“Behavioural issues are the least of my fucking problems”
Michael Cera flips out on set. A poke at Christian Bale… and a great idea for movie promotion.
I love the last line… “Asshole”. Brilliant.
Won’t somebody think of the snails??!?
Today when reading the paper a brochure advertising special offers at LIDL dropped out. I always have a look at these for the laugh. They can be more entertaining than the paper itself. Chainsaws in LIDL Moyross. Check. Equestrian gear in Ballymun. No problem. They sure know their market those LIDL folk.
Anyway what grabbed my attention in this leaflet for Spring Garden stuff was this one product in particular. A snail trap.
The accompanying picture shows 4 slugs (not snails… LIDL marketing dept take note!) sliming their way to certain death. But what really grabbed my attention is the method of execution.
Death by beer!
“Just fill with beer and replace lid” they say. Just like that.
Then the slimy lads are, slowly but surely, lured into a green haven containing the beery goodness. Do they then go mad on the beer and drown after intoxification, dying for the snaily equivalent of a kebab?
There are worse ways to go I guess. But what do PETA make of it all?
To tweet or not to tweet….??
That is indeed the question.
Twitter it seems is the new conversation. It’s the new blog. It’s the new new. And it concerns me.
All the world is talking of twitter and such like of late. No one is safe. It seems there were very few actual words spoken at the Blog Awards in Cork last weekend. From take-off to landing. Every occurance was twittered about. Byte size snatches of the moment. The sky above the Cork Airport Hotel must have looked like one big twitter cloud.
Twitter is the bootleg demo to the fully polished and mastered blog. It’s the 99 cent iTunes-bought compressed mp3 to the gatefold, first-edition vinyl long player bought in the record store from the man who knows. Quality decreases as interest grows.
Of course the communication and interaction that twitter promotes is all welcome. And I may well be accused of a flat-earth-type outlook. Perhaps.
And who knows I may even start to twitter down the line. But my worry is that blogs, like record stores, will cease to be at the hands of this trendy twitter gremlin. Stephen Fry and Jonathan Ross have added the water and now Mogwai is mutating, spreading, taking over, changing the face of what we say and how we say it.
I fear that bloggers (of all standards and determinations) will devote energy and instant thoughtspace to the heady rush of a tweet and the replies that follow. Blogs and the consistency of posting must suffer at the hands of such instant gratification. And that concerns me.
So say it ain’t so twitterers? Tell me I’m wrong. Say it ain’t so.
Have we jumped the shark? Will the tide go out? Will I be left behind?
So many questions I know. But maybe with the right kind of eyes, we’ll see the high-water mark – the place where the wave will break and maybe, just maybe, roll back.
NaRocRockin Beats…
Soundcheck last night. I did something I never thought I’d ever do. Ever. I played a Pet Shop Boys track. And I enjoyed it.
It went very well indeed. Yes it was daunting initially, I had probably built it up too much. But once I got into Spy I just thought fuck it. It wasn’t packed, there was no one expecting great things and there were plenty of good heads there. People were having a drink or two and noddding away to the msuic. Not much dancing but that’s just fine.
When I arrived Bluebirds Are So Natural were ripping it up and playing a blinder. I introduced myself. Very nice folk altogether.
I downed a quick Carlsberg. Then it was my turn. Lady Gaga got the ball rolling.
The lovely Milan Adenauer came over to say hello. She doesn’t look a jot like her avatar.
Rick rocked in looking pimpishly cool. The best cane I ever did see. Rapture Ponies introduced herself with a big hug. Anthony McG rolled by in 3-D glasses. And sure why not?!
My planned setlist went out the window and I played whatever took the mood from thereon. And it was over in a flash. Really glad I did it tho. Felt like my Blogmitzvah if you will. My stepping out from behind the veil of anonymity. And it didn’t hurt one bit.
Afterwards I chatted to some more fine folk. Anthony, Pedro, Nialler, Aoife to name but a few. It was great to meet you all.
The music was eclectic and always wonderfully unpredictable.
Oh and Jim would it have killed you to play a bit of Aslan?!?
All in all, a cracking night was had. Hats off to Una and Sarah for putting it all together and running such a tight ship. Gold stars all round.
And despite all my threats, I never got around to playing Guns N Roses. Next time I swear!
Fuck it… LET’S ROCK
I’m sitting in a pub across from Spy. Had a mental day in work. But still legged it earlier than supposed to.
The couple of Carlsbergs have just evaporated. Soundcheck I’m sure is rocking and rolling. I admit I’m quite fucking nervous. But the world still turns.
Right so. The time is now. Fuck it. Let’s rock.
There Will Be Cake…
I twisted my ankle last night playing football. Thankfully nothing broken. Except maybe pride.
I was clean through on goal too when a rogue tackle and my trademark Messi shuffle combined to make me crumble in a heap of man pain on the astroturf. And now I hobble like, like, like something that hobbles a lot (note to self… insert mindblowingly apt analogy here later) and my ankle looks like something you should need planning permission for.
What does all this mean you may well ask?
Well kids I am lined up for some Soundcheck Blog Off action in Spy tomorrow night and now the Har Mar Superstar-styled dance routine will have to take a raincheck I’m afraid. Just think of what might have been.
Anyway, those fine folk also vying for blogger imortality:
Nialler9
Jim Carroll
Rick O’Shea
Ian Wright (Thrill Pier)
UnaRocks
Sweet Oblivion
Raptureponies
Aoife McIndieHour
Bluebirds Are So Natural
Dublin Streets
It promises to be an eclectic affair. There have even been threats of Prefab Sprout. Lord help us and save us.
First blogger up will be hitting the decks at 7pm. Admission is free before 11pm (and then a fiver thereafter). Drinks promotions on the night and Una has made promises which involve cake.
So let the games begin.
One thing I can guarantee is that I won’t play any Beyoncé. How many times can one woman say “If you liked it you should’ve put a ring on it” in 3 odd minutes? No wonder he fucked off and didn’t put a ring on it you whingey aul sod.
So shine on you crazy diamonds. I hope to see you there. I still might wear a mask.
Steaks and ukuleles…
I work with a man who is not quite old but no spring chicken. Moreover he’s not the sharpest tool in the box. Yesterday, conversation turned to Valentine’s weekend and what I got up to. I told him I cooked some fine fillet steak with all the trimmings but it wasn’t quite as medium rare as her indoors likes.
“Should get yourself one of them Ben Shermans”, he said.
“A skobie shirt?”, I replied.
“No one of them lean mean grilling machines”.
“Oh I see. They’re not called Ben Shermans, they’re…”
He cut me off before I had a chance to finish the sentence.
“I bet you a tenner they are”.
Now the old saying “a fool and his cash are easily parted” exists for a reason. So who am I to leave him with his hard earned…
“Make it a score and you have a bet”.
We shook hands and went in search of the answer. Seconds later a quick Google search brought us here and I had twenty euro in my hand.
“Jaysus your man Formby did well for himself after playing the ukulele for all them years”.
I nodded politely, biting my lip all the while, glad to have made some cash for such a conversation.
Repeat after me… the glass is half full.
Maybe it’s the February blues. Maybe it was the slush. I don’t know. But lately I’ve found myself being a bit easily wound up and even more argumentative than usual. And that’s not good. There are enough moaners in this world and I don’t want to be another.
Anyway the point is I’ve noticed this negativity and now intend to knock it on the head. So I hereby declare a belated New Year’s Resolution to cheer the fuck up, be more positive and less pass-remark-able. Join me if you like.
All You Scoundrels, All You Villains…
It happened here a while back with the legendary Mighty Mouse. And some people complained then of the catchyness and the brain takeover. But I bet you all secretly loved the nostalgia trip!
Today is a different set of crime fighting cartoon legends altogether. So Ladies and Gentlemen I give you… Sharky & George; “Crimebusters of the Sea”.
After all these years we’ve spent apart I don’t for the life of me know how, or why, they’ve re-entered my head on this very day, Valentines Day 2009. But who am I to question the cosmic forces?
They’ve taken over my brain. Go here to let them take over yours. You’ll be bowled over by the brass stabs of the intro and I guarantee you’ll be clicking your fingers within seconds.
Again, don’t fight it. You won’t win.
Fuck off o2…
I have just received a text message from o2 telling me that I could get my name “printed on an Irish players actual jersey for the England rugby match”. Really?
I could “be the difference” you say? Yeah right. I’m tingling with anticipation. Off I rush to “pledge my support”. Corporate twats.
“On an Irish players actual jersey”. What kind of a gimpy statement is that? Do I look like Ross O’ bleedin Carroll Kelly? No I don’t, so fuck off o2. Don’t be annoying me.
Grammy Schmammy….
I watched the 51st Grammy Awards late last night. It really was a cringe-worthy affair. I jotted down some random thoughts on proceedings with the intention of putting a post together today. But fuck it, here are those very thoughts instead…
The new U2 song is really really pants. And there’s no saving it live. In fact it’s probably even worse live than on record. Oh dear.
They could well have jumped the shark those four Northside boys. Surely Adam and Larry are getting embarassed at this stage?
Why bother giving Whitney Houston a standing ovation? Fuck her. Mad cow.
Jennifer Hudson looks like she had an accident involving a photocopier.
Why is Morgan Freeman begloved on his left hand only?
Kid Rock is a cock.
Does Samuel L Jackson ever get sick of being Samuel L Jackson?
Shame Guantanamo Bay is being decommissioned. They could’ve forced inmates to listen to Miley Cyrus murdering some song about being fifteen. Eardrum massacre.
The Jonas Brothers are no longer virgins. They just gang raped Stevie Wonder. Ill-advised Stevie, ill-advised.
Katy Perry is neither raunchy or particularly sexy it must be said.
Coldplay really do look silly in those outfits. Enough lads, enough already. Still the Grammy’s could well be the point where they stepped out of U2’s shadow and left them for dead.
Lil Wayne looks like he had an accident involving a typewriter.
I didn’t know Blink 182 had split up. Nor did I care.
Radiohead are still geniuses. Great performance. Shame it’s lost on the Grammy folk.
The Grammy people sure do love the Dullsville affair that is Robert Plant and Alison Krauss.
The Kings of Leon look extremely bored.
Leona Lewis was born a man right?
Adele must be sick of that song. What’s it all about anyway? Chasing bleedin pavements.
Who is Justin Timberlake trying to kid sitting at that grand piano? C’mon JT, we’re not stupid.
Paul McCartney, fresh from selling out Buddy Holly, is really enjoying having his ass licked by Jack Black and Chris Martin.
Bastardos…
The sky is blue, the birds are singing in the trees. It’s a lovely spring morning.
Yet I’m rightly pissed off.
The two NTL contractors have just left. And I don’t need a trail of mud on my oatmeal carpets. Fucking Liverpool fans.
Snow v slush
I love the word snow. How it sounds. All it evokes.
I love the look and feel, the crunch underfoot as you walk on freshly fallen snow.
I fucking hate slush. How it looks, how it feels, the slop underfoot. The way it gets into my shoes. Bastard slush.
Although I do think it would win in a fight with snow.
Subterranean Homesick Blues…
I’ve lived on Dublin’s Northside for the majority of my life. I have no qualms about saying it. Loud. Proud.
A while back I moved from one Northside area with a relatively high ratio of guns to civilians to another, more leafy part of the Northside.
Anyway tonight I met an old mate of mine in this neck of the woods, in the new local, to watch the Everton Liverpool match. And sorry Radge but we both cheered when the mighty, and mightily unheard of, Dan Gosling deftly poxed the winning goal in extra time.
Anyway, after we had our fill of recession-busting Beamish (a wonderful €3.65 a pint) me and my old mate shook hands, went our separate ways and walked off into the night.
As I meandered home I saw a gang of about 7 or 8 lads moving shiftily. I tensed up and readied myself for, at the very least, an onslaught of abuse, and at the worst, possible violence.
It’s just what I’m used to at this stage of my life.
So my fists were clenched. I was ready.
Only then I realised… they were throwing an oval shaped ball amongst themselves. A rugby ball. On the Northside. The youth of today. At 1 o’clock in the morning. No intimidation. No unnecessary aggression. Just throwing a rugby ball.
I mean, a rugby ball? On the Northside? It made me long for the mean streets and violence of the suburb left behind. I almost felt a pang of disappointment.
Shut the fuck up Bruce…
Just listened to this outburst by Christian Bale that was recorded on the set of Termionator 4. It makes for uncomfortable yet compelling listening. Do check it out and get back to me!
So is Christian Bale as mad as a volatile box of frogs or is he an extremely focussed and dedicated actor who values professionalism?
To be honest I’m not sure. He really is a fine actor but he certainly overreacts massively to a slight disturbance on set. Granted it is hard to make a qualified judgement without pictures and context.
Still what a way to ruin a guy’s career. Every producer in Hollywood will know who the DP in question is and must surely be reluctant to hire him. He’s been branded an amateur, and that’s gotta stick for sure.
Still now we all know there’ll be a new Terminator movie starring an intense, volatile Christian Bale as John Connor. No such thing as bad publicity eh?
More on it here.
Overheard in Dublin…
I was standing at the bar in Solas on Wexford Street on Saturday night, waiting to get the barman’s attention. Two girls sat on stools at the bar drinking mojitos. The guy queueing beside me turned to one of the girls and opened up with this gem of a chat up line.
“If I scratch your birthmark do I win a prize?”
Her response was lighting quick, razor sharp.
“Yeah. A glass in the face”.
The funny thing is, in his arrogance, he thought it was a good line. The kind that might break the ice, give him a chance. At least his mates standing nearby caught the action and rightly took the piss out of him.
And only for the price of mojitos in these recessionary days he might well have gotten one in the face.
