham boarded the train at New Street. It was standing room only on the train, and there was a group of rather boisterous men that standing in the hallway by the bathroom cheering the users on.
"How was your trip?"
"Shut up."
"You were in there a long time for it not to be enjoyable."
"I said, shut up!"
These people glared at us in our splendor, spread out with our legs fully extended as they perched in the luggage compartments, and between seats. Once we got to Shrewsbury, though, everyone had their own seat.

The Arriva train, though, makes some rather strange stops, namely Dovey Junction. This is literally a platform in a bog. There is one house on the south side of the tracks, and it looks abandoned. Otherwise, marshy lands stretch as far as the eye can see, running into hills and that roll in to more hills. I have never once seen anyone get on the train at Dovey Junction. The platform looks immaculate, with new benches and a rain pagoda. On the train back from London, one guy got off at Dovey Junction. The train pulled away into the encroaching darkness and he stood by himself on the platform, surrounding by nothing with nothing coming to get him.

Public transportation is always sketchy when it comes to timing arrivals. I sort of find it absurd the times they give for trains: Leaving Aberystwyth at 5:24 and arriving in Birmingham at 7:12. That is an awfully specific time for something that travels several hundred miles and stops at several stations. The Arriva trains are never on time. They are much closer to the time than Amtrak trains, which are almost criminally late, but still, there is about a five to ten minute leeway for the Arriva trains.

The Virgin Trains, though, must be run by some local Germans because they are amazingly punctual and efficient. We left Birmingham and were supposed to arrive in the London Euston station at 2:14, and as I got off the train, the clock read 2:14. It stopped three times, took about an hour and a half and landed in the train at exactly 2:14. The train master was pleased with himself and instructed us all to tell everyone we know that the trains run on time. So there: I have fulfilled my civic duty. Virgin Trains run on time. Not a minute late or early.

Despite the cleanliness, the punctuality, the ease of travel, the scenery and all that, the most interesting part of the train are the people. On Amtrak trains, all the seats face in the same direction, and you will, at most, have to suffer through one other person's company. Americans can sometimes be horrible isolationist, and I know I suffer from the same problem. I hate when someone sits next to me on the Amtrak of Metra trains. I want to ride the train in silence, reading my book or listening to my iPod. Certainly not talking to a stranger, making an acquaintance.

The English and Welsh trains demand communication with other people. Most of the chairs are clustered around a table, seating four people at a table. If you sit there, you could be force to interact with three other people, kicking each other under the table, sharing experiences, making small talk about the price of coffee on the train, and other terrible situations. On the way out there, I shared space with a girl who listened to her iPod and annotated music she was listening to. On almost every trip someone reads the paper, brushing you with the pages as he or she turns the page. The two young men across from Erika and I shared their chocolate snacks with us, and in another trip someone asked us if we knew any Damien Rice songs to help him with his cross-word puzzle. On one trip I was saddled with someone who purposefully dressed like a Highlander (his crutches finishing the look, appearing like swords - which raised an interesting question: why would you wear knee high leather platform boots while on crutches?).

And the booze always gets me. America has an odd relationship with it's booze. There are certain stigmas attached with drinking in certain places, and people drinking on the train are not people one would normally want to associate with. Everyone on the train was drinking. I saw one woman nurse a beer while doing complicated marketing assignments. The two with the chocolate snacks drank an eight back of 18 oz. cider ales. The food trolley sells three different ales or ciders, and the sweets counter in the Virgin Trains sells a wide array of hard drinks. I took an Amtrak train to Galesburg once, and someone sat drinking Budweisers from cans the entire three hour trip and I remember everyone whispering about how he must have been an alcoholic to be drinking that early, and on the train. In England and Wales, no one bats an eye as two college age men crack a beer at 11:30 in the morning on the train.

I could drive over here. I could rent a car and drive out to Heathrow or Birmingham, but why? The trains are relatively punctual (amazingly punctual if on a Virgin Train), safe, and full of colorful people. What better way to experience life in England that to ride a train with a cross-section of society?

Bodily Functions

Anyone who knows me well knows that I am fascinated with toilets. It's not unusual for me to talk openly in mixed company about toilets, as I did when I came running out a bathroom in a small store-front theatre on Chicago's North Side:
"Dude...that has got to be the deepest toilet I have ever seen. If you dropped something in there, you would have to reach up to your shoulders to get it back."

I was always sort of interested in toilets, but once I read The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Kundera, it became a full fledged obsession. One of the first places I investigate in a hotel room, new apartment or friend's home is the toilet. A lot can be understood about a person by their toilet. When my brother-in-law installed a toilet below the septic system, he had to install a pump that sucked the waste up. UP! You can hear the motor kick in as the pump activates and sends what you flush up the wall.

A particular interest of mine are toilets in public venues. You can judge how comfortable the builders assume people will be with public urination by how the construct the bathroom.

The Welsh toilets are inconsistent at best, but there are some things of note. I share a house with six people and two toilets. The upstairs toilet, where there are four of the six housemates, gets the most use, and thus is cordoned off from the tub that shares the same plumbing lines. It sits in a windowless room tucked in the far back. It's not terrible to sit in their for a while.

All three bathrooms, the two with toilets and the one without, have fans that are activated with the light switch. Interestingly, and this is something that I have not seen in the states, the fans stay on for a minute of two after the light goes off. The Welsh seem to acknowledge the fact that the smell left behind doesn't disappear once the person leaves the room.

I have lived in an all boys dorm where one bathroom was shared by an entire dorm, and I was amazed at how strong those toilets were; I understood the reason to have an uncloggable toilet, though, but nonetheless, I was amazed. The toilets in this house are equally disturbing in the ferocity of the flush. It sounds like a toilet in airplane, with violent sucking sounds, but unlike toilets on a plane, there is a rush of water that I am sure could drown a man. It's what I image those chasing Moses across the Red Sea faced once the Jews were safely on the other side.

Outside of my house, though, the bathrooms here are strange places. For one, none of the urinals have separation barriers, and most are placed awfully close together. Even with the the one urinal separation, there is still less room than most people would be comfortable with. Plus, the urinals are bowls that push a good distance into the room. I feel like I am using a low-set sink in the middle of the room. The worst though, and one I plan my day around trying to avoid, is the bathroom in the library. There is only one, despite the library being a large place. This ensures that you are never alone in the room, which causes the urinals to be problematic, though the term urinal is used loosely here. The library features the worst of all male bathroom fixtures: the trough.

I am not sure what sort of animals the library must assume we are to hang that undignified stainless steel contraption on the wall. The trough does not manage the space nor the number of people that can use the bathroom at any one time, so it is possible that, while in there, anywhere between three and ten people will squeeze in to empty their bladders at the same time. The guy yesterday peed with such velocity that I got gun shy standing near him (and I feared spray back, so I finished a little early and hustled out). The sinks are positions so close to the trough that even finished, you are forced to bear witness to another man's private acts. You then have to stand in front of the door, which swings in, to get paper towels.

One thing is certain from the bathroom at the library: the man who designed it hates people.

Two Months Notice

I left Chicago on a very cold evening, January 11th, 2010 to the small audience of just my mother. It was a tearful goodbye, but since then I have not been back to the States (though, granted, two months is not a terribly long time; Ulysses was gone from his home for just a bit longer and he never complained).

It would be hard to say how my life is different now. Instead, what would be easier would be to tell you what I haven't done since leaving the States.

1) Been in a car. With the singular exception of riding in a taxi from the train station to here, I have not been in a car or a bus. Actually, since arriving, and taking the train here, that was the last I have been in any form of transportation. This implies, rightfully, that I have not gone very far. This is certainly true. I have walked over a good chunk Aberystwyth, but I have not left Aberystwyth (unless of course, you count the tiny villages that are on the very edge of town which I happened to go through at the edges of my journey). It would be hard to say that I have had a European experience, but it's still early. I have plenty of time to map out a trip across this island, if not the rest of the continent.
This is unusual, though, for an American. We have rightfully earned the reputation of driving everywhere, and while I lived in the Suburbs of Chicago, that is certainly true. The sidewalks are there for shoveling snow from and little else. The Dunkin' Donuts was on the corner, less than a half mile from my house, but I drove there most weekends to get donuts. Not surprisingly, my time living there, I had put on some weight. Now, back to my Monmouth College days, where I had to walk everywhere, I have dropped the weight again. It was a bit of an adjustment, realizing that I couldn't do an entire semester's worth of shopping because I couldn't carry it all home, but an adjustment I have made. Now, I am not sure what I would do if I had a car. I like walking everywhere.

2) Watched TV. This was the biggest shock to my system as I used to turn the TV on to help me sleep. I noise was distracting, and my mind could settle enough to let me sleep. I watched a lot of TV, anything that was on. I would wake up and watch a few hours of Sports Center with breakfast and work, then switch to reruns of longer running dramas and sit-coms like House, Scrubs and Bones. I would watch the Foodnetwork while cooking, the DIY Network while thinking about the back yard, and the Dog Whisperer while playing with my dog. At night, I would watch the entire four hour block of Adult Swim, and occasionally watch the repeat block.
While here in Wales, I tend to watch TV on DVD, but hardly to the extent that I used to. I miss my recliner, where I could repose and watch TV. My dog would curl up in my lap and nod off. It was sweet release from the crap that happened around me. Now, I have to deal with the crap. I read more, which is nice, but have trouble sleeping (or did, until Erika sent me some melatonin pills). What I think I miss the most is Sports Center, oddly enough. There was something soothing about loosing myself in the meaningless world of sports coverage.

3) Done all my shopping in one place. Even when I lived in the city, there was a Target or Meijer never too far from where I lived. There, I could get anything I needed: a plastic storage tub, two mangoes, a package of boxers, a dog leash and four CDs. Check. There is something simplifying about doing all your shopping in one place. If I needed almost anything, I would start first at Meijer, then Target. If those places didn't have it, there was always the mall.
Here, I have needed a belt and a backpack. I had to make three trips out to find a place that even sold belts. The same with backpacks. Both stores have a rotating stock, so I needed to make several trips just to wait for the thing I wanted to become an item they had available. It took me two weeks to find a cutting board, and I am still without kitchen cutlery (thankfully my roommates let me use theirs).
This is probably the most annoying part of living in a small town with little central commerce, and a resistance to the mega-store. I need to plan out my purchasing very carefully. When I needed sheets, a plug adapter and shampoo my first night here, I had to plan out where I was going (Matalan, Curries and Morrisons). I am adjusting to this, but it is taking longer than any of the other adjustments.

4) Seen my family. Granted, Skype makes things easier, so I still feel connected to a lot of my friends and family, but there is something different about being in the flesh. For those of you who don't know: I have a huge family. In my immediate family, I have two brothers and three sisters. My brother Kevin, and sister's Beth and Brianne are married. My brother Kiernan has been dating someone for several years now. Kevin has two little girls, and Beth has two boys and a girl. Kevin, Beth, my Mother and I all have dogs. Christmas, with everyone present, contains seventeen people and four dogs. When we have large family parties, that is compounded by my Grandmother, four Aunts, three Uncles, nine cousins, and eight in-law family members attached to my cousins bringing the grand total to 42 people. What surprises people the most about a family this large is that, outside of a few stray cousins, I would see most of these people once every six or seven weeks.
I miss that. I feel like I am missing a lot of my nephews growing up. I miss seeing my Mom, and my dog. I miss spending time with my sisters and brothers, playing board games. I miss playing the Wii against my Mom. I miss watching my brother-in-law Jason do the hula-hoop game on Wii Fit. I miss seeing how angry Brianne would get when Jason would beat her at some game on Wii Fit. I miss watching Football with Kiernan and Beth. We are a close knit family, and I miss it. But, I get to go home in June. I intend to cram those days full of time with my family members.

That's not to say I am terribly lonely, and sit around enumerating these things, but small anniversaries like this make me reflective. Here, I spend time with my new friends and housemates, I read and write like a fiend, and have plenty of places to go walking to when I am bored. Plus, in a weeks time, Erika will be here which is my first visitor (hopefully of many), which should close the gap between where I am, and where I was.

Personal Value

I attend a postgraduate writing seminar on Wednesdays that's run through the Writing Center here on campus. It's mostly intended for masters and MPhil students, so there is not much I can take away from the class, but I still like going because it gets me out of my room for a while and confirms the things that I know.

The class is mostly filled with International students, including another American in the English department, though she is a creative writer and is prone to creative-writerly thoughts. There are two Chinese students in the English department, studying postmodernism. The arts students and I tend to sit on the right side of the room.

Then, there are six biological science students. Four of these are from Africa, though various countries on the continent. One is from either England or Ireland (I have a hard time telling the difference between the accents), and one from South Asia (India, Pakistan, or somewhere thereabouts, I think; her, I am assuming based on accent and appearance).

Today in class, we talked about research questions and hypotheses, ending with a small group discussion that led us to reflect on the importance of our work.

Now, it's assumed that my value to society is minimal. At the most, I can help people understand the way that Art (big "A" art) reflects the reader's/viewer's ideology. I can help the reader better understand the reader's self by theorizing the way the literature works. This is shaky ground, and a fundamental problem that stems from studying something ephemeral and commercially useless. It could be said that my role in society is to determine what art is valuable, but that is even shakier ground on which to stand, nor a job I am comfortable doing. Not to bog my reader down in the minutiae of social theories, my hesitance stems from the rise of a literate middle class that is prepared to make these decisions on their own. I am not sure that reading more books about comics gives me the critical stance to say what is best for you, who could also read these same books (because, clearly, you are reading this, proving you can read). Really, what this boils down to is that I am useless to society. Not as useless as, say, a philosopher or a sculptor, but I am down on the list of things a society needs. Once the bombs hit, there will be little reason to reserve a spot on the last shuttle off the planet.

My inferiority complex was kicked and punched by listening to the topics these science-minded folk are writing about. All of them, across the board, were concerned with making our planet a more livable place. Some of them were directly concerned with providing food to nations that had limited access to resources like water. For example, one man was looking into the genetically modifying food for developing countries and the economic impacts therein. Another woman was looking at how genetically modified soy could feed millions in Nigeria. Another young woman was interested in finding out how we can tell what the prey eats from the stomach content of the predator (if I am understanding correctly, she wants to examine the stomach contents of, say, a lion to see what the gazelle ate earlier in the day). Words like gene-flow, developing countries, and genetically modified were all in conjunction with food.

The research done by these people will make the world a better place, visibly. There will be more food on tables, cleaner water, healthier civilians, and improved living conditions for everyone. Nations will have science experts pouring over this material to look for the viability of the proposed solutions to real world problems. Actions will be taken. The sun will rise on a new improved country.

My thesis will sit on the library shelf, published on-line, and generally ignored in the swath of similar books that no one ever reads because there is no reason to. I really wonder, at times, what I am doing here. Shouldn't I be applying my intelligence to something more useful than colorfully drawn images for people to read when they have time? Shouldn't I be more concerned with the people who have to walk miles just for water? People who go days without food because water is so scarce? Shouldn't I worry more about the well-being of Man, than the interesting things that come from the art that comes from well-fed men and women?

Man, I thought as I left, I am not contributing. I am wasting my God-given talents. I started thinking about how long it would take to brush up on my science work so that I could get an MA and PhD in biological science and help out bigger causes.

Unfortunately, the Best American Comics were sitting on my desk in my room, and I quickly forgot what I was thinking about while reading Turtle, Keep it Steady!

My Father's Eyes

In the wee small hours of the morning, around 2:00 or so, about an hour after I had finally fallen asleep, I was awoken by inane drunken babble outside my door.
"I'm so happy that we're here."
"Yes, I know!"
"I'm going in bed. I'm in bed!"
"Oh man. That looks so good."
And so on. The two babbled like that for the better part of an hour, discussing going to sleep, taking shoes off and so on. Then, just as that started to quiet down, angry drunkenness stormed in to the room just north of my bed. Because the person who built these little student villages must have specialized in building cubicles, I heard ever "fuckin' can't believe it!" he shouted to himself and a gaggle of rotating friends.

My Dad came to mind. He told me once, before I left for college, "Have a good time, but not too good a time. Just stay out of the papers."

I wondered if my roommates actions last night, which resulted in a late night taxi ride to the hospital, several trips to the toilet to vomit, and several other embarrassing happenstances, would qualify as having fun, but not too much fun?

Truth be told, I find myself wondering about my Dad a lot these days. It might be due to the lack of television, the amount of free time I have to think, the fact that my left hand goes numb when I sit at my desk for too long, or the distance that separates me from my family; regardless, there he is. For those that don't know, my Dad passed away in 2007, after a long, and ultimate losing battle with the degenerative muscle disease ALS (0r Lou Gehrig's Disease). My Dad and I had a strange relationship, but in the years before he died, while I was at Southern Illinois University, we had seemingly come to an understanding with each other. Maybe it was because we both realized how much we were like the other, though we would never like to admit it while he was alive. Maybe it was because my interest in Fantasy Baseball and the Cubs gave us something to talk about. Or maybe he just didn't want to die with any bad blood between us. Whatever the reason, I had come to like the time that we spent together, watching baseball or football. American football, not that cute game where the men run around in shorts kicking balls around.

As I laid in my bed and listened to a grown man cry because he broke his foot kicking a radiator in the kitchen, the question I wish I could ask my Dad is if he is proud of me. My Dad's favorite joke was to tell me that I should get a real job at some point in my life (the rub was that I was teaching full time at St. Dominic at that point; a job I had no right having, as I was underqualified and undertrained). Because I got summer's off, it wasn't a "real" job.

My Dad worked like a dog, probably to a fault. He was a hard worker, and accepted nothing but hard working from his coworkers, and by extension his family. This life was for working; the next life was leisure. Though it may seem like a ridiculous question for a grown man to be asking of his dead father, considering his attitudes toward life, I am not sure that he would necessarily look down at me reading comics all night and smile, proud of his son. I am hardly contributing to anything, I am a financial burden to all those that care about me, and I have the better part of my adult life interested what most unfamiliar people see as trash literature.

Despite taking a different path than my father would have chosen for me, though, I think he might have secretly been happy with me. After all, I never have been carried down the stairs to a waiting taxi at 5:00 in the morning, ordering those around me to grab the right pair of shoes. I might be studying children's trash, but at least I am doing it diligently.