I was a dancer all along…
I’ve been told that I’ve taken to talking in my sleep of late. Much to the amusement of her indoors. The latest instance of which has been my spoken word version of Dance Dance Dance by Lykke Li. Vocals delivered in a most deadpan style I’m told. Could well be a hit methinks.
A life-size replica…
Twice, I tripped as I walked up the gloriously appointed steps of the Lighthouse. My mind and body confused, seperate. Everything akimbo.
Then I caught my reflection in a glass building as I cycled past. I swear blind my reflected self was cycling faster than my real self. Bizarre.
As I cycled on I saw a couple jog past. Literally seconds later the same couple jogged past in the exact same direction as before. How? I do not know.
The world seemed disjointed.
I guess that’s just what happens when you go and see Synecdoche, New York.
A paradox…
Once upon a time there lived a man. No ordinary man. For this man could touch his nose with his tongue. And boy could he play the bongo.
He smoked with great elegance, like a character from the French New Wave. I never saw him without a cigarette, so much so I’d say he smoked in the shower.
He drank absinthe for breakfast and always had an espresso at midnight.
He was an artisan who never, ever did a conventional day’s work yet was never broke. An artist who didn’t believe in creating art. A bundle of apparent contradictions.
Nobody knew where he was originally from and he didn’t know where he was going. Borders couldn’t contain him.
You could almost see the trail of broken hearts in his wake. He could undress a girl by simply walking into the room, never mind looking into their eyes.
One day, his last day, his unconventional nature got the better of him. His lucky streak ran out. But he was never destined to see old age. Never destined to go beyond 27 in fact. Just like Kurt Cobain and Jimi Hendrix.
An Eastern European country road, his motorcycle, and a truck. They combine to leave a bongo unplayed.
I wonder, in some loyal heart is his memory enshrined?
Fuck you Dermot Ahern…
I regularly finish work after 10pm. Which is fine by me as I’m not cut out for a 9 to 5 type routine. So far, so me.
And quite often I work 14 hour days in a relatively intense set up, which again is fine by me. I enjoy what I do and it keeps me off the streets.
After such days working sometimes I think to myself… “I’d murder a cold beer when I get home”. Just to unwind like.
And tonight is one of those nights. But unfortunately I’ve no beer in the fridge and there’s nothing I can do to remedy this.
So my problem is this… I can’t buy a beer, in a shop /off-licence etc, after ten o’clock on a Saturday night (i.e. on my way home from work) because our Minister for Justice doesn’t think I can handle that beer or two in the safety and comfort of my own home at such an hour. So instead he wants us all to go to Tesco and stock up on multi-packs of Stella for 27 cent or whatever ridiculous loss leader they put on as an incentive to get people into their stores.
Which is worse? Me picking up a beer or two after ten o’clock or people hoarding cheap beer during daytime hours to avoid having to be disappointed after dark? I know the answer to that question but unfortunately Dermot Ahern doesn’t.
So as I say… fuck you Dermot Ahern and the horse you rode in on. And don’t even get me started on your proposed fucking bejesusin’ blasphemy laws.
Snail Face…
I do like an odd news story from time to time. And this one is quite odd. And sure why not?
Fin Keheler, an eleven year old boy from Utah, has made a valiant effort to get into the record books… by covering his face with live snails.
He allowed 43 of the slimy mollusks to be put on his face last Saturday and wants the Guinness World Records to verify his effort.
The Guinness web site says the record set in 2007 for snails on the face for 10 seconds is eight. The boy says he has since learned the record was 36.
Fin made three attempts on Saturday. Sitting back in a reclining chair, snails gathered from neighbours’ gardens were carefully placed on his face. Those that remained for at least 10 seconds were counted.
His family is sending witness statements, video and media coverage to Guinness this week.
Snail Face
Isn’t it amazing what some people dream of achieving. That kid will be able to say to his Grandkids, “did I ever tell you about the time I broke a world record?”.
And remember kids, if in doubt write a post about snails. That’ll keep ‘em coming back for more. Ain’t nothin’ surer.
Which all just serves to remind me…
Meadow, how’s my snail-a-like getting on? I’m awaiting progress reports and the like!
Figure of Eight…
I was tagged with this by the Ponytastic RPs last week and am only now getting around to fulfilling the responsibility. But hey, here goes….
Eight things I like (in no particular order):
Licking the salty remnants from within the shells of pistachio nuts. Mmmmm salty.
Decisiveness.
The smell of a turf fire on a Winter’s day. Preferably in a pub accompanied by creamy Guinness and select friends.
The evening light in Spring.
Fresh Irish Strawberries.
The smiling eyes of a certain young lady.
The crunch of frost on grass underfoot on a cold morning.
Originality (in film, music, writing etc.). Those who strive to do something different.
Eight things I did yesterday:
Woke up with an excruciating, sharp muscular pain in my neck.
Went to a chiropractor for the first time. It probably won’t be the last.
Had beans on toast for dinner. Classy.
Listened to Tom Dunne on the radio. He’s a good egg that lad.
Read a variety of new Irish writing. Some brilliant, most bad.
Left a voicemail to wish my cousin a happy birthday, even though he’s a United fan.
Enjoyed reading about Shane Lowry, a great underdog triumph over adversity etc.
Played “Another Bites The Dust” on acoustic guitar.
Eight things I wish I could do:
Play the trumpet.
Play the cello.
Play the trumpet and the cello at the same time.
Always be on time.
Write a stunning screenplay featuring Scarlett Johansson and have it made.
Draw/paint.
Not lose touch with my oldest, boldest friends.
Speak every language there ever was / is / will be.
Eight things I don’t like:
When bus drivers drive off when they see people sprinting to make it on before the doors close.
Censorship.
Being late (even though I’m regularly late).
That 8 year old kids want to be celebrities without having any desire to be talented first.
Blasphemy laws.
Begrudgery.
Turnip.
Eamon Keane.
I’m tagging:
I think most people have done this one by now so I’ll leave well enough alone.
A pain in the neck…
Literally.
I awoke this morning with the sharpest of sharp pains in my neck. Excruciating. And I have been rendered useless by it.
I can’t use my right arm any more as that’s where the muscular pain strikes most from neck down. Trying to eat breakfast was torture. As was brushing my teeth. Even typing’s a bitch.
It has become apparent that ambidextrous I most certainly am not. Left handedness just doesn’t work for me. I’m dropping things, spilling things. Generally making a lefty mess.
I don’t know how I did it. But fuck me it’s sore. Did I use the word excruciating already? Well I’ll just have to use it again so as it’s the only word that comes close to describing the pain. It’s fucking excruciating. And no amount of Solphadene Solpadeine is changing that.
And I wouldn’t mind but I was only saying to someone at the weekend that thankfully I rarely get sick, if ever. “Haven’t been to the doctor in years”, says I. Tempting fate perhaps? Only slightly. Or as my mother would say, “ya put the mockers on it.” That I sure did.
And now I’m off to the nearest chiropractor. He can have all my worldly possessions just to fix me again. I just hope he can.
UPDATE: So I’ve been to the chiropractor. Nice chap. Reckons I’ve slipped a vertebrate in my neck or some shit. Or at least a joint thereof. And it is the reason for the inflammation, swelling and bruising that are still causing me much hell. No reason as to why or how it happened but it has so I just have to get on with it.
The pain “is your body telling you that something is wrong and to stop moving while it fixes it”, it seems.
He poked and prodded my neck for a while and then produced some kind of implement that wouldn’t look out of place in a Hitchcock movie. He kind of propelled / hammered it into the affected area which actually helped. Loosened everything up and helped the “tracking” of my neck.
So I’m still very uncomfortable but apparently it will get better with time. I left the chiropractors with some BioFreeze Cryotherapy gel and a loose prognosis. Oh and a suggestion to get some frozen peas to alleviate the inflammation. I have to go back on Wednesday morning for more prodding. Hopefully have settled down some by then.
A rainy night in Dublin…
I’m just in the door. It’s a dirty aul damp night out there. But that’s okay with me.
Tonight I spent the evening with my immediate family. Nothing formal. A pleasant, unremarkable time of it. The men spoke of football, watched football and drank tea. The women spoke of cervical cancer, didn’t watch football and drank red wine.
Later we discussed the merits of Appetite For Destruction by Guns n Roses. It made my sister feel old to realise it was released in 1987.
When I got around to putting on my coat to leave my mother wished I’d take a taxi, due to the weather and the lateness of the hour. I insisted I’d prefer to get two buses and walk a bit in the rain. She even wanted to give me money for it. I couldn’t accept it even if I wanted to. I told her I have a good raincoat. Thankfully I do, for as Billy Connolly once remarked, “there’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing”.
So why not get a taxi? Well because sometimes I like to be out in the rain. Not for too long. And only if I know I’m on my way home and not to work or out. Plus I like the air when it rains in Dublin, and the atmosphere. It awakens the senses. Everything changes. In a good way. It clears the streets. Kinda like that “real rain” Travis Bickle spoke of.
Plus I don’t like being in taxis unless I really need to be. Least of all when I’m sober. And I don’t need to pay twenty quid to hear how the world is broken, that United got out of jail or that Fianna Fáil are cunts. I can keep my money and know that shit anyway.
So I walked up a very wet O’Connell Street with Sigur Rós in my ears, enveloping my brain, taking me home, while transporting me to another place. And that’s all good with me.
“A humbling honour”, says he…
So the powers that be in RTÉ have decided, and announced this evening, that Ryan Tubridy is the man to replace Pat Kenny. The 35-year-old presenter’s first programme as host of The Late Late Show will be broadcast in September.
Ryan Tubridy with Twink and Grainne Seoige. Win some, lose some.
Commenting on taking over the programme from departing host Pat Kenny, new host Tubridy said: “I’m very taken aback by this announcement. ‘The Late Late Show’ casts a wide net across this island and it is a humbling honour to be asked to present such an iconic programme”.
So that’s that.
At least it’s not Gerry Ryan. Be thankful for small mercies.
Pat Kenny’s last Late Late Show as host will be broadcast on Friday, 29th of May.
‘Tubridy Tonight’ will not return in the Autumn. Instead RTÉ bosses “want to look again at the Saturday night schedule”. How that pans out we’ll just have to wait and see.
Also published here.
It’s been a while I know…
Hello there laydeez and genullmen. I know tens of you have been concerned as to my whereabouts of late. But worry not, I am alive. Just. Slightly dehydrated but alive nonetheless.
I know it may seem like I had disappeared off the face of the earth. But now I’m back. With not quite a bang, not quite a whimper. Something, somewhere in between.
See of late I’ve been working like a bastard. Plus I was laying low after a couple of very bad Arsenal results took the pep from my step. Then I had to pay a visit to a certain Robert Zimmerman who was playing the new corporate beatbox in East Wall. And then came a new low budget movie by Richie from Happy Days which took some hours of my time. All these things combined to my lack of blogtivity.
But more, much than that. There was a quest. A mission. A journey to deepest Denmark. A pilmigrage of Northside gentlemen to sample the local golden nectar. At happy prices too, you crazy Danes. So hence the dehydration and the absence of posting.
How was Copenhagen you ask? Most excellent. The streets are extremely clean. The architecture is very impressive. And the people stroll around without a care. It feels safe and chilled. And the folk are very handsome and stylish but not overly pretentious. Shame it’s so bloody expensive though. And worse still the beer was mediocre at best. Still and all a good time was had and therefore productivity today is at an all time low as a result. Normal service will resume tomorrow we hope.
A room with a view, Copenhagen May 2009
So please do forgive me dear reader. For now I have returned and shall once more be posting like the clappers*.
* not a valid guarantee
In the wash…
I’ve just had a moment of clarity. See it’s just occurred to me, having done a couple of loads of laundry just there, that a very large proportion of my clothes are either black, grey or a combination of, you guessed it, black and grey.
And I somehow thought I was a colourful sort. Go figure eh?
