The weekend before last weekend (last weekend being the weekend in which we went to Dublin), the Purrito and I watched a movie called The Lobster. The Lobster is a darkly comedic not-quite-science-fiction movie set in a dystopic near-future in which newly-single people are sent to a “resort” where they have 45 days to find a new partner, lest they be turned into the animal of their choice. Colin Farrell plays David, a man whose spouse has just left him, and who has selected to be turned into a lobster should he fail to regain his status as a member of a couple. Being married (I’m waving at the Purrito), I would not be at the resort, though if I were sent to said resort, I would ask to be turned into one of those gnarly mountain goats that pop up in photographs of landscapes which you stare at and then ask yourself man, can anything other than fucking birds and photographers in helicopters actually see this place? Colin Farrell is from Dublin. While in Dublin, we visited the Guinness storehouse, and on one floor, they had recipes that use Guinness as an ingredient. One of these recipes was for Guinness lobster. I bought a t-shirt that proclaims that lobsters love Guinness, though I do not believe that the people who run Guinness have a source for this assertion.
At this point, my attempt at stream-of-consciousness style writing (Ulysses was set in Dublin) is confusing me (in addition to being more a series of non-sequiturs and perhaps run-on sentences), so I’m going to hang it up, though not before I confess that I have not actually read Ulysses, though amongst the bulk of our worldly possessions sitting in storage in Texas, I do have a very nice hardback Modern Library version that my mother gave me as a birthday present back in high school.
I’m serious this time, I’m stopping.