Clicker Conspiracy

Mother of Divine Jesus!

2008-02-06T11:55:00.000Z

I can just about get my head around the idea of Disaster Porn. But Holocaust porn? That's too much. From the New York Times:

JERUSALEM, Sept. 5 — It was one of Israel's dirty little secrets. In the early 1960s, as Israelis were being exposed for the first time to the shocking testimonies of Holocaust survivors at the trial of Adolf Eichmann, a series of pornographic pocket books called Stalags, based on Nazi themes, became best sellers throughout the land.

Read under the table by a generation of pubescent Israelis, often the children of survivors, the Stalags were named for the World War II prisoner-of-war camps in which they were set. The books told perverse tales of captured American or British pilots being abused by sadistic female SS officers outfitted with whips and boots. The plot usually ended with the male protagonists taking revenge, by raping and killing their tormentors.

Ten Ways the World Could End

2008-02-02T10:50:00.000Z

The Second Mumbling

2008-01-31T12:57:00.000Z

When I first started this blog, the reasons for taking on such a horribly self-indulgent project were pretty clear to me. Yes there is the vanity. And yes there's the totally misjudged encouragement from cyber-friends and peers (I miss you DJ and Trust). But now that I've achieved the main goal of becoming a journalist, what possible reason is there for getting involved in the whole mucky business again? What kind of tortured vanity drives someone to keep a blog going for over two years when the only people visiting the site are spam mongers and sincere but desperately unhinged teenagers from the Middle East? Well its pretty simple:

1. A desperate longing for escape - life has taken a magnificent swing for the better for me over the last year (glad you asked). I've moved to a new city. I'm now getting paid for flogging the morbidly pessimistic ideas I was researching for my thesis. And I no longer cry myself to sleep at night. But still there's the itchy longing to escape from normal adult life. So I suppose by starting a blog up again, I'm aligning myself with that hulking autistic girl in Idaho who so wants to be a sweet little princess that she spends all her time on Second Life, shaking her unfeasibly pert digi-buttocks at other socially starved mongoloids. All we want is a better life for ourselves - Keep dancing sister!

2. Romantic illusions about journalism shattered - a year of peddling economic doom for a magazine is a year well spent in my books. But thats not to say that I enjoy the journalism game nearly as much as I thought I would - chiefly because my actual progress towards being a half way decent writer has been embarrasingly slow. So in an effort not to sap every ounce of enjoyment out of writing, I'm going to use this place to put up my attempts at real writing (fiction, short stories and such). Because I know that, deep down, there is a Harry Potter or a PS I Love You just dieing to leap out onto the page.

3. The constant spectre of Death - finally there's Death; who hasn't gone anywhere since I first posted on him. With the sad passings of Jeremy Beadle and Heath Ledger recently, I'm compelled to record every minute of my life, just to scrape the smallest vestages of consolation from the whole diabolic ordeal. Although I do expect Jeremy Beadle to remerge from Death wearing a silly disguise and presenting us all with a You've Been Framed award sometime in the next few days, its still worth taking account of what such beautiful people contributed to gay cinema, family entertainment and such. Heath and Jeremy - we salute you.

The Best Music Review I've Ever Read

2006-10-24T15:03:00.000+01:00

There are a small number of Irish bands who are constantly evolving, challenging both themselves and their listeners, pushing boundaries and experimenting with new, exciting ideas. The Frames, however, are most definitely not one of them. Hansard and co. have been hanging around the scene like an eggy fart since the early '90s, and with the exception of a couple of semi-enjoyable albums (Dance the Devil, For The Birds), have done absolutely nothing for Irish music except repeatedly dragged it back to sub-Waterboys, dated drivel.

The Cost is yet another bland offering of quiet-loud-quiet-let's-stick-in-a-violin-solo-here acoustic-based rock, and is indistinguishable from any other Frames album since the dawn of time (it has been that long, hasn't it?).Some lead singers model themselves on Godly, iconic musical figures, like Robert Plant, Jim Morrison, perhaps even Morrissey (yes, Preston, I'm looking at you); Glen Hansard cuts out the middle-man and aspires to be Jesus Christ himself. The self-styled Ginger Messiah's invariable warble wraps itself distressingly around one slow-burning ballad after another, and that's before you've heard the lyrics (see 'True' - 'I played the saint / And a saint I ain't).

Every track here bar one (the admittedly ace title track, an eerie, brooding affair) is hackneyed, monotonous and just bloody downright boring. Falling Slowly's whispered, building stance is more tedious than not only watching paint dry, but waiting for it to flake off the wall; the slightly livelier When Your Mind's Made Up says nothing they haven't said before, and Rise's piteous attempt at emotion ('Together we will fly above it all now') is plain embarrassing.

Hansard's perpetually-contrived sincerity and faux-humility surely makes him the most hollow frontman in Irish rock, but easy as it is to slate The Frames, or seize upon any kind of personal vendetta, The Cost simply does nothing to change people's minds one way or the other. If you already dislike them, here's more fuel for the fire; if you're already a fan, pick up your copy, hold it at eye level and smack it off your head repeatedly.

Many thanks to Mark and Simon for sending this onto me. If you are a Frames fan, then please feel free to leave a comment so that I can cut and paste the entire review in response

Does Music Still Matter?

2006-10-15T15:47:00.000+01:00

Jarvis Cocker is guest editor of this weekend's Observer Music Magazine and he assembled a group of friends in Dublin to debate the present state of music for the lead article. There was Nick Cave, Paul Morley, Beth Orton, Antony, Mary Margaret O'Hara, Jarvis and the singer of some up and coming band called The Hours. I was starving this morning when I stumbled into Garfunkel's for a grizzly breakfast-luncheon but still managed to let my food go cold as I read the article. I'm sure it will prove perfect source material for a sweeping narcissistic post about the nature of music. Oh look! It has!

I've been meeting a lot of people as I head around the city looking for a place to live over the last week and the first thing that everyone asks is what type of music you listen to. I have put my foot in it innumerable times at this stage. The usual exchange goes something like -

Housemate: So what kind of stuff do you listen to?
Me : Everything really. The only types of music I have a real problem with are hip-hop and jazz.
Housemate: I ONLY listen to hip-hop and jazz.

So I suppose the experience has brought it home for me how much music matters to people. But the question Jarvis' group is really trying to get to grips with is what does music do for us? From the point of view of the musician, Nick Cave reckons that making music is a simple act of survival. It's about looking for something sacred and getting lost in the experience. No surprise that St. Nick looks to bring religion into the bargain. But the group generally agrees that people aren't commited to music in the same way that previous generations were.

One reason for this that there seems to be no political message or uniting factor driving the music that is popular today. There's an unbelievable amount of choice and diversity available nowadays but music communities seem to be divisible more on the basis of tacky retro appeal and cosmetic choice than anything else.

You could also say that the experience of those of us who have grown up with electro might explain why nobody seems that bothered with big music anymore. If there's one thing that we've learned from electro over the last 20 years or so, it's that the experience of everyone coming together to enjoy music is ultimately a hollow one. You might hug complete strangers in the throws of a mashup but come, 5am, you'd probably find it hard to resist the compulsion to punch anyone who attempted the same thing. In Jarvis' own words - Is this the way they say the future's meant to be? Or just 20,000 people standing in a field?

So - cue inane Sex and the City plot hook - what do we actually get out of music? Well the most obvious benefit as far as I can see is to give our lives a narrative. I can trace my history of listening to music along the following line - Prince, U2, Gun'N'Roses, Metallica/Sepultura, Radiohead, Nick Cave/Tindersticks, Tom Waits, New Order, Brian Eno; ultimately arriving at joyous and very silly Electro-pop. You might indulge yourself in a little existential panic from time to time, but I think if you look back on your musical appreciation, you will probably indentify some class of a worthwile progression.

An even more important quality as far as I can see is to allow for some kind of small triumph over death. I don't mean in terms of the musicians themselves but that our appreciation of certain songs tends to outlive as much as they define certain points in your life. Friendships will deteriorate over time and groups will disperse but all that has to happen is for you to hear Blue Monday or Windowlicker and you are immediately dragged back to the underground space-cadet missions you took part in during your early twenties.

But finally the most obvious and simple reason why rabid music fans haven't actually died out, despite what the group might think about the shallowness of this generation of music fans, is because music still manages to lift life out of the humdrum every so often.

As a rabid music fan myself - although shallower than most - I can still pinpoint a few moments when I had that sacred experience that Nick Cave talked about. The last time I can remember it happening was on a bus into New York a couple of years ago. My brother and I had been convinced to spend a day in an outlet centre somewhere outside New York. Horribly hungover, we took one look around the centre and ran for the first bus back. We weren't seated long before my brother, exhausted from the experience, fell asleep with his face squashed against the window. I was a little more disorientated and spent 20 brain freezingly painful minutes trying to get my horribly malfunctioning ipod to offer one song to resurrect the situation. The bus moved off and all I could do was stare at my brother's face with utter hatred. Broken, I dropped my ipod and slumped into the chair.

Just as the ipod fell into my lap, my earphones blasted into life - a noise too loud to be deciphered immediately. My head rocketed forward and I stared blindly out the window with what seemed like every synapse in my brain blown to bits. Miraclously, it had started to snow at that exact moment and as the quietly tumbling guitar of These Days by Nico registered in my head - I noticed that the snow was falling impossibly slowly and for the duration of the song there seemed absolutely no distinction between me, the window, the snow and the song.

Saving Holly

2006-10-05T15:52:00.000+01:00

There is a scary side to Jesus' love and if you let him into your heart, make sure you have a box of antacids at the ready. He walked 40 days and nights in the desert for you. He sacrificed himself on the cross for you. He even befriended stricken hookers for you - don't you think it's your turn to suffer?

Nobody wants to end up like Holly here - twisted and secular. Perhaps we should all follow the example of the young girl in this clip and repeat the lovely Soldier of Jesus mantra to our friends everyday. Say it eight times with me: Jesus is watching. Jesus is watching. Jesus is watching. Jesus is watching. Jesus is watching. Jesus is watching. Jesus is watching. Jesus is watching.

Disclaimer: Any similarity to sketches from Blue Jam are purely in your imagination.

Summertime Blues

2006-09-14T15:20:00.001+01:00

And so it's the end of the Summer. No more holidays for the forseeable future. Your close friends are either overseas or in the process of emigrating. The days are getting shorter. The last festival has come and gone. You start smoking again. You've been biting you lip behind the watercooler and it's all you can do to stop yourself from breaking down at your computer. Is there any way out of this woeful slump?

No, not really. These statements are all bold faced facts and you're just going to have to lump it. Honestly I don't think I can be of any real help at all here. But I can tell you that I am in excellent form at the moment and it is largely to do with the selection of songs I've been listening to. I know from experience that a lovely mix of cheerful summer pop balladry, mournful classics, exotic film scores and nostalgic teenage favourites is a useful companion during the summertime skids. And so I've compiled a list that fulfils all those criteria.

The first song is taken from a Won Kar Wei film called In the Mood for Love - perfect viewing for our purposes. I was so taken by it when I first saw the film that I was compelled to throw my arms around the telly and lick the screen. It's not a pleasant taste - telly - but the memory of the experience has kept me from indulging in spontaneous acts of despair since.

I've also included some uplifting summer hits by TV on the Radio, Toots & The Maytals, Sparks and a new breezy pop ballad from Yo La Tengo's new album - all are assured to reset the balance. There are some old friends in Ash and They Might be Giants to help out as well. And in the end, if you are still not satisfied, take solace in the fact that your life is nowhere near as tragic as Patsy Cline's. Just listen to her sing. Your life's not that bad is it?

As usual the songs are available in cybersist, username (clickerconspiracy) and password (mixtape) remain the same. The songs are in the files section. It was nice to hear that people enjoyed the Lost Highway tape. I'll leave it up there for another while in any case. Here is the new playlist:

1. Hua Yang De Nian Hua - Zhou Xuan
2. La Ballade de Melody Nelson - Serge Gainsbourg
3. Pocketful of Money - Jens Lekman
4. (Baby, Baby) Can I Invade Your Country - Sparks
5. Birdhouse in Your Soul - They Might Be Giants
6. Sweet and Dandy - Toots & The Maytals
7. Beenbag Chair - Yo La Tengo
8. Wolf Like Me - TV on the Radio
9. Gone the Dream - Ash
10. Cucurrucucu Paloma - Caetano Veloso
11. Cold Wind - Arcade Fire
12. Sleep Walk - Ritchie Valens
13. Galbraith Street - Ron Sexsmith
14. You Belong to Me - Patsy Cline

He Was a Rebel Jew

2006-09-14T15:20:00.000+01:00

Robert Newman

2006-09-09T16:10:00.000+01:00

Modern Times

2006-08-28T11:53:00.000+01:00

There's nothing like the prospect of a new Bob Dylan album to make me start giggling like a little school girl. In the weeks leading up to the release date, Dylan fans are teased with hysterical proclomations of uber-mastery by the music press and publicity junkets deal out foppish pictures of the old devil left right and centre. Dylan peers at you through the photo lense: squinty eyes, lips pursed and slightly smurky. Nobody delivers a better Blue Steel. Sometimes I just want to grab the photos and yell YOU'RE SO FUCKIN SUAVE Dennis Hopper style into his wisened horsey face.

Expectations are high water and rising for this album. His recent autobiography was sharp and candid. Recents albums have been magnificent and Scorcese's film barely satisfied rabid public interest in even the most banal aspects of Dylan's life. It's been almost impossible to escape the guy in the last year.

Of course it's been a pretty appalling year for new music so far and maybe there's a little bit of Save Us King Bob about the reviews that have preceded the album release. Rolling Stone and Uncut Magazine reviews have been on the crazy side of delirious and some half-baked gobshite managed to compare the album to Matisse, Keats and Yeats. I'm no culture vulture but what exactly do those three all have in common? Ooh, he might say, the album is soooo painterly. Almost poetic. Like a painting.

It's seems like since Dylan's brush with death in the late nineties there has been a compulsion in the press to applaud everything he does in a kind of Quick... Before He Dies kind of hysteria. His live shows have been comically muffled in their delivery and even ventures like the revoltingly wretched Masked and Anonymous have been cheered out of existence. I mean just look at that trailer for god's sake. It makes you squirm doesn't it?

Giovanni Ribisi: Do you ever dream?
Dylan (squinty blue steel, unnecessary pause): Yea...I dream.

I've been listening to Modern Times now for a few days and it's an enjoyable enough affair. It's certainly no equal to Time Out of Mind or Love & Theft, it's partners in Bob's Indian Summer trilogy; but I suppose that those are unfair comparisons. Time Out of Mind was an absolute revelation when it came out. The personal nature of the album and the slow rolling splendour of the production demanded comparisons with Dylan's best work. I still, almost 10 years later, can't get over the sheer majesty of Not Dark Yet. Dylan always seemed to be a bit of a charaltan and here he was staring death in the face and telling it as straight as he could. It seemed to cut through any pretence he could muster. Of course, Love & Theft's witty remarks and breezy tone were all the more enjoyable after that. I remember one review at the time saying that getting to know the album was like drinking with a geriatric door to door saleman in a cheap motel bar. It didn't matter that Dylan was putting up the defenses again - it was just so show biz entertaining.

Anyway, if you're a Dylan fan you are going to buy this album no matter what happens. It's a pity that music journalists are so compelled to tag it in to some kind of near death golden trilogy. Is it asperger's syndrome I wonder? Is it important that Dylan finishes on a prime number of magnificent albums? Let's hope it's 5 instead of 3.

William Burroughs Doesn't Like Violence

2006-08-12T20:14:00.000+01:00

Pictures from the Trip

2006-08-10T11:09:00.000+01:00

Ok so we just landed into Santa Fe, New Mexico after a day of drivingthrough the desert. Since New Orleans, we've been in Austin which wasgreat, went swimming in a massive natural spring fed swimming pool,ate all you can eat BBQ, saw 1.5 million bats at sunset and a fewbeers to boot. Then on the road again across the state of Texas whichis huge, went horse riding in Bandero, Tx then on to Carlsbad NewMexico this morning. Went caving first thing this morning, apparantlywe descended 750 feet or so, then on to Roswell New Mexico, which iswhere the crazy Americans see all those UFOs. It was a bit of a letdown but we did play the x-files theme a few times. So tomorrow we'rehitting Santa Fe, then native american colony tomorrow night, followedby some white water rafting in Colorado by the early weekend. Beencrazy driving in the desert and watching storm come in, lightningstriking, heavy rains, land as far as the eye can see.Needless to say we're still getting on great, no fights as yet!! The rest of my pictures from the trip are in the flikr bar below.

Neil from New Orleans

2006-08-03T21:18:00.000+01:00

So we've just arrived into New Orleans last night, a little tired after the first 1,500 miles of travelling. Passed through 9 states now at this stage already, its been amazing so far. Memphis was a personal favourite so far, headin down Beale Street listening to live blues from every single pub in the area after an afternoon in Graceland, followed by a long drive through the Mississppi delta, cotton and cornfield as far as the eye can see. About to head off to see some of the major destruction Katrina caused,will send some more pics on again at a later stage.

Music Reporter Ambitions Scuppered

2006-08-02T20:16:00.000+01:00

I have recieved yet another knockback from a magazine for my application to be a music reporter. I have pasted the correspondance below - maybe someone could tell me where I am going wrong.

Dear Sir,

Thank you for your recent application for the post of Music Reporter at Digital Spy.Unfortunately I am unable to offer you a position with Digital Spy at this time. Please note however that we received an exceptionally high level of interest in all of our advertised positions and we will be keeping your details on file for future consideration.Thanks again for your interest and we wish you all the best for the future.

Kind regards

James Welsh on behalf of Neil Wilkes

On 13/7/2006, you wrote:

Dear Mr Wilkes,

I noticed that you've advertised for a music reporter position and I'd like to declare my interest in pursuing the position. I majored in Economics (for my terrible Catholic sins) and have just completed a Reseach Masters based on Evolutionary Pyschology, but music has always been my driving passion.

Growing up in the neighbourhood minder's house (a kind of Irish Kibbutz) I was routinely locked away in a room on my own, as the minder (Mammy Mary) recognised that I was most cooperative at meal time if I had several hours of Prince records. I have, since my teens, been a member of some sort of music group. Over the last few years I've divided my time between college work, barwork, karaoke rental (business purposes) and music reviews for college magazines. I also have a blog (www.clickerconspiracy.blogspot.com) that reviews albums in a more personal/lazy way. The initial intention for the blog was to make an effort to contribute to the popularity of my favourite band Silver Jews and I have consistently endeavoured to convince readers to celebrate their particular brand of magic by getting lines from Silver Jews songs tattooed on their person. However I am realistic about this issue and don't judge the success of the blog solely on the basis of those participating in Silver Jews worship.

Here are a few links to album reviews that have been used on the blog and in various college publications:

Aphex Twin - Richard D. James Album
The Flaming Lips - At War With the Mystics

Please note that my CV is attached also and that it records my furious commitment to Economics.Mr Wilkes, I would relish the opportunity to take up this position. Music is my consuming passion and I could develop some decent writing skills if given the opportunity.

Regards.

London Shows

2006-08-02T11:48:00.000+01:00

Last night I caught a performance of Sam Shepard's play Fool for Love in The Apollo Theatre off Picadilly. I managed to catch the Box Office before it just sold out and was afforded a front row and centre seat for the show. A sleazy yellow Motel sign blinked above my head and I got very excited about the prospect of a Paris, Texas like drama being played out right in front of my nose. Paris, Texas has always been one of my favourite films and Shepard's screenplay is utterly memorable for its slow spare unravelling. I knew nothing about this play but, it being Shepard, there was bound to be a few downtrodden characters churning over seedy revelations in a sleazy setting.

The other great attraction was seeing Juliette Lewis in the flesh. All the billboards outside the theatre boasted that her performance was "Electrifying" and even if it wasn't, you could just imagine that it was Mallory Knox up there. Either way she was sure to command the stage.

Unfortuneatly the performance itself was less than electrifying. There was a lot of wall punching, tequilla swilling and "Ah don't care 'fyou leeeeave" type of outbursts, but you never felt like there was anything other than a cliched Americana melodrama of cheap motel size proportions going on. Lewis was domineering and looked fantastic in a clingy red dress but she seemed to be lazily riffing on her lines at points and her partner in crime, Martin Henderson, wasn't much more than a silly cowboy-by-numbers. The story itself had the obilgatory sleazy revelation but it had none of the gut wrenching claustrophobia of the sex booth scene in Paris, Texas. There was just nothing genuinely convincing about the supposed passion between the two leads.

Much more enjoyable was Avenue Q the night before the Noel Coward Theatre. I think Steve managed to karaoke his way through most of the songs in the show at his wedding but it didn't spoil the enjoyment of the London audience singing along to stuff like It Sucks To Be Me and The Internet Is For Porn. There was an old Indian couple sitting next to me - he had a cane and she had a neck brace! - and they sang their whole way through the show. I was in tears during their Everyone's A Little Bit Racist duet. And then there were the Bad Idea Bears - instant heroes of mine - beying everyone into Absinthe cocktails and extremely poor decisions. As somebody who earned the nickname of the Patron Saint of Poor Decisions, I was in awe. It's a superbly entertaining show and if you are over in London in the next while you should check it out.

Lost Highway Roadtape

2006-07-30T13:04:00.000+01:00

Before Neil headed off on Friday, he asked me to string together a mixtape suitable for their roadtrip and since Alternative Country is my very favourite genre of music I was more than happy to oblige. You can get to it here, the username to enter is clickerconspiracy and the password is mixtape. The songs are in the files section under the unimaginatively titled Lost Highway folder.

Actually I haven't delved very far into alt-country on the list because I already bought Neil a copy of Jim White's Searching For the Wrong-Eyed Jesus (see trailer below) and I think that was more than enough bleak gospel underbelly to keep him going for a while. I really can't emphasise how enjoyable a film this is if you are even remotely interested in the genre. I've already bought it twice in a month. So other than a few alt-country staples, the mixtape vears towards pleasant sing-along territory and would be suitable for anyone doing a bit of travelling in the next while. I've found that it even works on planes - though you may find it difficult to resist slapping the stewardess on the ass when she passes with the trolley.

However I haven't resisted the temptation to include some alt-country heroes such as Smog, Bonnie "Prince" Billy and Vic Chesnutt. It was through Bill Callahan (alias Smog) and Will Oldham (of Palace Brothers and Bonnie "Prince" Billy) that I came to love Country music as it is now - literate, strange and completely removed from the cliched stereotypes you might associate with the genre. Someone like Vic Chesnutt for instance, a pioneer of Southern gothic folks songs, incorporates his own biographical style with elements of those great mythic traditions that have sustained country and blues legacies. Wheelchair bound since childhood and resplendant in his lop-sided crown and furs, Chesnutt duets with his niece on What Do You Mean? to beguiling effect - she sits at his feet while he struggles to make sense of his strange tale:

VC: Like a puppy on a trampoline..

Niece: What do you mean?

VC: Bewildered.

I think I was irritated the first few times I heard this song because it seemed so childish and obscure but it has stuck with me a long time and never fails to make the hairs stand up on my neck (hooray for cliches). Anyway, if you find that you like any of the artists on the list then keep going and check them out. Jim White's film is a good place to start.

Douglas Coupland Rant

2006-07-28T17:04:00.000+01:00

I GOT STUCK IN STANSTEAD AIRPORT LAST NIGHT so i decided to pick up the new douglas coupland book J-Pod to pass the time

BUT UNFORTUNEATLY COUPLAND HAS A TERRIBLE HABIT OF DROPPING MARKETING SLOGANS AND PROGRAMMING CODE IN CAPITAL LETTERS PLUS

(Don't ask me, John. Google it) random and inane things in CAPITAL LETTERS ALL OVER THE PAGE1100111000!!!

11000 command error
and as the horror of watching children count rain drops on an airport window during a thunder storm kicked in

A PAIR OF OVERSIZE GREEN FOAM LATEX incredible hulk BOXING GLOVES i came to hate the snide irony for the sake of slapstick attitude of the characters and the stupid repetitive devices that coupland uses AND SO I'M TAKING THIS OPPORTUNITY TO 3344554366577 TO RANT IN THE STYLE OF DOUGLAS COUPLAND BUT ALSO TO DROP IN A FEW THINGS ABOUT how muck i like LON-DAN

...beautiful beautiful exotic women with no orange make-up on pinched faces with freckles

SINGALONG CINEMA IN SOHO + THE SOUND OF MUSIC = NO LONELINESS IN A STRANGE CITY

incredibly nifty sweeping air conditioning system in underground that comes around the corner and nearly lifts you off your feet...

Tuesday: 31 degrees, Wednesday: 32 degrees, Thursday: 28 degrees..

Camden, Tall overhanging trees in Berkeley Square, the Gerkin and rediculously intimidating buildings in the Financial District

AND NOW THAT I THINK OF IT PEOPLE BEGAN TO MOVE FROM AROUND ME IN THE AIRPORT BECAUSE I KEPT LAUGHING OUTLOUD READING COUPLAND'S BOOK and so i worked out that even when you hate a books characters, the following statement holds true: 7 LAUGH OUT LOUD MOMENTS IN A BOOK = WORTH READING just make the resolution to cut down on pop references and don't become a douglas coupland character AND THAT MAKES IT OK TO QUOTE FROM HIS BOOKS:

Kaitlin to Cancer Cowboy: "....because you have no character. You're a depressing assemblage of pop culture influences and cancelled emotions, driven by the sputtering engine of only the most banal form of capitalism. You spend your life feeling as if you're perpetually on the brink of being obsolete - whether it's labour market obsolescence or cultural unhipness ... You're glamorised drosophila flies, with the company regulating your life cycles at whim. If it isn't a budget-driven 18-month game production cycle, it's a five-year hardware obsolescence schedule ...

chicken ramen chicken ramen chicken ramen chicken ramen

Road Trip Pt.1 - The Plan

2006-07-25T00:01:00.000+01:00

Neil and Brian are coming to the end of their adventures in New York and are embarking on a traditional road trip across the States before returning home. We'll keep a log of their journey here and hopefully they'll survive the attention of gambling deer, amorous truckers and drug fucked Samoan lawyers to arrive back safe and sound in recently civilised Ireland.

Here's the basic outline for the trip as outlined by Neil in a recent group email: We start in NYC and head south to camp in the Great Smoky Mountains,from there we jingle jangle our way through Memphis and Nashville in Tennessee before skipping into the deep south for a few days in New Orleans. From there we start traversing again on out to Austin, Texas then over to Santa Fe, New Mexico before a trek through the mountains to Denver Colorado. From there we leap through the Grand Canyon into Vegas for a short stop at the roulette tables. Heading north then through Death Valley and on to Yosemite National Park. Motoring nicely, we'll be pulling into San Fran a few days later. The final plan is to drive the coast road "Route 1" down the coast of California through Big Sur and all the other Beach Boys hang outs, past LA and down as far as Huntington Beach to see "the O.C". We then trek back up to L.A to catch a flight back to NYC.

28 days of travelling, i'm sure we'll kill each other by the end of it but its America so no one will find out. We have a couple of days back in the city before we leave and should be arriving home in September (to rapturous applause i'm sure).

Music in Films

2006-07-19T12:12:00.000+01:00

I rented out Lost Highway last night and it reminded me that no matter how many times I watch the scene, I will never get tired of watching Patricia Arquette step from that car. It's the perfect marriage of film and music - the flickering camera work, Patricia Arquette's poise and the timing as she shakes her hair before the chorus line. It's as if the music is so intense that it makes colours on the screne vibrate. Even in David Lynch's rediculous canon of musical moments this counts as my favourite film scene of all.

I can think of a few other musical film favourites and have linked them below. There are some pretty obvious choices in the circumstances. Wes Anderson seems to have made a career out of extended music videos and it's almost impossible to leave out David Bowie's Magic Dance from Labyrinth - but I've tried to steer clear of the obvious ones.

Caetano Veloso ~ Currucucu Palermo from Habla Con Ella

An easy choice - this was a spell binding moment from Habla Con Ella. The performance by Caetano Veloso was so elegant that Almoldovar just sat the camera amongst the audience and let the whole song play through.

Ennio Morricone ~ Once Upon a Time in the West Theme

It would be impossible to leave out the absolute master of film scores, Ennio Morrricone. You almost don't need to know anything about the film to enjoy this scene. However, if by chance you haven't see it, then you absolutely must rent it out at the next possible opportunity. With regards to the clip, the music should be enough to raise all the tension required for the casual viewer - hands down the best death scene in movie history.

Roy Orbison ~ In Dreams from Blue Velvet

Ok one obvious choice. Is this as eerie as lip-synching gets? Well there was Milli Vanilli, but they didn't get the chance to make a film as far as I know. Things I love about this scene - the lamp, Dennis Hopper's inexplicable change of humour and the fat girl's unswerving attention to her fingernails. Let's hit the FUCKIN road!

Lovely Techprops

2006-07-17T13:48:00.000+01:00

Came across some pretty interesting sites recently on my travels and have made a few links to them in the link section (to the right, under links). Steven Johnson wrote a wonderful book called Emergence that jump started my thesis research and his blog is enjoyable techophilea. Makezine is an interesting magazine about bizarre amateur inventions - suitable for fans of Short Circuit and Tom Waits. We Make Money Not Art is an uber-arttechno extravaganza with a host of wonderful art projects and technical stunts.

I particularly like this SMS Guerrila Projector developed by Troika - A handheld projector with integrated mobile phone that enables users to project something very private, SMS, in public. The original idea was to make a movie gun and shoot people with films. It doesn’t compete with a projection truck in terms of strength and quality of image but you can bring it anywhere you want and move from place to place very quickly and easily. A big lens is mounted on the device so you can screen very personalized messages from a distance. They tested the system several times in central London to see the reaction of the people. For example, they projected from the street messages about value, wealth or security inside the home of people, in London’s richest areas. After 10 minutes, police vans arrived. But the police didn’t know what to look for, no one expects a projector to be so mobile. Troika tried to experiment with images as well but found out that, for this particular project, texts are more powerful.

Leonard Hatred

2006-07-13T09:45:00.000+01:00

It Had to Catch On

2006-07-12T13:26:00.000+01:00

I haven't been out on the piss in Dublin in the last week so I haven't actually seen it happen, but I'm sure this kind of behaviour is all over town. I propose that we scrap the present date system and time Year Zero from the moment the first Zizou was executed.

Senseless Violence

2006-07-10T09:55:00.000+01:00

I always appreciate it when an event is witnessed in public that demands the christening of a new word in the English language. Last night we saw what, from now on, can only be described as a Zizou - a diabolic bull charge to the chest of an adversary. Has anyone in the history of human conflict ever even had the idea to perform a Zizou? It was, for me, absolute and utlimate confirmation of Zinedine Zidane's genius.

My first reaction when I saw the slow motion replay of our new bovine ritual was to leap out of my seat shouting Thats Impossible! I couldn't control my glee. And it has only gotten better with repeated viewing. I don't know what it is about completely random and senseless petty violence that sets me off but this has to be the most poetic execution of such behaviour I have ever seen.

You begin to wonder if other great figures from history were capable of such classy acts of random petty violence. Einstein revolutionised the way we see the world with his Theory of Relativity - but did he ever exercise a compulsion to charge his research assistants and aim his head between the legs of an unsuspecting physicist? And Joyce, dictating the wormy nonsense of Finnegan's Wake to Samuel Beckett - did he not feel compelled to tap out the rhythm of his prose by caneing the back of Beckett's head on the adverbs and pronouns?

The whole business made me mourn the fact that I wasn't 7 years old and that my brother was overseas. I can just picture brothers across the world taking turns in their front rooms to execute a Zizou. Then the mind would wander. They would become experimental. What other parts of the human body can cause it to be felled with a single head charge? Obviously the groin. Maybe the knees. Oh who cares, lets go for the groin again.

Speculation is rife of course about what Materazzi could have possibly said to exact such brilliance from Zidane. First reports indicate that Materazzi discribed Zidane's mother has having T Rex Tits. Other reports have said that Materazzi, an agent of International Witch Crime, had hypnotised Zidane during the game so that he would respond to the word Moo! by performing a chest high head charge. Other members of the Council of International Witch Crime, Michael Jackson and Uri Geller, are being interrogated about their part in the shamozzle.

Chorus Lines

2006-07-03T20:05:00.000+01:00

There's a story that Chuck Palahniuk tells about his time in college, where he and his mates would skip classes to go to a strip bar called The Carriage Room. One of the regulars in the bar was this old wreck of a man who used to park himself by the stage each night and sit mysteriously under a Panama hat. The man would take dollar bills and, licking the long edge of each note, he would carefully roll the paper as tight as a pencil. Sticking these notes together, the gentlemen would fashion a long thin walking stick, which he would then wave musically in the direction of the strippers. As the ladies approached, the man would lean back, whip the girls on the ass and in a horribly cancerous voice yell ARCH YER BACK, BABY! ARCH YER BACK! As the ladies leaned over, he would then place a single dollar in each behind. To this day, Palahniuk will pick up the phone and the sound of one of his old mates yelling Arch Yer Back Baby into his ear will set him off to such an extent that he has to promise to call back. He calls this a Chorus Line and it is a piece of shorthand language that we all use to inclusively fix shared experience.

I can see, looking back through pictures or letters, that remembering a group of mates' chorus line is as good a snapshot of events as anything else. The faces in my Montauk photos are a little strange now but everything falls into place when I picture those people yelling ME KNICKERS ARE RINGIN LUV! right in my face. The same goes for the naked I Can't Dance walk that became best practice in Ocean City and the terrible monkey screams that haunt my memories of Santa Ponsa.

Of course the chorus line has a life of its own and there comes a time when it has to be retired before it becomes a cliché. This can be done in two ways. You can either let everyone tire of saying it and scold the parrot members of the group for overuse. Or you can take heed of the clearly recognisable signposts that exist for chorus line retirement. In my experience this has proven to be when the line is yelled in a wildly different context to the one it was conceived in.

For example, we knew it was time to retire our favourite chorus line when Lorraine and I witnessed, three days into an inter-county booze cruise, what was unquestionably the ultimate possible delivery of that line. Dredging through a lampless Wicklow pub car park, we turned to witness Manc-madman Everton pitching himself in the dark with a drunkenly wild stance. Arms were thrown aloft and though all we could see were two pints of Guinness and the moon on his bald black head, the sound of SUCKIN DIESIL! is unmistakable when yelled through gappy teeth in a Manchester accent.

It's a delicate business as to the proper use of a chorus line. Often they don't translate when groups overlap and you have to be careful with your delivery. Spontaneous pile-ons may go down well in one group. But you run the risk of finding yourself lying on a panicked stranger if you introduce it too early in a new group.

So I suppose my advice is to base your chorus lines on spontaneous shared experiences, to confine them to those directly involved and to give up the ghost when that line is perfected. Feel free to leave your own chorus lines in the comments section so that everyone knows what lines act as laughter triggers in your mucky heads.

PS. Please don't leave safety words.

Stay Cool in the Pool

2006-06-29T13:30:00.000+01:00

I'm sure it says something about a sunnier temperament or maybe it's just the weather, but I checked my list of most played songs on McIpod this morning for the first time in 6 months and the top 30 songs were exclusively Ice Cream on your Chin, Lollypop Lickin Electro. No Nina Simone. No stomach churning Al Green. No cold hand of Death Roy Orbison. Not even Tom, Nick or Bob. It's like all the Christmas figurines have been taken out of the manger and replaced with The Power Rangers.

In celebration of this turn of events, I've put together a mixtape of splishy-splashy Electro-pop. These songs are from the very top of my most played list and should appeal to Electro and Anti-Electro fans alike. There are no floor fillers here. Just the kind of stuff you would appreciate on a day to the seaside. In order to download this lovely list: Go to cybersist, Type in the username (clickerconspiracy) and password (mixtape) with your hands and then go to the Files Section where all the music files are. It is worth listening to the songs in this order:

1. Cool in the Pool ~ Can
2. Schrapnell ~ Isolée
3. Crayon ~ Manitoba
4. Corporeal ~ Broadcast
5. Alles Sehen ~ Ellen Allien
6. Like a Pen ~ The Knife
7. Repair Machines ~ Vitalic
8. The Sky Was Pink ~ Nathan Fake
9. I Was a Boy From School ~ Hot Chip
10. Cutup Piano + Xylophone ~ Fridge
11. Animal Chin ~ Jaga Jazzist
12. La Ritournelle ~ Superpitcher
13. An Ending (Ascent) ~ Brian Eno

David Sedaris

2006-06-27T12:14:00.000+01:00

Tart Syndrome

2006-06-24T14:24:00.000+01:00

When I first started posting on this blog, I made an effort to be honest about my motives for the whole business. Top of that list of motives was recognition of my compulsive Vanity (not vanity). I suppose stating this was a cheap attempt on my part to pose as self deprecating at the outset and I hoped that I could endear myself to those checking out the site by shooting myself in the foot before I started. Of course, someone who continues to blog after a year of posting (most blogs are dropped after a few months) has no real problem with vanity. At that stage, if you are still going, you are either a gathered technophile with homely agendas (Stelke), a novelty rapper turned God-Fearin Lovelyman (Hammertime!) or you are the Lawnmower man (Ring-Ring).

Unfortuneatly, I don't qualify for any of these ascriptions. In my case, the blog has been sustained on the basis of a rare physiological condition known as Tart Syndrome. Little is known about my condition and there is controversy in the medical profession about the consistency of symptoms; but I feel sure that there is enough evidence in blogland to warrant a well funded research agenda.

I have, over the last couple of months, sought to reach an understanding with this faceless adversary. In the initial stages of my condition I had hoped that my father, just as Nick Nolte in the film Lorenzo's Oil, would be spurred into all-night Physiology quests in the National Library. Alas, tis the fate of every individual who suffers from Tart Syndrome to battle the terrible insecurities that derive from self diagnosis.

In the course of my studies, I have made a number of minor breakthroughs in determining the nature of the condition. Those who suffer from Tart Syndrome display acute deficiences in self control, dignity and in aesthetics for good taste. Reading the memoirs of Augusten Burroughs and David Sedaris recently has lead me to the conclusion that early symptoms of the condition are recognisable from childhood. Tarts (those who suffer from Tart Syndrome) are born with a rediculously indecent sense of entitlement and a constant need for validation. The condition is trigged when that sense of entitlement is royally beaten out of the child by infuriated parents, classmates, priests, Young Scientist judges and Birthday clowns.

Furthermore, a number of recent field studies (two weddings) has lead me to the conclusion that the condition is genetic in nature. The first wedding, of my cousin Orla to Fellow Pharmacist Fearghal, was ruined when a Tart suffering cousin envolved me in a very public (and sobering) 5 minute Dance Off. Ultimately I was completely out-tarted by said cousin's execution of a Baltic, outstretched hand kicking leap and by the ability to repeat this same feat 6 times in 10 seconds. Comments on the display ranged from "Legendary" (an over-friendly German randomer) to "Desperately Inappropriate" (my parents). At the second wedding, of Elke to Stephen to Stelke, I was thoroughly out-tarted again by my own brother. Alas in this instance I did not have the option of such a furiously professional Karaoke partner as Mr Brian Twormey. The availability of such a partner was certainly critical to the execution of a tandom Eagle wing-dance during Bette Midler's Wind Beneath My Wings.

I don't know if continuing to post is cathartic in the case of Tart Syndrome - more a case of behaving consistently with the condition. I hope to gain recognition for the plight of Tart sufferers and perhaps sit as an independant in forthcoming elections in my constituency. Vote for the Tart Party - we promise to be vocal about our problems.

Summer Here Kids

2006-05-21T14:02:00.000+01:00

Absolutely stinking vile weather today and many of you will be miserable to be back at work Monday morning, so here's a lovely reminder from B-52s that Summer is on its way with festivals, day-long drinking sessions, sunshine, sleeping in barns, backgarden-disco parties, naked wrestling, wall leppin, cross dressing speed trials, Bob Dylan/Flaming Lips in Kilkenny (thanks Simon) and karaoke themed weddings (thanks Steve/Elke). Oh and Munster won. Which is about all I'm going to say about that because everyone saw it. I even managed to link up with my brother in Woodstock and Lorraine/Aidan in some remote part of Vietnam after the game with a global social network medium known as the telephone (better than bebo). Happy birthday Lorraine and I finally drank those two bottles of orange bacardi breezer you left, as promised.

Internet Killed the TV Star

2006-05-16T19:34:00.000+01:00

I've just discovered that YouTube is hosting a superb backlog of Later with Jools Holland footage and I'm tempted to resolve to never watch the show again after an abysmal new series that has been fronted by the likes of Pearl Jam and Richard Ashcroft (Pearl Jam and Richard Ashcroft!). I've sat though an awful lot of silly psychedelic folksters, token African bongo jamsters and Robbie Williams sing-alongs (Robbie Williams!) over the years, just to catch that rare stellar performance from a new artist/old favourite and now all my efforts seem to have been made obsolete in one fell swoop.

There are a number of artists that I associate very closely with Jools Holland. I saw Nick Cave for the first time on Later and there was always the excitement of Cave's prospective performance on the show whenever he released a new album. I look forward to someone uploading footage of his God Is In The House solo performance, where he sat centre-studio, as The Bad Seeds stood around his piano chatting and sharing a bottle of wine as though at a Gospel themed dinner party. Maybe some kind soul might even find it within them to seek out the glorious performance of Yes by McAlmont & Butler from the mid-nineties or upload all of Portishead's legendary spots on the show. In the meantime here are a few of the most memorable performances or at least those that have stuck in my memory:

Portishead ~ Glory Box (1994)
At the Drive In ~ One Armed Scissor (2000)
(Uber-Sexy) PJ Harvey ~ Big Exit (2001)
(Anti-Sexy) Antony & the Johnsons ~ Hope There's Someone (2005)

Don't Go into that Barn!

2006-05-12T22:43:00.000+01:00

I can't believe my luck. Some appallingly kind soul has filmed and uploaded the entire Tom Waits concert that Steve and I went to see in London a little over a year ago. My memory of the night is still vivid, mainly because I tried to mentally burn everything that happened into the back of eyes, but now I have the whole thing at my disposal whenever I want. The perfect mix of convenience and grizzly experience.

The gig, in the Hammersmith Appollo, was Tom's first in the UK for 17 years and Steve and I were delirious with excitement on the night. We had spent the day drinking in Soho, retiring to our accommodation pre-concert to sink a bottle of whiskey, talk rubbish and sing Tom Waits songs into an electrical air fan (Steve I want those pictures by the way).

The concert itself was unspeakably good. We were treated to anecdotes about the bizarre incidence of death due to tomato consumption in the 18th century, the musical mating ritual of the male spider and the story of the 10,000 dollar grilled cheese sandwich. The songs were wildly recieved and even wilder in delivery. Bent and brilliant in motion and voice as Steve says. The second song in the above clip, Don't Go Into That Barn, involves a call and response section during which the crowd spontaneously broke into a rowing motion in their seats, yelling YESSAR! in the most masculine voice they could manage.

It was absolute carnage the whole way through. When he slipped into Alice, it was like the whole place sunk and watching it back now I can't believe the crowd managed to restrain themselves throughout the course of the song. He finished, just Tom and the piano, with what he referred to as his Housing Department: Come On Up to the House and House Where Nobody Lives. There was an almighty animal roar of appreciation in the end. The only downside for the trip was that I lost track of time in the Saatchi gallery, we missed our flight and had to sleep on the floor of the airport overnight. No so bad for me. I slept like a log, dreaming about the concert and awoke to a stiffened Steve doing his best to disguise his mirth at:

(A) Missing a Macroeconomic Lecture he was meant to deliver to the entire Freshman class
(B) Having to pay for more flights
(C) Having developed a serious chest infection
(D) Not having slept a wink in a horrible airport.

I can only offer my most sincere apologies Steve. I've had second thoughts about Beirut by the way and there is a review in the random review section.

Moon Dust: The Men Who Fell to Earth

2006-05-11T14:32:00.000+01:00

I’ve been tucking into a superb book called Moon Dust over the last couple of weeks and it’s a massively enjoyable read. The book tells the story of the 12 astronauts who took part in “the last optimistic act of the twentieth century”, the Apollo Moon Programme. It’s full of astonishing anecdotes and insights from the men who made the trip and I wanted to pass a few on here. I’ve just pulled complete sentences from the book and strung them together so I hope it makes sense.

Neil Armstrong/Buzz Aldrin on the Moon - As he steps onto the moon, the first thing that Aldrin becomes aware of is stepping back into gravity. There is a sense of relief as he reacquaints himself with it’s attention. He thinks about how the weightlessness of space had made him feel lonely. Like he was nowhere. Armstrong notices the intensity of the shadows thrown on the surface, an effect due to the lack of atmosphere. As he struggles to find a balanced gait on the lunar surface, his figure resembles that of a child, backlit and skipping. Staring into the distance he finds it difficult to take account of the visible curvature on the horizon, which lends the moon a special kind of intimacy. He looks in the direction of the Earth. He remembers feeling overwhelmed by it’s intricacy on the upward thrust, but now, he is able to block out it out completely with his thumb. When asked later if this experience made him feel like a giant, he would say that, instead, it made him feel very, very small.

As Armstrong and Aldrin took their first steps onto the moon, Lunar Command pilot Michael Collins was left orbiting in the module. As his craft drifted towards the moon’s dark side, Collins was swept into the impenetrable depths of the cosmos. Separated from all humanity, he was left utterly alone – an experience unknown to man before and one Collins’ hero Charles Lindbergh recognised as a more profound experience than that of the moonwalkers. In the early stages of solitude, he nervously implored of his moon-bound partners “Keep talking to me guys”, but finally as he drifted into absolute solitude, Collins was overwhelmed with a feeling he describes as Exultation. There is something comforting in the fact that a man, pitched as far from life as possible, can find solace in the complete darkness.

Collins would pay a high price for that feeling of solitude, gripped by an “earthly ennui that he was powerless to prevent”. There is a terrible sympathy when reading the book for the astronauts as you learn about their dysfunctional lives since the return. Some are to be found posing with strippers and Klingon’s at Star Trek conventions in places like Hull and Northampton. Some try to get a handle on their experience by repeatedly painting lunar surfaces or writing wildly nonsensical science fiction novels. Some simply fall into alcoholism, muttering about business plans to relaunch the space effort. It’s a very sad book at times but well worth the read for the perspectives each astronaut has from their experiences. As Dave Berman from the Silver Jews says:

People ask people to watch their scotch,
While people send people up to the moon.
When they return, well there isn’t much,
People, be careful not to crest too soon.

Gulag Orkestar

2006-05-05T12:30:00.000+01:00

And here it is...the big Indie bandwagon has arrived and everyone is falling at the feet of 19 year old Zach Condon as he rides his Baltic gypsy cart all over town. There have been a few albums already this year that I have enjoyed, the Ellen Allien/Apparat collaboration and Howe Gelb's grande Country Gospel especially, but listening to tracks from Gula Orkestar you know immediately that this has Playing in The Big Tent written all over it. Follow the links to download the following songs: Postcards from Italy, Mount Wrocali, The Gulag Orkestar, and The Canals of Our City.

Charlie Murphy's True Hollywood Stories

2006-05-05T08:34:00.001+01:00

Crystal Meth - Why Go Bald?

2006-05-02T16:44:00.000+01:00

For generations now, the problem of Balditis among young Irish men has lead many into a terrible life a crime. Initially lured by snazzy appeal of rural fashion and glitzy lights, balding citizens have had to resort to a litany of nefarious activities in order to fund their rabidly inflationary medical treatments. Their indignity has been further compounded in recent times by the rise of the more fashion conscious Irish Alpha Male. Crime rates have rocketed as a result and many living in Balditis hotspots in Limerick and Dublin are scared to leave their homes.

There is however, encouraging news from America. Scientists studying mugshots of citizens arrested for hair related crimes have noticed a stunningly high correlation between hair growth and massive methamphetamine addiction. Pharmacists in the LA area have been encouraged to stock low-grade quality Crystal Meth and many of those balding patrons who are looking to go straight have made the switch from Methadone to the lovely diamond rocks. A number of test cases, including that of Coby "Low Budget" Maxwell (pictured above), have yielded staggering results.

Irish Crime experts are satisfied that our insatiable appetite for crap Cocaine and dodgy pills will not be threatened by the introduction of Crystal Meth to the Irish market. Early signs, however, are good for a massive fall off in hair related crime. The drug has proven popular with young Irishmen so far and has been given the affectionate streetname of Bewhiskered Barbiturates. This gentleman in particular is understood to be very pleased with the outcome of his treatment. Unfortuneatly, this young man suffered a terrible backlash when he stopped taking his medicine. You have been warned.

Neil's Link to Samuel Beckett

2006-04-27T11:19:00.000+01:00

A friend of Neil's who writes for The Onion has mentioned him in an article on Samuel Beckett in this weeks edition. I'd like to say that, despite being a big fan of The Onion for three years now, I am not remotely jealous because I still have a copy of a customizable storybook I was given for my 5th birthday, that tells the tale of how Eoin Gleeson from Rochestown, Cork City saved Christmas by rescuing Santa from evil anti-Christmas (read Islamic fundamentalists) kidnappers. Santa was understood to be delighted with Eoin Gleeson's crucial intervention and took the opportunity to wish him a happy 5th birthday.

Here is an excerpt from the article in which Neil is mentioned. You can read the full article here.

"Even though the central theme and wicked sense of humour of this piece would lead one to believe that this could concievably be a vintage Beckett play, in reality, it could just as easily have been the product of [Beckett's close friend] Rick Cluchey," biographer Neal Gleason said.

Horrible Continuing Nightmare

2006-04-22T23:50:00.000+01:00

I've had a recurring nightmare every night since watching Munster and Leinster win a couple of weeks ago. Although I can't quite tie down the exact meaning of the dream, it seems to be growing more and more vivid with each passing night. Almost as if there is some terrible and ominous resolution to the torment, close on the horizon. Maybe some of you could help me figure it out.

I find myself standing on the bank of a murky canal in the middle of the night. There are no streetlights and everything seems obscured by the spectre of a giant barn or arena close by. I creep towards the waters edge, removing my shoes and pull the fabric of a pair of blue socks up to me knees. There is a terrible chill and the reeds paper-cut my hands as I wade into the stagnant water. I follow the reflection of the moon in the water for half a mile, never sure of what I'm standing on.

The further I stalk through the canal, the water, as in the shallow end of a public swimming pool, gets cruelly warm and pungent. The smell becomes so awful that I don't notice the moon's reflection disappearing in the water. There is complete darkness now and I rail around in the oily murk, terrible with desperation. Something slithers inside my leg, a dog barks and suddenly I'm aware of a small figure, cloaked in red, among the reeds of the bank. A small hand emerges from a red sleeve and pulls a silver cup from the water. A horribly long finger traces the cup's engravings and a crackling lisp spits the word H-E-I-N-E-K-I-N through the darkness.

I reach out to the creature and as hooded head tilts back, I'm overcome with a terror like testicles gripped with icy hands, as I witness the huge eyed and distended mouth of Golum morph into a terrible tinker-likeness of my father. Torn lips slip to one side, finger pointing at my chest and a toothless cavern opens screeching: "LLLLLllllleeeeEEiiiiIIIIInnnnNNNNSssssSSTTTeeeeEERrrRRR!!"

The creature covers its face and cowers in the reeds. I am biting the inside of my cheeks as I reach out to it again. Taking it by the shoulders, I whisper and hush as I attempt to restrain it. The hood slips off and I see the tormented and toothless face of my 6 year old self; slobbering, weak in my hands and with the word TOYOTA etched into my chest. I scream. I try to scream. I bray. Nothing comes out. The skin of my cheeks taught as I will noise out of my mouth. A sound percolating in belly, boils and bursts into the child's face:

"RRROOooooooOOYYyyyyySSSSHHHH!!"

Shaking my head from side to side, I babble and bite at nonsense barking from my mouth. Then it comes. Sense and reason.

"It's loike fine an stuff. It's only a mare. Don't lose the rag, loike. Roysh. Come on, loike you know and stuff and loike stuff you know an like totally totally loike fockin totally totally loike fockin mare fockin mare focking total mare..."

The child's body is rigid with fear and he squirms. I can't stop the noise and it has a terrible momentum:

"Com on loike I won't hurt ya loike and stuff cos loike your totally me when I was loike a nipper and stuff loike...."

He searches my face for a minute but bows limply to the right screaming:"No! NOo! You're Ryle Nugent! Ryle Nugent! Noooooo! Evil Ryle Nugent!"

"I'm like not an stuff and oh my god like you must be totally having a shocker an stuff like. I'm Eoin and I'm you loike when you grow up and become unemployed and loike can't get a job loike because you loike didn't make any effort an stuff.."

"No! NO! You're Leinster, you're a solicitor or an accountant or in Corporate Finance and you don't love God and you borrow too much and you drink foreign beer and you kiss orange faced women and you never sing at matches and you don't love your mammy and you'll never leave home and you'll never be a real man like your country daddy and you're always networking and networking and networking...."

I'm tormented and raging and I pin the child in the mud and I push his face into the mud and I drag him through the weeds shouting:

"Thats loike not who I am, I'm like Irish and loike the same as you...I'm loike the same..the focking same loike..."

And gripping the child by his red jersey I hold him under the water and he squirms and kicks and reels and thrashes and then stops. My hands shaking, I stand up to my full height. Everything settles back into the shadows of the great barn and the moon is so white and the water is so black that it feels like a Judgement.

Favourite Things

2006-04-22T20:23:00.000+01:00

Elke and Steve suggested naming a few of my favourite things as an idea/meme for a post but I would prefer to just put up a video by one of my favourite bands, Silver Jews, instead. I could tell you that I have eaten a double decker banana and salt'n'vinegar Tayto sandwich every single day since I was 13 (Lorraine and Neil will confirm this) and that of all my personal possessions, my poster for the Russ Meyer film Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill! takes pride of place. But I don't think those pieces of information are particularly valuable to anyone else.

The video is for a song called Punks in the Beerlight, taken from the superb Tanglewood Numbers album, released last year. The footage is swiped from two completely different Planet of the Apes movies, the editing is shoddy in places and the video bares no immediate relation to the story of the song, but it still maintains much of the charm of Silver Jews. A song that starts with: "Where's the paper bag that holds the liquor, just in case I feel the need to puke" and finishes with hammy guitar riffs and Born to Run air-punching ("I always loved you to the MAX!") deserves recognition for its grand sweep; even if that transition isn't very convincing along the way.

You'd have to call Silver Jews: Low Budget Entertainment, but don't take that to mean horribly obscure and self indulgent. They will never quite make it to stadium arena status and some of their album production leaves a lot to be desired, but they are a worthy cause nonetheless. In fact if there is any merit in continuing this blog, other than exercising my need for attention, then it is in spreading the Good News about Silver Jews. Writing a blog, like my galactic job hunt, has been slow and slightly humiliating process. My ambitions have for it have certainly been radically rescaled since the Citizen Cane-like manifesto of my first post. But I enjoy the free offer of scented candels sometimes left in the comments section and it has provided a sanity saving diversion from simulating destructive Economic behaviour with deceptively stubborn software programs. I hope that you will consider purchasing some of the music recommended on this site and perhaps follow up the offer of waxy herbilisers that are left here from time to time.

Munster Rugby

2006-04-03T12:50:00.000+01:00

I had a bumper day of rugby on Saturday, watching the Leinster game in Bective with the Munster Supporter's club and trapesing down to Lansdowne Road afterwards for the Munster-Perpignan clash. Munster could only a manage a sodden, dour display in the end but I managed to keep myself on a pretty uneven keel throughout the day with a belly-evil brew of several brands of stout.

The atmosphere at the game was wonderful at the outset. The stadium was completely decked in red and the roar that greeted the team as they stepped out was so wild that it sounded animal. We were standing pitchside-east in the South Terrace so we were perfectly placed to soak up the atmosphere that built up in that corner as Munster bullied Perpignan for the first half hour. They were eventually rewarded with Paul O'Connell's try but the game was well established as an attritional affair at that stage.

Despite the half time lead in Perpignan's favour, the game never felt like it was beyond Munster's grasp and there was an air of inevitability about the outcome. The crowd were pretty subdued by the end and most of the renditions of the Fields of Athenry seemed to fizzle out after one round. I think Sean and I came close to agreeing that the half-time dunk of Murphys and brown-sauce drowned chips was far more appetising than the game itself.

Its pretty disappointing that Munster and Leinster have to meet in the next round. There will probably be a few split loyalties in our house, although I'm pretty sure it'll come down to a 3-2 split in Munster's favour. I would like Munster to win, partly because they deserve it more and partly because I would feel slightly guilty about switching teams after complaining about Leinster's lack of spirit over the last few years. I don't think that Munster have much of a chance though. They look a limited team again without the enterprise of Barry Murphy. Its safe to say that Leinster would stand a much better chance of beating Biarittz in the final and I think that that's most likely outcome. How sick is that going to make Munster fans? Years and years of knocking on the barn door, only for Fockin Rugby, Roysh! Leinster to skip in on the first go.

Also got the wonderful news that my 46 year old aunt's first pregnancy was a successful one and that Hugh managed to arrive 15 minutes before April Fools Day. I'm also glad that my aunt has decided that Hugh will take her surname of O'Neill rather than that of her partner (Hoare). Huge Whore has to rank up there with Bono and Tinsel Kinsella as the most God awful names attached to an Irishman.

John McGahern

2006-03-31T15:15:00.000+01:00

Is was sad yesterday, to lose our greatest living writer John McGahern. There is no Irish writer that even comes close in stature and his death seems like a uniquely unwelcome break from our more rural past. Reading his books over the last few years was like an opportunity to peer into a rural family heritage that was closed off. I loved the completely unsentimental picture of Irish family life that came through in his books and there was great mileage in the particulary brutal father-son relationships he depicted. Its a pity that the mixed sentiments of a book like The Dark weren't taught to us in school, instead of the Everyone in Ireland's a Victim rubbish that was peddled on the curicullum. A book like that must have been like a revolting memory that Irish society didn't want to recognise when it was released. I certainly doubt they banned it simply for it's seedy content. It must have been horribly close to the bone.

The one good thing you could say about his passing is that he had the opportunity take his work as far as it would go. You would never have expected John McGahern to come out with a coke fueled Science Fiction novel about lesbian bounty hunters for instance. But at least with That They May Face the Rising Sun, he managed to distance himself from the tortuous childhood material that his early books focused on. Its pity because you felt that there was one more serenely beautiful book left to deliver. There is an interview with Seamus Heaney on the life of John McGahern available here.

Tormented Night and Day

2006-03-30T11:25:00.000+01:00

I was browsing in Waterstones the other day and came across a strange book called Amaryllis Night and Day in the recommended reading section. The book had a beautiful cover and boasted that the author, Russell Hoban, is the most original novelist alive today. Intrigued, I bought the book for myself and settled down to read it that night. I can only say now, that I deeply deeply regret the moment I laid eyes on the thing.

The first strange thing I noticed about Amaryllis Night and Day was that the opening sequences bore a stunning similarity to a few dreams I've had recently. I've been thinking a lot about what life might be like in London and have even dreamt about the possibility of a little romance developing in the first couple of weeks. In the dreams, I picture her as Lily Taylor and we meet while visiting various tourist attractions around London.

The narrator dreams of meeting Amaryllis while waiting at a bus stop named Balsamic and describes her as an exotically beautiful but slightly haggard blonde (a stunningly accurate description of someone I had a thing for last year). When an impossibly tall bamboo-Bus lit from within with Japanese lanterns arrives, Amaryllis steps on and beckons for him to join her. He ignores her pleas and wakes himself up.

When he sees her next, she appears behind him in the Science Museum and she is described as having delicately chiselled features, big innocent eyes, a warm complexion, a small figure and brown hair. Lily Taylor. In the exact way I had pictured meeting her.

Less than two chapters later, Amaryllis and Peter (the narrator), take a trip along a back road that was my absolute exact school journey between our home in Purley to my shcool in Caterham, when we lived in London. This was quite a long journey and they are nowhere near along the same route. That chapter was like a little evil cackle in my ear.

In an even more bizarre coincedence, Amaryllis and Peter meet at a display of Klein bottles (pictured above) in the Science Museum and the author labours a great deal to point out that Klein bottles, as a methaphor for "something turning itself inside out", are the basis for the theme of the book. Everything that happens seems based that idea. This is a bizarre coincedence because I was listening to And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out by Yo La Tengo when I picked up the book and I haven't listened to that album in years. I have been selling all of my CD's recently because I'm poor, but for some reason, I decided not to sell this album last week and I have been listening to it non-stop since. The album's story bares an uncanny resemblance to the that of the book by the way (more evil cackles).

And to double fucking freak me out, I've been woken two nights in a row by fucking crows screeching outside my window. I don't need to tell you that they figure prominantly in the book. I feel fucking tormented. My first instinct is to wonder if Russell Hoban is a Mind Gangster, but despite extensive research, I can't find any evidence that he has collaborated with Stevie Wonder; so that immediately disqualifies him. Someone is playing a huge fucking metaphysical joke on me (evil cackle and flapping of wings).

To cap it all off, the book is absolutely awful. I have no hesitation in saying that its the worst book I've read in years. Complete Cock. It's the first book I've ever read that I can say, wholeheartedly, I Hate. Maybe if someone else could read it then I'd know that the book is not truely evil. Would anyone do that for me?

Album Reviews

2006-03-23T17:03:00.000Z

My ipod got completely wiped recently, self destructing after it was asked to recognise one too many computers. It seems ipod’s are shy creatures and don’t like to sleep around too much. A period of relaxation and stability was needed, so I left McIpod alone with my laptop for a couple of days and vowed that they would remain in a monogamous relationship from now on.

I also resolved to refill McIpod with completely new music. I trawled through a number of Electronic album review sites and picked up as many great Electronic albums from the last few years as I could get my hands on. I've recommended a couple of recent Electronic albums in the random reviews section and I've discovered a host of new favourites which I will review in the near future.

The Singularity is Near

2006-03-21T22:23:00.000Z

I’m reading an interesting book with the ominous title of The Singularity is Near at the moment. The book’s author, Ray Kurzweil, was described by Bill Gates as "the world’s best at predicting the future of Artificial Intelligence". What Bill Gates doesn’t know is that Ray Kurzweil is a Mind Gangster.

After earning the nickname of The Phantom at MIT, Kurzweil placed himself (Howard Hughes style) at the very forefront of the IT revolution; founding several companies and developing a host of ingenious technologies. More recently, Kurzweil has focused on tracing the arc of technological progress in books such as The Age of Spiritual Machines and The Fantastic Voyage. It is, however, his efforts to plant terrifying ideas about the future in our heads and his apparent determination to single handedly defeat Death that have earned him the distinction of Mind Gangster.

Kurzweil helped invent the first optical character reading technology, the first text-to-voice synthesizer and the first large-vocabulary speech-recognition system. Some of these elements are realised in the form of a cyber-woman named Ramona on his site. My first impressions of Ramona are not good. She has a nasty habit of pulling a snide face after answering questions and she had absolutely nothing positive to say about what I was wearing. Maybe Mr Kurzweil’s idea of an ideal woman is a Mastermind contestant but, personally speaking, I would have preferred if Ramona had been a little less obsessed with her job. I should also point out that Ramona is the 25 year old rock star alter ego of Kurzweil and that he performs as her regularly in virtual reality concerts.

Here are a few of his predictions about the near future. The titles are my own and they probably don’t reflect what Kurzweil is trying to say, but my brain has a limited information filter and I can only be expected to process so much.

1. The film Inner Space will be based on True Events

“By the 2020s we will be placing millions or billions of nanobots—blood cell-size devices—inside our bloodstream to travel into our brains and interact with our neurons. We will be extending our cognitive capability directly through this intimate merger of biology with machines.”

2. We will have Google-Search Engines in our Heads

“Right now, there's a restricted architecture to the way our brains work. The brain uses electrochemical signaling for information processing, and that's a million times slower than electronic circuits. You can make only about 100 trillion connections in there. That may seem like a big number, but the way in which we store information is inefficient, so that a master of an area of knowledge can really remember only about 100,000 chunks of knowledge. If you use Google, you can already see the power of what machines can do. In the future, we will be able to expand the 100 trillion connections we have with new, virtual ones. Once nonbiological intelligence gets a foothold in our brains, it will grow exponentially. As we get to the 2030s, human beings will have biological brains enhanced with more powerful nonbiological thought processes.”

3. Mice will be Immortal

“I'm very confident that over the next decade we'll largely eliminate the diseases that kill 95 percent of people today. We've identified a dozen or so aging processes, and we have strategies for reversing them all. I believe that within 10 years we'll produce a mouse that doesn't age, and we'll translate that into human therapies within another five to 10 years after that.”

Kurzweil believes that he will never grow old and has collaborated with Stevie Wonder; fulfilling both of the crucial qualifications for Mind Gangsterism. He joins Aphex Twin, Uri Geller and Joe Meek as those who have been officially recognised as Mind Gangsters so far. Each distinguished himself in his field for his Neo-Conservative approach to personal-brain-space.

The Proposition

2006-03-20T20:56:00.000Z

Nick Cave is at it again. He’s reaching back into the Old Testament, wringing his hands above his head and stirring up a diabolic brew of brutality, redemption and betrayal. We’re back in that grey area between Civilisation and Barbarism, and Innocence doesn’t stand a chance. The only absolute certainty is that there will be a Hell of a lot of words in the script that demand capital letters.

Sometimes it’s easy to understand how people get so turned off by Nick Cave. He can go so far over the top that he ends up a cartoon gothic and his Caps-Lock Crazy tendencies often lead him into very hammy territory. Some of the songs on his last album in particular, seemed to sink under the weight of his eulogy.

Cave’s literary approach, however, has always been well suited to films. The last time that Cave collaborated with Director John Hillcoat, they served up the gloriously brutal maximum-security prison drama Ghosts…of the Civil Dead. It was a brilliant film, full of memorable characters and grizzly tension. Certainly one of the most shocking and memorable movies I’ve seen. Cave must have been in his element.

The Proposition is another successful collaboration for the pair. They’ve managed, between a cast of vicious characters and lingering shots of the horribly inhospitable environment, to make the Outback the very picture of Hell. In typical Cave tradition, the only innocent is an imbecile and the plot centres on the prospect of his hanging for the murderous adventures of his older brothers. You don’t need me to tell you that betrayal, violence and moral conflict ensues.

For all the beautiful shots and Biblical turmoil, the highlight of the film is the performance by Danny Huston (son of John and brother of Angelica). He’s just menacing. There is one shot where he is staring straight into the camera for a few seconds and it’s the craziest fucking expression imaginable. I can think of very few actors who could have pulled it off.

So, great plot, great acting, great score, wonderful shots and plenty of half-poetic violence/general mayhem. Not the plodding Western you might have expected from Cave. It’s certainly a lot less long-winded than this review, but I’ve been looking forward to this film for a long time so I was only ever going to be wanky about it. Oh and you actually see a person’s head exploding as well. Nick must have been having tremendous fun.

Ireland vs England

2006-03-17T10:36:00.000Z

Excitement is building about the prospect of beating England in Twickenham and clinching a Triple Crown on Saturday. It has been a strangely stilted tournament so far and it seems like the competition has sunk in the average fan's affection since the advent of the Heinekin Cup, but a traditional partisanship comes to the surface before games like this and I'm prepared do a lot of screaming at the TV tomorrow. There is also a mounting feeling that Ireland have played well within themselves so far in the tournament and that there could be a break out against a demoralised English team.

England of course of a horrible habit of completely trouncing Irish expectation whenever it seems like we have the upperhand. It will be a huge ask of the team to beat them three years in a row and especially after they have been so completely humiliated against the French last week. Everything is set up for an English backlash.

There a number of areas where the English have a significant advantage. Hayes and Horan are likely to get destroyed in the front row and we would be well advised not to rely too much on our back row for go-forward ball. In the backs, there is always the horror inducing ungainliness of puck-headed donkey, Shane Horgan, but the centre partnership of D'Arcy and O'Driscoll seems completey at sea at this level. There seems to be a crisis of identity between Munster and Leinster in the Irish team and it's difficult to understand how a good coaching staff can't make the best elements of the two gel.

I think a good solution to D'Arcy's complete disolution as an International player would be to leave Trimble take the ball up the middle on first phase more, so that D'Arcy has the space he thrives in off second phase. I think we may see a lot of Trimble, O'Connell and Leamy taking the ball up the middle and the centres dictating the game off the following phases. I certainly hope they don't fling rediculously ambitious skip passes all over the pitch like they did against France.

A lot of people need a great game if Ireland are going to perform. It took the best performance by an Irish team in living memory to beat them in Twickenham last time. I don't see us rescaling those heights but hopefully, we may not have to.

Ask a Republican

2006-03-15T12:03:00.000Z

Hello! I often get asked questions about Republican policy by greasy-haired liberal hippies. Watch videos of me interacting with them in Los Angeles and Seattle. May God bless you and America.

View videos of questions posed to former Republican Congressman Richard Martin here.

You've Your Father's Sense of Injustice

2006-03-11T14:24:00.000Z

Your votes have been counted and I'm delighted to announce that you have decided to christen Elke and Steve's firstborn (offkey trumpets): Tinsel Kinsella! I can only express my admiration for the excellence of your choice. I'm sure that the poll stoked fierce debate, with evenings of highlighting names in baby books and passionate consideration of the implications for the child's employment prospects.

There was a staggering 19% margin of victory in the end, with Deceptacon and the very topical Jihad tying for second place. I'm sure the voting accurately reflects the degree of conviction you felt in your choice.

Looking up Tinsel in the baby book, I found that the name means: "Something sparkling or showy but basically valueless". It is the childs great fortune that it is redeemed by the good name of Kinsella-Hayes. I'm sure Steve and Elke appreciate your verdict and that they will make the best of the situation you have landed them in.

A couple of reviews are being posted of recent albums in the Random Review section, so you have something to smile and whistle to while you picture the face of the proud parents-to-be as they recieve your wonderful news.

Morrissey Video

2006-03-02T20:02:00.000Z

Morrissey has scaled new heights/lows of self indulgence with the video for his new song You Have Killed Me. Its just too camp to be anything other than self parody but having seen some of the same moves on TV appearances over the last few years, there's the nagging feeling that its not in jest. Apparently the video, set on the stage of the 1970 Eurovision, celebrates Ireland's first Euro-winner Dana. Does this mean that we can claim him as one of our own now? Would we want to?

I've reviewed some albums in the Random Reviews section. I intend to start reviewing stuff on a more regular basis now, since that was my initial intention for the blog anyway.

Political Dissidents?

2006-02-27T13:56:00.000Z

There has been a lot of talk in the papers this morning about how the troubles in the city centre on Saturday were orchestrated by dissident republicans. The only eye witness report I got was from my uncle, who was standing on O'Connell bridge as the hordes bounded across. He overheard this exchange between two young locals:

Local #1: Cum onin, we're hedin to Leinster Howse.
Local #2: Wher fucks tha?
Local #1: How wud I'n know? Les juz wreck da gaff.

Maybe their politcal point just got lost the shamozzle.

Nothing Comes Between My Dumptruck & Me

2006-02-27T13:02:00.000Z

I listened to an album for the first time in 10 years last night and it reminded me how much my listening habits have changed since the advent of the ipod. It had been an age since I sat through an album from start to finish and I took huge enjoyment from devoting the evening to the album, rather than my recent habit of impatiently judging albums as I stood on overheated and overpeopled dart carraiges.

It helps that Soup by Blind Melon was a favourite album of mine for years. It was a strange experience listening to it again, not knowing what was coming next but instantly recognising what I heard when it did. It was strange because this eerie feeling persisted for the 45 minute duration of the album. If you'd asked me to write the lyrics down after each song I wouldn't have been able to and yet I sang my way through the whole album. When the chorus of Skinned kicked off, I actually palmed my forehead in disbelief. How could I forget such brilliance?

I had been clearing out boxes of stuff that had been in long term storage since the move from Wicklow a couple of years ago. I found a Fisher Price tap recorder and microphone we'd bought for my sister and played a few old albums from my chest of tapes. There was a chilling moment when Sepultura morphed into a recording of my 14 year old self, singing Fell On Black Days by Soundgarden with an hilariously serious grunge intonation. I think I know now how Ronan Keating developed his singing style.

Let me make it clear that I'm not being nostalgic. The vast majority of the tapes were absolutely appalling and I was surprised that Soup stood up so well. If you didn't buy it the first time around, they're like a mature and interesting version of The Shins. The other albums I was listening to at the time, Smashing Pumpkins (nature kids), Stone Temple Pilots (elegant bachelors) and Jeff Buckley, sound horribly dated. I can't listen to Jeff Buckley now without picturing him standing half naked in front of a mirror, practicing his scales as he brushes his hair.

Looking at my jumble sale collection of tapes and comparing it to my ipod, I couldn't but be glad of the scale of progress. But I have made a number of resolutions. From now on I will:
(1) Listen to an album until what I think would be the end of the first side, press pause, turn the ipod over in my hands, wait 30 seconds and then press play.
(2) Fast forward songs at the same speed of a tape instead of skipping around. I will not look at the dial as I do this and if I overshoot, I will just have to repeat the process.

Manhattan Baby

2006-02-22T17:09:00.000Z

Wonderful news, Elke and Steve are with child! And they want you to be involved in the whole process. Both agreed over the phone (binding contract) to submit the name of their firstborn to a public vote. So take this opportunity to participate in the magic of child birth by voting in the poll on the sidebar below. The happy couple are firmly commited to accepting whatever name you choose. For my part, I like the cheap thrill of Tinsel Kinsella.

On an occasion such as this I usually defer to the Word of God for guidance and comfort. And so Elke, here is a little homespun wisdom from the man upstairs which I'm sure he thought would have been comforting at the time he wrote it (he was a man of his time):

"As you do not know what is the way of the wind, or how the bones grow in the womb of her who is with child, so you do not know the works of God who makes all things." Ecclesiastes 11:5

Walk the Line

2006-02-16T17:27:00.000Z

Went to see Walk the Line last night and I loved it. The musical performances are wonderful, the leads are utterly charming and the film rarely stumbles into the mawkish territory you'd expect.

Usually with a music biopic the enjoyment would be in recognising events and appreciating the mimcry of the leads, but this film delivers a great deal more. There is a chilling moment at the beginning where you actually see Joaquin Phoenix become Johnny Cash right in front of you. He is auditioning for Sam Phillips in Sun Records and after getting savaged for his first attempt, Phoenix labours unsurely into Folsom Prison Blues. By the time he hits the third verse, your head is tilted forwards and you're gritting your teeth as Johnny Cash bellows out I Shot A Man In Reno, Just To Watch Him Die.

As the film develops, Phoenix seems to gather more of Cash's characteristics until at one point it seems that he even has Cash's eyes. I can't say exactly when I noticed the change but Phoenix perfectly captures the huge dinnerplate-dead stare of the raging pillhead. His eyes actually look blackened.

The hugely enjoyable musical performances dominate the film, from the Carter-Cash duet Jackson to the riotously explosive Cocaine Blues that bookends the film. Witherspoon is lovely. I can't figure out how she manages to maintain her charm with that rediculous face of hers, but its the best she's been since Election.

I really really enjoyed this film. Lorraine and I sang the whole way home and she even let me do some of the June Carter harmonies on Jackson. What a treat.

Films to Watch with Your Parents

2006-02-15T18:36:00.003Z

Since I'm finishing up my thesis and saving money to visit the kids in New York, I've found myself sitting down to watch movies with my parents quite a lot recently. I think we all realise I won't visit a great deal once I've moved over to the big city (due to the inevitably long employment search I'll undertake because of my drippy qualifications) and so they've been incredibly tolerant of my thesis-broody presence in the house.

We go out for a nice meal and I pick up something to watch afterwards. The first few films were easy pickings. Ray, The Aviator and Dark Water - all pleasantly family orientated. Subsequent choices recquired an appreciation of relative film tastes however. Pat is usually satisfied if there is either revoltingly gratuitous violence or liberal swearing. Eleanor likes anything with 20 Oscars attached to it. Emma likes American high school bitchyness or Horror. Everyone likes Brad Pitt. The most successful choices then were Mean Girls, Mean Creek and Wolf Creek.

In the last couple of weeks, it's become difficult to keep everyone satisfied. On the one hand, you become intolerant of everyone else and just pick what you want. On the other, you don't want to watch anything uncomfortable. It's difficult to forget the time my mother walked in at the point in Blue Velvet when Denis Hopper is screaming Fuck Me Mommy between the legs of Isabella Rosellini. A good rule is: Do not under any circumstances get taken in by the Wonderful Black Comedy quote on Todd Solonz films. I made the mistake of renting Happiness a couple of years ago and I wasn't spoken to for a week.

Anyway, we all sat down to watch Dead Man's Shoes at the weekend and it was a roaring success. The best policy it turns out is to pick favourite films from the past (because you don't mind watching it again). This is five star material. Pat and I enjoyed the glorious Bonnie Prince Billy and Smog soundtrack. Emma, Pat and I enjoyed the violent horror aspect. Eleanor and I enjoyed the human interest quality of the story. Everyone enjoyed the amazing plot twist. There's even a chance that Paddy Considine might replace Brad Pitt as family favourite. Invite him into your home this weekend.

Tom Waits Mixtape

2006-02-15T17:18:00.000Z

Lazy blogging = Repeatedly uploading mixtapes that no one downloads. But why not take this opportunity to dip your head into the oil-murky brainpool of Tom Waits? You like Brutality don't you? And you like Exotica, Farmyard Percussion and Neighbourly Intrigue. It's all here.

If your head is telling you: "Horrible yelling...no melodies...Leave it alone", then ignore it. Tom Waits has lovely ballads and the best ones are on this list. 18 songs might seem a little excessive as an introduction but it all sits together well. In any case, despite almost completely ignoring the first half of his career, I can't narrow it down anymore.

I've tried a couple of other file hosting sites so that I can link the songs directly but they are hoplessly slow. So follow the usual setup to download the songs, click here, enter clickerconspiracy as username and mixtape as password. You'll find Tom in the Files Section. That should probably be Flies Section actually.

1. Misery is the River of the World ~ Blood Money
2. Tango Till They're Sore ~ Rain Dogs
3. Don't Go Into That Barn ~ Real Gone
4. Cold Cold Ground ~ Frank's Wild Years
5. Fall of Troy ~ Dead Man Walking Soundtrack
6. Who Are You? ~ Bone Machine
7. What's He Building? ~ Mule Variations
8. Alice ~ Alice
9. Innocent When You Dream (78) ~ Frank's Wild Years
10. Reeperbahn ~ Alice
11. Going Out West ~ Bone Machine
12. Russian Dance ~ The Black Rider
13. Watch Her Disappear ~ Alice
14. Fawn ~ Alice
15. Rain Dogs ~ Rain Dogs
16. Invitation to the Blues ~ Small Change
17. In the Neighbourhood ~ Swordfishtrombones
18. That Feel ~ Bone Machine

Top Gun 2: Brokeback Squadron

2006-02-08T09:40:00.000Z

Long before Brokeback Mountain, there was Top Gun. Have a look at this original trailer for Top Gun and see why it is filed under the Special Interest section in your local video store.

Brand-Spanky New Music Mixtape

2006-02-02T12:15:00.000Z

The year's only a month old and there's reason already to be delirious from excitement because there's a disgusting amount of brand-spankingly good music coming out. I'm not sure if staring at rows and rows of Mathematica commands all day has finally gotten to me but I've been traipsing along with an abundance of glee all week due to this stuff. The last song, by Ariel Pinks Haunted Graffiti 5, has filled me with so much joy that while listening to it each morning, I try to get the attention of the prettiest girl in the library and as soon as she looks up, I shoot her two thumbs up.

Sparks are back to tell us that "Chicks dig...D.I.G...metaphors", Cat Power has recorded another classic with Al Green's band and Jenny Lewis summons up the Travelling Wilburys classic Handle With Care.

South America by Nicolas Makelberge may not count as brand spanking new, but I'm sure you'll agree that, over the course of the last year, it has proven itself to be Immortal. How can you make a song about a fast car, travelling through South America, sound transcendental? By making that car red!

The mixtape is available here, the username is clickerconspiracy and the password is mixtape(the songs are in the files section). I've also stuck up a few pictures that my dad took while climbing in the Alps, have a look in the random set of the photo section.

1. South America ~ Nicolas Makelberge
2. Maple Leaves ~ Jens Leckman
3. Leave This City ~ Magnolia Electric Co.
4. Ibi Dreams of Pavement ~ Broken Social Scene
5. The Greatest ~ Cat Power
6. Noah's Ark ~ CocoRosie
7. Upon This Tidal Wave of Young Blood ~ Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!
8. Methaphor ~ Sparks
9. Handle With Cate ~ Jenny Lewis with The Watson Twins
10.Everynight I Die At Miyagi's ~ Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti 5

Whaaats in the boxx??

2006-02-01T01:30:00.000Z

Today, while flipping through the world of shit that is Rolling Stone magazine on the subway home, I stumbled upon an article which made me run home. Dramatic I know, but the opportunity to beat 'Special K' at blogging something before he finds out was enough to put the wind in my sails.
Now what 'I' have found is a website that will make work a little easier to bear, and you can find it by clicking here------------------> www.pandora.com. Once you've clicked this non conspiracy you'll find an interwarble radio site. Now the good folks at Pandora have had musicians working for the last three or four months traipsing through a 400,000 (and growing) song collection, and linking songs with similarities according to lyrics, tone, musicality and loads of other stuff. Still not convinced! Well go there and open up pandora's box for yourself to see whats in store. For example, i typed in 'Hope there's someone' by Anto and the Johnsons and i was linked to Magnetic Fields. Brilliant, i exclaimed with mirth and a wry smile.

Bow down Kinsella.

Where's Uri? (Part 1) - The Meddling Mystic

2006-01-30T15:16:00.000Z

There is controversy in the boxing world as suspicions of match fixing have followed bizarre events in the Lightweight bout between Peter McDonagh and Michael Gomez that took place in Dublin on Saturday night. The purse for the fight is being withheld and an investigation has been launched after Gomez was felled in the fifth round without McDonagh delivering anything like a convincing punch. Those of us who follow the exploits of Uri Geller, however, will not be in the least surprised by the turn of events. I actually watched the bout on TV and had the pleasure of witnessing the influence that the Incredible Israeli Illusionist exercised over Gomez. I am only too delighted to act as a medium for you in the circumstances.

Uri joined Team McDonagh last week after the two struck up a conversation on a flight to London. Uri told McDonagh of his nefarious activities in the sporting world and offered to help him overcome his rival. Gomez was reportedly "not spooked" by news of collusion between McDonagh and the Meddling Mystic; but like so many other Geller-skeptics, he was made to eat his words.

Gomez outboxed McDonagh in the opening exchanges and seemed in complete control of the bout after demolishing McDonagh in the first four rounds. McDonagh looked lost and was desperate for Uri's council. He didn't have long to wait. Stepping up to the ropes, Geller fixed his steely stare on Gomez and after a few surreptitious hand gestures, returned to his seat.

Suddenly, almost inexplicably, Gomez stopped dead in his tracks, turned his back on McDonagh and ambled leisurely away from his opponent. McDonagh seemed equally confused and after missing Gomez with nine comically unsuccessful punches, he finally felled Gomez with an innocuous clump on the back of his head.

McDonagh was hysterical after the match. When his heavily pregnant partner came bounding into the ring to congratulate him, he unceremoniously pushed her into the ropes and threw himself into the arms of a beaming Geller. The look of rejection on her face was appalling. When asked by the BBC presenter about his role after the match, Uri said: "Peter is an incredible person. He makes me believe in myself".

Sources close to Uri have revealed his intention to fix the match as a public display of cosmic retaliation for his excommunication from an international union of mystics. Geller is understood to be furious at the decision, although he has failed to tender an appeal. A representative from P.O.C.U.S. (People of Colour's Union of Spiritualists), Mr Alan Hocus, has stated that Geller's union card was revoked after his public betrayal of fellow witch Michael Jackson during the latter's trial last year.

When pushed for a comment over the weekend, Mr Hocus was quoted as saying: "Uri knows he's not allowed to use his magic in public".

Bob Dylan MixTape

2006-01-28T12:43:00.000Z

It's probably best to start a series of introductory mixtapes of favourite music with King Dylan. I'm sure most people will have this stuff, but if you're new to Dylan then you shoudn't ignore Blood On the Tracks, Blonde on Blonde and Highway 61 Revisited in the way I have here, I've just listened to those albums a little too much. In any case, I prefer the recent I've-seen-Death-Dylan and the mid-70's-Romantic-amateur mystic-Dylan to his earlier stuff. The songs are available here, the username is clickerconspiracy and the password is mixtape.

1. Man in Me ~ Big Lebowski Soundtrack
2. Floater (Too Much to Ask) ~ Love & Theft
3. Positively 4th Street ~ Biograph Boxset
4. Changing of the Guards ~ Street Legal
5. You Belong to Me ~ Natural Born Killers Soundtrack
6. Abandoned Love ~ Biograph Boxset
7. Senor (Tales of Yankee Power) ~ Street Legal
8. Things Have Changed ~ Wonder Boys Soundtrack
9. Love Minus Zero/No Limit ~ Bringing it All Back Home
10. 4th Time Around ~ Blonde On Blonde
11. Man in the Long Black Coat ~ Oh Mercy
12. Not Dark Yet ~ Time Out of Mind
13. Sarah ~ Desire

Arctic Monkeys: Piece of Shit...Walk Away

2006-01-25T16:12:00.000Z

Just in case all the hype tweaked your interest and you were thinking of going out and buying that new Arctic Monkeys album, don't waste your money. It's brutal. Exactly as tedious as The Strokes, Bloc Party, Kaiser Chiefs and Babyshambles. Remember the simple advice of Bill Hicks: Piece of Shit...Walk Away.

I got suckered because:
(1) I spend too much money on music,
(2) I listened to ecstatic splutterings on the very wanky BBC Newsnight Review,
(3) It's impossible for me to learn from my mistakes.

Eye Of The Tiger

2006-01-23T16:29:00.000Z

This weekend i got to rise to the challenge of my rivals, fulfilling a life long ambition to run those steps in Philadelphia and stand where the once great Sly Stallone did many years ago. I dont have to say anymore because i know you're jealous.

Nearly Drowning in Drag: Back Up Story Vol 3

2006-01-23T16:12:00.000Z

I need no invitation to start telling Montauk stories, but since Steve suggested it, I'm more than happy to oblige. Given that I took in the hugely enjoyable Breakfast On Pluto the other day, I'll choose to tell the tale of a cross-dressing, near-death experience of my own that I had that summer. My story is far less heroic but this way I'll kill two birds with one stone (pun-tasms aside).

It starts sometime in August in our favourite bar, the Sixmilecross. The summer had gathered a terrifying momentum at this point (there had been the extremely unpleasant experience of urinating blood) and I was probably sitting outside the bar on the hilariously unstable, but much coveted, patio chair that served as the sole item of pub furniture. I had developed a number of ungentlemanly habits in the three months of drinking in the same bar every night; one of which was to purchase all my drinks at the same time, so as to avoid the slew of monstrous line-backers that took over after 10pm. Smoking in bars is illegal in Montauk, so once I had the royal patio chair, I was reluctant to budge for the whole night. (Tips on how to dance while sitting will follow shortly).

About a month beforehand, I had met a lovely teacher from Manhatten called Angela and a little bit of romance had developed over the weekends we had spent together. Unfortuneatly, I had repeatedly fucked everything up because of my simple failure to understand the tradeoff that exists between boozing and sexual activity. When she didn't call for the first time in four weekends, a week of sub-aqeous intoxication ala the Silver Jews was in store.

Some weeks later, the fateful night of my story, Angela turned up in the Sixmilecross on the arm of some half-baked gobshite. I can tell you that I was evil with jealousy. At some point in the evening, Angela got a fit of remorse and bounded over to talk to me. In retrospect I can understand the perils of being wildly drunk and trying to negotiate gravel in heels, but when Angela tripped and collapsed on my collection of drinks, I exploded. Grabbing the two pints of Guinness she hadn’t knocked, I stood over her and flung the contents all over her dress.

The music seemed to stop for the first time that summer. I knew, by the collective sharp intake of breath, that I had done something awful (although I was too drunk to know exactly what). In panic, I picked Angela up and ran into the women’s toilet. In my mind, the only reasonable thing to do in the situation was to swap clothes completely. This seemed a turning point for Angela and she was only too happy to oblige.

I doubt that the bar took much notice of us as we emerged from the toilet, but Angela’s date seemed completely appalled and left without saying goodbye (no manners). All I can remember from the rest of the night were a few high-heel speed trials around the pool table and a vague sense that a right had been wronged.

The trouble was that when I woke the next morning, alone, my clothes were on backward and there was a pungent smell of the sea in my room. When I got to the shower I noticed a nasty gash on my head and there was blood caked on my cheek. Imagine my surprise while stripping, when I noticed I was wearing women’s knickers. I was very quiet in work that day.

Late in my shift, Angela arrived down to check on how I was feeling. It seems that she had invited me back to her friend’s boat the night before and that, completely misjudging the difficulty of jumping onto a boat in heels, I had slammed my head on the side and tumbled into the sea. She said that a local had jumped in, pulled me out of the water and that I was lucky something horrible hadn’t happened. When I gathered myself, I had started shouting at everyone and left because she wouldn’t sleep with me. Apparently there was some struggle to get her clothes back.

Angela was very sweet. She told me she'd enjoyed meeting me but she wouldn't be coming down to Montauk again. I felt like a complete fucking eejit but the luxury of Montauk was that there was no time to dwell on anything. The only thing that seemed important was to get back to the bar early enough to secure the chair. Life is better when it's simple.

Another Miracle Match

2006-01-22T13:51:00.000Z

I still can't get over the excitement of Munster's demolition of Sale in Thomond yesterday. I have never seen an Irish sporting team play with such passion and conviction. For those of you across the water who couldn't see it, the game completely trumped the "Miracle Match" against Gloucester and I've no doubt that you'll be able to pick it up on DVD soon. If yesterday's support was anything to go by, it'll probably be available before the next round.

The match was remarkable for its pagentry, drama, brutality and skill. Sale came to Thomond top of the English Premiership and as one of the favourites for the tournament. In Sebastian Chabal, the marauding French Caveman, they had the toughest and most destructive player in Europe. But Sale, and in particular Chabal, were eaten alive by the Munster tackling. When Chabal came bounding onto the ball for the first time after ten minutes, it seemed impossible that anything could stop him. It took at least two replays to fully accept that Anthony Foley, a considerably smaller man, had completely floored Chabal with a pyschotic lunge straight into his chest. It was confirmation enough for me, that simple functioning of the laws of Physics do not apply in Thomond Park. Chabal seemed just as confused about what happened when he was eventually helped to his feet a few minutes later.

What made this a Great game, was the amount of dramatic moments that were squeezed out of the intensity. The sight of Chabal being picked up by Paul O'Connell on the 22 and carried all the way to his own try line was unforgettable. As was the way Barry Murphy took his try. With four players converging on him at the Sale 22, he managed to conceal his very obvious intention to such an extent that he was allowed to glide through the flalling arms of four very confused individuals to the try line. My 10ft leap in disbelief from the couch to the TV seems just as incredible in retrospect.

It was my little sister's birthday yesterday and a group of ten arrived back from the Aqua centre for the last ten minutes of the game. They seemed deeply disturbed by the animal roar that my dad and I left out when Wallace grapped his group-winning try a minute into injury time. There were darting eyes, gapeing mouths and one girl starred desperately into her popcorn for help. Truely unforgettable stuff.

Joe Meek: I Hear a New World

2006-01-20T10:49:00.000Z

I picked up this remarkably strange album recently and feel compelled to tell you it's weird and wonderful story. In 1960, at the time of the recording of this album, Joe Meek was most famous for his Outer Space inspired pop tunes. A string of hits and the proceeds from a multi-million selling song called Telstar had afforded him the opportunity to set up his own label and he was determined to develop his sound along the lines of what he regarded as his very unique ability to create what the populace wanted to hear. Unfortunately, it seems that Joe was a little out of touch with reality and after being conned out of the proceeds of Telstar, he retreated to a formidably unhomely studio he had built in a dingy flat, accumulating odd sounds that might contribute to his masterpiece.

One of Joe's other main interests was The Occult. Geoff Goddard, his fellow spiritualist and part-time collaborator/hitmaker, believed as Joe did: that part of the inspiration and success they found came from beyond the grave in messages they received during seances. Joe had a vision during a tarot card reading that his idol, Buddy Holly, with whom he was deeply in love, would die tragically on February 3rd, 1958. When the day came to pass, Joe informed Buddy of his prediction and told him how glad he was it hadn't come true. Buddy Holly, of course, died on February 3rd 1959 in an horrible plane crash with Richie "La Bamba" Valens.

Joe assembled a group he christened The Blueman for the recording of I Hear a New World, insisting that they dress in silver space suits and paint themselves blue. He communicated his ideas for the album through recordings of himself humming the tunes and playing out the rhythms by tapping a spoon on a plate. Unfortuneatly, Joe was completely tone deaf and blessed with absolutely no music ability to speak of. The incongruity of moronically tuneless humming and randomly spoon-smacked plates has made these tapes legendary.

The basic ingredients for the recording of the album were an Hawaiian guitar (an highly off the wall instrument for a country band at the time), The Bluesmen rhythm section and a deliberately out of tune piano. Meek fleshed out the songs with treatments of the sounds of bubbles blown through drinking straws, his toilet flushing backwards and electrical circuits shorted together. An eerie and bafflingly snapshot of the scope of his intentions is offered in his extremely forthright and helpful album liner notes. Here is his description of the idea behind the song Globb Waterfall:

"This song may contradict the belief that there is no water on the moon; I still hope there is, if it's not external then it's inside the crust. Gravity has done a strange thing and has formed a type of overflowing well. The water rises to form a huge globule on the top of the plateau and when it's reached its maximum size, it falls with a terrific splash to the ground below, and flows away into the cracks of the moon. Then the whole cycle repeats itself again and again."

The inclusion of an extra b in Globb is consistant with his christening of the lead singer as Rodd and his tendency to hopelessly misspell everything. Meek seemed blissfully unaware of his dyslexia. He did however struggle terribly with both his sexuality and his bi-polar manic depressive condition. Despite the eccentric and gloriously innovative production of I Hear a New World, Meek was a hopelessly inadequate businessman (only 99 copies are thought to have been pressed), and he descended into a horrible cycle of extreme paranoia and destructive behaviour following the dissolution of the project.

In 1963 he got in trouble, for something to do with the laws of "decency," and the story was all over the papers. He felt that any more chance of a hit was gone. Eventually, in the face of lawsuits, lack of financial success, depression, paranoia, strange voices and increasing doses of barbiturates, Joe Meek felt done for. On Feb. 3, 1967, eight years to the day after Buddy Holly's death, he killed his landlady, then himself.

I've made a couple of the tracks available in the usual place. I'm reluctant to make the whole album available given the trauma Joe Meek went through due to his financial failure. It's not a moral stance I'm taking. It's just that I'm genuinely scared of the prospect of being haunted by Joe Meek. Somehow, I don't think his ghost would be a very reasonable one. If this gets to you Joe, I promise to spread the word about your wonderful exploits where-ever I go. If you like what you hear, then buy the album or make a space T-shirt of Joe swimming under a Globb Waterfall with Buddy Holly.

Noam Chomsky Lecture: "The War on Terror"

2006-01-19T11:40:00.000Z

I went to the Noam Chomsky lecture for Amnesty International in the RDS last night. Professor Chomsky delivered a mind-numblingly rigorous lecture on the War on Terror and even deigned to comment on Economic and Political issues in this country. It was hugely enjoyable despite his single-minded anti-American stance and the easy ride he got from the crowd. I was certainly very happy to join the 1,500 others in at least one of the knicker-wetting standing ovations he recieved.

The lecture itself was delivered a little dryly. Other than an almost chest beating invitation, early in the lecture, to challenge him afterwards on any of the issues, he spoke without a hint of irony and there was no grandstanding or playing to the crowd. The main thrust of his argument was that it was necessary to conduct the War on Terror on the basis of a set of explicity defined rules, namely Facts, Moral Equality and Clarity. He then spent half an hour outlining how the US had consistantly subverted these objectives by distancing itself from moral accountability, suppressing dissent, vetoing International agreements and generally being two-faced bolloxes. He seemed to take some bookishly anal satisfaction in the statement and classification of his terms/definitions, which I suppose is in line with his less than user-friendly books.

The second half of the lecture focused on how the measures that the US and Britain ("America's Spearthrower") had taken to in the War on Terror had been exactly counter productive. Invading Iraq has massively increased the scope of terrorism and, interestingly, he pointed out the war has proven a superb training environment for future terrorists, with cells from all over the world being sent there on training exercises.

He also pointed out that since the breakup of US supported regimes in El Salvador and South Africa, there has been a huge displaced army of mercenaries that now have a wonderful employment opportunity. So the war in Iraq is being fought between foreign terrorist trainees and international mercenaries. In any case, the only unsuccessful war the US has engaged in was in Vietnam and the fundamental reason was that it was the only war that hadn't been fought by mercenaries. With regard to an exit plan, he said that the US will not pull out until it had control of the country's natural resources. Furthermore, the US have no real interest in fostering democracy, since the Shiite majority are sympathetic to Iran. An Iran-Iraq axis and cooperation with China would be the outcome.

He brightened during the Q & A session however and there were some interesting issues meated out. Asked whether military intervention was ever appropriate, he said that there were no instances where it has proved to be successful, before conceding that there were probably a few. Maybe India invading East Pakistan (halting colonial induced famine) or Vietnam invading Cambodia (halting a rampant Pol Pot), but certainly nothing that the US endorsed. When pushed, he conceded that the US intervention in Japan was probably worthwhile because the Japanese had proved themselves to be bad bastards (though he didn't use those words exactly).

He finished by pointing out that if there was to be a War on Terror then it needed to be cognisant of the grievances that motivated Islamic terrorism. The first obvious one is the Israel-Palestine conflict. The second was the US support for corrupt regimes in the Middle East. In the minds of the Islamic world, he said, this support for corrupt oil-focused and militant regimes amounts to a policy of actively suppressing economic development in those countries.

Aphex Twin ~ Rubber Johnny

2006-01-17T16:03:00.000Z

Watch an absolutely unbelievable Aphex Twin video . If you are not a fan of Aphex Twin, this is not the place to start. In fact, avoid this like the plague. It's impossible that Richard D. James is not in league with the devil.

Evidence We're Evolving

2006-01-06T13:07:00.000Z

1. Smoother Movement

I first noticed this genetic improvement while walking through a Christmas shopping crowded Dun Laoghaire main street over the festive season. At first I was not entirely sure of what I saw; a few children zipped past me but it didn't fully register that I had entered a new environment. As I looked up, there were scores of celestial children, zig-zagging serenely through the crowds, each maintaining a perfectly straight poise, with hands on hips and front foot at a rakish 45 degree angle to the other. They seemed completely oblivious to the groups of hunched parents, who with knitted, protruding foreheads and waddling gait distinguished themselves as supremely inferior in terms of selective fitness. Adapt now, get yourself a pair of roller shoes before you are relegated to the primordial soup!

2. Efficient Use of Digits

I was astonished, yesterday, to witness three people in front of me in the queue for the banklink using their thumbs to input bank details. It seems that the use of mobiles and ipods has led to an irreversible change in the way we use our hands. I have to say that the line moved very quickly and there was the added bonus of witnessing extremely camp expressions on the patron's faces as they furiously tried to input their information as quickly as possible. I was half-expecting them to wait around to see what the others would get. "Yes! 34 seconds, thot's a fockin' PB Fintan!"

Indie Mixtape

2006-01-06T12:55:00.000Z

I put up a mixtape of great Indie stuff I was listening to last year. I found an efficient way of uploading these so I'll probably be doing it a bit more. I'm going to put up mixtapes of my favourite head-the-balls, but in the spirit of creating a few new genres along the lines of the gay frontier mixtape, I'll put together a few themed ones as well (I can see Robert Wyatt, Vic Chesnutt and I Hope You're Sitting Down by Lambchop fitting onto a Wheelchair Folk mixtape). No theme on this mixtape, just lovely pop melodies:

1. Grass ~ Animal Collective
2. Fake Palindromes ~ Andrew Bird
3. I'm Getting Back Into Getting Back Into You ~ Silver Jews
4. Another Sunny Day ~ Belle & Sebastian
5. Wrong Time Capsule ~ Deerhoof
6. Did I Say ~ Teenage Fanclub
7. I Need Some Sleep ~ Eels
8. Your Woman ~ Whitetown
9. Jesus, etc... ~ Wilco
10. Someone, Somewhere ~ Luke Temple
11. Lucy ~ Shane McGowan & Nick Cave
12. Take Ecstasy With Me ~ Magnetic Fields

Broke Back Mountin' Mixtape

2006-01-01T16:36:00.000Z

A mixtape of Frontier Music for you. To download it, follow the Mixtape link and enter in the username and password I sent around. If you want these details then email me at eoinglsn@yahoo.com. I've tried to put off doing any recreational reading until I've submitted my thesis, but I'm weak, so I sat down to read All The Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy last night and got completely caught up in the frontier atmosphere; its an incredible read. I'm bursting with enthusiasm for the Wild West this morning and have decided to adopt a limp for the duration of Christmas. The mixtape is also in celebration of the most wonderfully named film to emerge in years, the gay cowboy movie Brokeback Mountain. Surely this constitutes the easiest job for the guy who names gay porn ripoffs of famous movies since Lord of The Rings.

The Man With The Harmonica ~ Ennio Morricone
This is taken from Sergio Leone's Once Upon A Time In The West, my favourite Western by a long shot.

Far From Any Road ~ The Handsome Family
A gothic tale set to frontier music by the very Handsome Family.

The Fevered Dream of Hernando DeSoto ~Pere Ubu
A demented trucker races across America, repeating the phrase "Not Fade Away" in his head. Hunter S. Thompsonesque quantities of chemicals almost certainly involved. Album sleeve is pretty interesting too.

Cocaine Blues ~ Johnny Cash
A hint of a gay subtext here. Nothing homosexual in the delivery; just that it was recorded in a prison and I still have the phrase "You Can Toss My Salad" scarred on my brain from a Chris Rock show I saw on TV recently.

God Was Drunk When He Made Me ~ Jim White
A gay country anthem? Contains the line: "Who built the house of brotherly love and let the devil come dancing in?". A contender surely.

Knoxville Girl ~ Nick Cave
Another less than tender murder ballad by Nick Cave from this year's B-Sides and Rarities album. I know it's not on Let Love In but this is the only camp picture of Nick Cave that exists.

Over Your Shoulder ~ Calexico
Wonderfully ominous frontier guitar ballad.

Borne On The Wind ~ Roy Orbison
Roy Orbison could do anything.

Two Characters In Search of A Country Song ~ Magnetic Fields
My favourite country song. One of only two artists who's actually gay on this mix. Yes, you've guessed it...Johnny Cash.

Spider and I ~ Brian Eno
Not exactly country, but seems suited to this list. A torch song for male companionship on long journeys. I don't need to say anymore.

The Future ~ Leonard Cohen
Leonard Cohen tells us that we're all going to hell. "Give me crack and anal sex, take the only tree that's left and stick it up the hole in your culture". Ouch.

God Says

2005-12-30T12:04:00.000Z

Thanks to Steve for this link. Feel free to send your own to eoinglsn@yahoo.com

Bad Things About This Year

2005-12-28T14:49:00.000Z

The stomach-squelching/squinty/head in a vice aftermath of Christmas seems the most appropriate time to put up a list of the very bad things that happened this year. It should be said that anything tragic or significant that occured in the public domain is completely ignored because it would be preachy; but also because I couldn't honestly say that I actually shed tears over anything I saw in the media this year. Obviousbly I'm also leaving out genuine personal tragedy in the group and stuff like: The realisation of a terrible and creeping loneliness when You Can't Hurry Love by The Supremes came on the radio on a brutally hungover Tuesday morning in February.

1. My little freakout after the disco-frazzle adventure to Mullingar.
Lowpoint~ uncontrollably violent head and hand twitching, random animal moans and crushing sense of doom. Counts as absolute high point of weekend for witnesses.

2. Having to steal Paul's trousers at his party.
Lowpoint~ getting Simon involved in the whole mucky business and then unfairly accusing him of telling others afterwards. Let it be said here, Simon can be trusted absolutely! He will not stir the shit.

3. Moving Apache Mountain Jackie seducing my brother on her last night in Dublin.
Lowpoint~ the moment Neil rang from her apartment to ask me her name and I realised that Jackie had one final insult for decency and good taste. I had a horrible image of her laughing manicly to the sound of "It's My Party" while stuffing her face with cake.

4. Jackie scoring everyone else I know.
Lowpoint~ it would have to be her less than romantic interlude with Simon. All the others were amusing or expected in some way (Neil, Simon, Alex, Paul, Sean O...am I leaving anyone out?). To his credit, Simon immediately recognised his mistake and gave all those present the finger while still wrapped in her hungry embrace.

5. Timo Maas in Portrush.
Lowpoint~ driving around a horrible seaside resort in Northern Ireland on a revoltingly downcast Winter night is miserable enough at the best of times, but when you throw into the bargain the fact that we were completely lost for most of the night, that Timo Maas himself was abysmal in the extreme and that all we had for sustenance were the remnants of McDonalds, it becomes the stuff of nightmares. Almost redeemed by the look of panic on Alex's face the next day when it was decided that he had to go into the Chinese to get the take-away.

Ways of Improving Christmas: Part II

2005-12-21T21:55:00.000Z

After Christmas dinner, retire to your favourite couch, rub your belly and think about how much our Dave loves you.

Ways of Improving Christmas: Part 1

2005-12-20T15:49:00.000Z

How about instead of putting an angel on top of the Christmas tree this year, we put up cardboard cut-outs of Richard Pryor. Print out a copy of Richard (let me recommend this one) , stick him to a Corn Flakes box, cut an outline around his figure and perch him on top of your tree. Better still, designate a day before Christmas, Friday the 23rd for example, as Richard Pryor Day and make a big deal out of mounting Mr Pryor on your tree. To cap it off, I'm sure he'd appreciate some hookers, random gunfire and a pile of coke at the ceremony.

Bicycle Rage: Back Up Story Vol.2

2005-12-15T14:49:00.000Z

Christmas, as a buachaill, was always a little tainted for me by the tendency for my birthday to get thrown into the bargain. But I don't think there was ever the same sense of wonder surrounding it as there was about tv anyway. We were blessed to have such wonderfully non-cgi presonalities as McGivor, The A Team and the Chuckle Brothers. Uber-chief amongst these was the magnificent cult classic, BMX Bandits. Inspired by the anti-Newtonian stunts of Nicole Kidman et al, every kid in our park demanded a BMX and spent their formative years constructing make-shift ramps and narrowly avoiding prostrate younger siblings with their back tyres. Unfortuneatly, I learned some very harsh lessons about the nature of boundless enthusiasm during the BMX craze and some of those have stayed with me till this day.

The picture above was taken between accidents and captures a chastened yet resolutely enthusiastic child. Some months before I had been knocked down by a "cycle-crazed" teenager in Quinsworth Shopping Centre and broken my fibula in two places; one for each tyre. I can still remember the appalling look of remorse on the girls face. The bike though, seemed to sparkle malicously as it leaned on it's stand. It was too cavalier for my liking.

The cast did have two distinct advantages however. The first, obviously, was the attention. But the second was a little unexpected. The park where we lived outside Cork City was built on an impossibly steep hill. The favourite pass-time of the local kids was to race kamikaze style down that hill and the winner was usually the one who didn't resort to using the brakes. You'd be going so fast as you approached the bottom that it was completely useless to peddle. As a coward, I always pulled the brakes at some point and I never thought I'd trump the fearless Michael Looney.

That day soon came however. After a slow start, despite the push-off by two gleefully mongoloid locals, the extra weight of my outstretched plaster-leg sent me careering ahead of Looney and to within almost certain victory as I neared the foot of the hill. I was just about to raise a fist in triumph when suddenly, a blue Sierra rounded the corner. I slammed on the brakes, but only those on the front tyre worked. The back tyre lifted and I was sent flying over the handle bars. To compound my misery, the toe of my plastered leg caught on the bars and I was propelled, centrifugally, face first into the tarmac. That was the last time I was pretty.

My smart, short-sleeved white shirt was soaking with blood and I had been relieved of my front teeth. I must have looked like a cross between Kevin Spacey's characters in Seven and The Usual Suspects as I was cajoled towards my house by every kid in the park. I almost felt triumphant and was in so much shock that I could only laugh when I was presented to my mother.

The whole event is especially vivid in my memory as I had a wonderful dream about it a few weeks ago. In the dream however, the local kids stood ominously in the doorway of our kitchen, arms folded; just as a group of henchmen. Leaning on a cane, I offered my bloody teeth to my mother and smiled mysteriously. She peered at me, face etched in terror and screamed. Looking at my henchmen, she then screamed again. The second was so terrible that I was terrified out of the dream. Mercifully though, as I sat bolt upright in my bed at 4am, I realised that my mother's scream had become the theme tune to BMX Bandits in my head. Though still skeptical of bikes, I was reluctant to go back to sleep.

Film Wars 1

2005-12-15T14:26:00.000Z

Ghostbusters VS Labyrinth

Although Ghostbusters tried so hard to be good, Vigo was just not as good a babysnatcher as Bowie will ever be. So the one and only reason why Labyrinth wins this bout is because Bowie could Dance magic Dance.

You remind me of the baby

What baby? the baby with the power

What power? power of voodoo

Who do? you do

Do what? remind me of the baby

I saw my baby, crying hard as babe could cry

What could I do?My baby's love had gone

And left my baby blueNobody knew

What kind of magic spell to use?

Slime and snails

Or puppy dogs' tails

Thunder or lightning

Then baby said

Dance magic, dance (dance magic, dance)

Good Things About This Year: Part 2

2005-12-15T11:21:00.000Z

It was a pretty phenomenal year for new music. I practically doubled my cd collection with all that I stole/borrowed with my ipod and got the chance to see some of the best new bands (Arcade Fire, LCD Soundsystem and Antony & the Johnsons) in concert. My favourite albums (with sketchy ratings in brackets) of those that were released this year were:

1. Rarities & B-Sides ~ Nick Cave (8.8)
2. Funeral ~ Arcade Fire (8.5)
3. Milk-Eyed Mender ~ Joanna Newsom (8.4)
4. Tanglewood Numbers ~ Silver Jews (8.3)
5. Twin Cinema ~ New Pornographers (8.1)

I stumbled across a whole host of great old stuff this year as well and if you are looking to pick up Christmas presents or for those of you who are struggling with what I've loaded onto your computers recently, then I'd highly recommend:

1. Another Green World ~ Brian Eno (9.2)
2. Ease Down the Road ~ Bonnie "Prince" Billy (9.2)
3. The Wonderful and Frightening World of ~ The Fall (8.8)
4. Dusty in Memphis ~ Dusty Springfield (8.7)
5. You Are Free ~ Cat Power (8.4)

Good Things About This Year: Part 1

2005-12-10T16:31:00.000Z

Best Things I Heard This Year:

1. "Aw Jackie....one day ALL that will be between us is soap."
-- Jackie asks Paul if he regrets his extremely random observation that she "would be a lot slippier with soap" now that he's sober. Jackie very quickly finds out that regret is not a word in Paul's vocabulary.

2. "When I have kids, I'm going to make them earn their school fees by spending a few years down a Jadeite mine in Burma; loosening rocks with their teeth."
-- Jony dispels what had become an irritatingly sincere conversation about parenting.

3. "Ah No!...I think I did it again."
-- Sean's relentless messiness at Electric Picnic.

4. "The thing I like most about Hitler, is that he didn't take any shit from magicians."
-- Larry David, Curb Your Enthusiasm

5. "I've been drinking at the airport bar, it's like Christmas in a submarine."
-- Silver Jews, I'm Getting Back Into Getting Back Into You

If there was something funnier than these, then leave them in the comments section.

Jim'll Fix You

2005-12-09T08:36:00.000Z

Feeling the firm hand of Jimmy Saville, David Copperfield writes:
"I thought you might be interested in a Jimmy
Saville story, seeing as though the corpse-
botherer switched on the Christmas lights
this week in Bradford.

"When I was a child, my father, just like
Jimmy, was a keen marathon runner. One year,
when I was seven, my Mum and I went to
applaud my Dad over the finish line of the
Cardiff marathon. Sir James had also run
the race that year and, having finished before
my Dad, was recuperating at the finish.

"It was at the height of Jim'll Fix It fame and,
a group of pre-teen autograph hunters quickly
formed around him, and propelled me to
within touching distance of the sweaty star.
"Jimmy took one look at me, accused me of
'pushing in' and then gave me a very firm,
and painful, backhander across the face.
The surrounding parents and children fell
into a stunned silence, apart from my mum and
dad who pissed themselves laughing.
I started to cry."

The Ultimate Christmas Present

2005-12-07T19:29:00.000Z

While Christmas shopping with Trish the other day I came across these lovely items in HMV. The packaging of "The Ultimate Natural Disasters of the 21st Century" is considerably more tasteful than the cover available in this country (our one has a picture of terrified children desperately trying to escape a wall of water), but the sentiment I'm sure is not lost. It's Disaster Porn! It doesn't get anymore debased. It's what you want! After all, how terrible would it be to have to sit through Superman 3 and Short Circuit again this Christmas after the television bonanza that was last year's tsunami?

Anyway, because I studied Economics, my instinctual reaction to these items was to recognise a wonderful business opportunity... and so, I urge you to invite Terror into your home this Christmas with the Guantanamo Home Detention Facility (see below). Have a good laugh at the Bill of Human Rights and determine your loved one's breaking points while you're at it.

I had the opportunity to test the G.H.D.F. recently and I would definetly characterise myself as a satisfied customer. As you can see from the first picture, the subject was a little reluctant initially; she certainly had a lot of questions about the process of Terror. Emma (13) was chosen because she is my little sister but also because her Study As A Bin was commended for having a "Beckett-like" quality on her Christmas report card. That is not a joke.

There are a number of Distress Options available with the package, each depending on the nature of the supposed crime. I chose Option B. The Terrorist was denied sustinance and subjected to alternating 3 hour schedules over the course of a day. The first schedule involved a medley of Chrismas songs by Brendan O'Carroll and Ryan Tubridy. The second schedule involved me skipping around the Facility dressed as Shirley Temple Bar and the insistent repetition of the phrase "Telly Bingo, Tuesday Nights".

I really feel like I've learnt a great deal about the process of Terror. The Facility was cheap and certainly easy to assemble.The best thing about the Facility is that because of the nature of Sovereignty, the Facility isn't subject to the Bill of Human Rights. Feel free to contact me if you are interested. The first five customers will recieve a bonus prize of the flight simulator "Torture Planes"- Can you get the plane in and out of the airport before the local Gardai find out?

The Guantanemo Home Detention Facility Company is regulated by the Irish Financial Services Regulatory Authority. Shirley Temple Bar outfit not included.

Grass Roots

2005-12-02T00:27:00.000Z

Great botany is seldom recognised these days, alas the passing of neil, seen here sporting a nice Autumnal carpet of rigomortis, went fashionably unnoticed. It is said that his final words were muffled by his leafy disposition.

Narnia

2005-12-01T13:28:00.000Z

I have to say that I'm looking forward to the prospect of seeing the Narnia film. I'm not really bothered by the fact that it is shamelessly riding on the coat tails of the Harry Potter franchise (that whole phenomenon has completely passed me by), but to the extent I'm interested, I'd be concerned about the Christian elements that are being pushed by the films financial backers.

Reading an article at the weekend about how the film has recieved backing by the Christian Right in the States, I was struck by how I had completely missed the point of the series when I read it as a ten year old. I was reminded in the article that the children are direct decendants of Adam and Eve and that Aslan mirrors that lovely part of the story about Jesus that Mel Gibson missed. It would be hilarious to see the reaction of animal rights activists if, in the film, Aslan was pinned to the cross and flogged mercilously.

When I read the book, the character of Aslan was a very remote one. Despite his central role in the overall plot, I wasn't that pushed about his resurrection and I can remember thinking that he was a little fussy about what he thought he could contribute. The intrigue for me was in the character of Edmund. Most kids would have appreciated the prospect of a secret world through the cupboard who's fate depended on the heroics of children; but it was his relationship with the Ice Witch that fascinated me. Like Edmund I was completely spellbound when she arrived on her slay. I hadn't been so strangely confused since I first saw Jessica Rabbit.

When Edmund "betrayed" his friends to visit the witch in her lair, I didn't completely understood his motives (neither did he) but it seemed the only thing to do. How could you remain loyal? I was in thrawl to his story, devouring the rest of the books and watching with my face pressed against the screen for the duration of the wonderful series on BBC. I can remember how disappointed I was to find out it was all Biblical later. I hope it isn't all CGI madness this time. I'll reserve judgement on Tilda Swinton until I see the film, but I think that Isabella Rosellini or Monica Belluci would have been a much better choice.

Another contributor has joined the blog and they seem compelled to operate under a silly name and conceal their identity. Not a good start. I've put up a beginner's guide to The Fall as well.

Antony and the Johnsons

2005-11-28T16:38:00.000Z

We went to see Antony and the Johnsons in Vicar Street on Friday night and it was marvellously nice. The picture above wasn't taken at the gig (because thats not allowed) but pictures probably shouldn't be taken of Antony anyway. The only word that I can use to describe him is Beast. It's even harder to reconcile his eery voice and hulking frame when you see him perform.

Talking before the show to Mark's lovely girlfriend (Eileen? Eithne?), we agreed that you don't get as giddy about the prospect of great gigs when there's so many on your doorstep, but I Am A Bird Now is a great album and I was fierce excited on the night.

And I was right to be excited. His voice is chillingly sinister live and the crowd was in thrawl to it throughout. I was completely thrown the moment he started singing and my mind struggled to choose between Jesus!, What?, How?, Nah! and Japers! for at least 3 songs. His head went all over the place in an effort to get his voice out and it seemed that he was being controlled by something that had a malicously perverse agenda.

There were parts of the concert that suffered a little for his precious and theatrical delivery however. As I much as I was teeth grindingly delighted that he finished with Candy Says by the Velvet Underground, the song lost some of its catchy pop appeal when it was stripped of its structure.

This is only a minor complaint though. There were a string of appallingly brilliant songs played and the spare piano playing was complimented beautifully by Spanish guitar. You Are My Sister and Leonard Cohen's The Guests in particular stand out. In some ways it seemed like the year was leading up to Hope There's Someone and it definetly ranks up there with Alice at Tom Waits and Do You Realize? at the Flaming Lips in terms of classic concert moments.

He appears as Mother of the World in Devendra Banhart's hilariously pretentious folky anti-war video. I made a link to it in the link section. Keep an eye out for pretty pretty Joanna Newsom in there as well. Congratulations to Mr Steve as well for getting confirmation that he'll soon be known as Dr Steve. Should we drop the Rambling part now Steve?

Mr Shane "Ahh...Horgan you complete fucking donkey" Horgan

2005-11-28T15:14:00.000Z

Went to Lansdowne Road on Saturday expecting some class of a competent display against an appalling Romanian side, but for the most part we were treated to a brutal exhibition of thick-headed drudgery. There was no conviction in Ireland's play, it was evilly cold and the crowd didn't sing once. The most interesting thing about the first half was the relentless bullying of a kid in front of us by two little thugs.

The game was redeemed however by a classic exhibition of calamity by Shane Horgan. If there is one thing that my dad, brother and I have in common, it's a blinding hatred for big Shane. We've been screaming at the television together for nearly fifteen years now and are rarely more animated than when Hoorgan gets his big mucky frame in the way of the ball. My dad is usually reduced to a vocabulary of three words during games and none of them are English when Horgan is playing. So in the spirit of his commentary the game saw little or no BOOM, a smattering of BANG and only one complete BOLLOX.

Anyway I involuntarily yelled Donkey on seven occasions thanks to Shane and I hope that Simon, who's first time it was at an international, will have picked up some nasty viewing habits. The only other thing I took from the game was an appreciation for what it must be like to be addicted to botox injections. My face was frozen solid and I had the weary eyes of a middle aged hag desperate to reclaim her youth.

Ta paiste scubaid ag damhsa

2005-11-23T17:45:00.000Z

Listening to the radio this morning, there was a report that a judge in North Carolina has banned Irish Dancing in his locality due to it's "tawdry erotic nature". It seems that the practice of lepping up and down in traditional Irish dance is tantamount to simulating the "grinding motion of sexual intercourse". The decision comes on the back of the judge's decree that lapdancing be disbanded in his jurisdiction and he equated the two in his final judgement. So it isn't Britney, Christina or even R Kelly who are responsible for corrupting the kids; the gaelgoirs were there first.

If I look back now, I can see that the ceili were rife with evidence of adult sexuality. There was the delicious confusion of the foursomes, with their chest to chest poise and mandatory partner swapping. The music was as natural as anything and partners were exchanged in a "you'll take mine...and I'll take yours" kind of lunacy.

When the music lulled, two partners would eye each other manicly and then, catching elbow and fist, you'd swing the other with a demented revery; knocking any little ones flat into the wall if you could help it. Surely this was the embryo for the all or nothing Irish chat-up approach of "give us a go of your knockers".

For the twosomes, I can remember the look of disgust on pretty girl's faces when it was my turn to dance and how they pulled the sleeves of their jumpers over their hands so our skin wouldn't touch as we did the "arms behind the backs dance". A Darwinian process quickly emerged and you found yourself dancing with whoever was in your league. In my case, the thick ankled red head from Kerry who'd plenty of practice of dancing with her brothers.

The image that has stuck in my head since this morning is that of Patrick Swayze's character in Donnie Darko, urging na caillini agus na buachailli to forget fear and dance to their hearts content. It would be too terrible to imagine what would be found if Patrick's secret room was discovered. There'd probably be evidence that he made kids wear the Offaly football jersey and they'd find tearful recordings of "Trasna na Donnta". It's a sick world we live in. What's the Irish for Sparkle Motion?

Disgusting and Unholy

2005-11-21T12:58:00.000Z

It's official. Glen Hansard is the most detestable person in Ireland. Sir Glen outstripped fellow celebrities Bishop Brendan Comiskey and Oliver Cromwell; securing a whopping 42% of the votes in the recent Gallup poll.

This news comes as Glen was congratulated in the Sunday Business Post for rebuking a group of "Paddies" who had the temerity to speak between songs at a recent concert. SHHHHHhhhh! Glen is telling a story!

NEVER-CHANGING PADDIES

Glen Hansard, the charismatic front-man of the Frames, may have cost his band a few fans after a gig in Brussels last Tuesday.Just days after filling The Point in Dublin at €30 a head, the group played to a few hundred people in the Ancienne Belgique venue for €16 a pop.Inevitably, the crowd included some (inevitably) drunk Irish people. Hansard, who played Outspan in the film The Commitments, has a reputation for story-telling and interacting with the audience, but he was in no mood for banter.When the noisy Irish started demanding attention, he was less than impressed. “It's good to be back in Brussels,” he said, “even if it feels like Carlow. Hopefully, they'll get drunk and f*** off.”The bould Irish were undeterred, even clapping and singing during what should have been a quiet moment.That drew a two-fingered gesture from Hansard.“What are you doing?” he demanded, frustrated, stomping to the back of the stage.By the end of the night, Hansard felt obliged to apologise for the Irish, drawing applause from the natives present.Bass player Joe Doyle added his explanation for the behaviour of the Paddies: “I remember the first time I had an alcoholic beverage too,” he said.

2005-11-18T11:11:00.000Z

Punishment Park
(1971)

I rented out this amazing film last night and I really couldn't recommend it more highly. It was originally released at the height of the turmoil surrounding anti-war protests in the States but is scarily relevant today.

The film is shot in documentary style, with untrained actors effectively playing themselves, as European television is invited to the Californian desert to take a look at how the Americans are clamping down on those responsible for civil disobedience. Prisoners (who have spent months in prison without charge) are sentenced in a kangaroo court to 15 years in state prison or given the option of 72 hours in Punishment Park. Released into the desert, they are given the three days to reach an American flag 53 miles away. To make it more interesting they are to be hunted down by a group made up of cops, soldiers and members of the national guard; all on training exercises. Pretences of abiding by the rules are very quickly abandoned but it doesn't develop into a Mad Max adventure as you might expect. The camera follows both groups and you're there as the paranoia builds up on both sides. Terrifying stuff.

2005-11-16T13:15:00.000Z

Why is it that most of the people who visit this blog are those who want me to check out their scented candles blog or improve my sperm count? Spam must have the meiotic qualities of cancer. Maybe they should direct research into that area more; it could prove fruitful.

I plan to flesh out the gallery section soon and maybe I'll have a few more interesting stories once I've made some more progress with all those (revolting) computer manuals. After two years of fumbling around in the dark, I've finally gotten help from a Louise McGuigan in the Physics department. Lovely Louise gave me two hours of her time for free and took some convincing to allow me to pay her for the next session. I'm sure the next time we meet, she'll be astride a white horse and we'll ride off to the land of the young to the sound of the Valkyrie. Am feeling a lot more confident about getting this thesis together in the near future.

I've recommended an album by Joanna Newsom in the random and recent review section. I think, Elke for one, would really enjoy it. Glad to see that there is a clear leader in the Celebrity poll. Don't miss out on your constitutional right to vote. There may even be a witch hunt to follow. He's the devil! Look in the eyes, look him in the eyes!

Oxegen Cult: Backup Story Vol. 1

2005-11-11T12:43:00.000Z

As a completely unjustified air of scepticism has descended in the last year, the cry of "There are pictures and I will prove it!" has nearly become a mantra. I might as well take this opportunity to restore some credibility. What we have here is all that remains as evidence of Jonny of Edinburgh's attempt to turn Oxegen into Jonestown. Click on pictures to enlarge.
What began as a passionate eulogy for traditional values on campsite, gathered terrifying momentum as Jonny, wielding deckchair and Book above his head, tore through tents and crowds to deliver impromptu sermons. Delivered from the Imperial Chair in clearings among unsuspecting tentants, sermons were never less than controversial. Any attempts to sabotage (or even criticise) Jonny's mission, were quickly stamped out by the intimidating presence of Ben the Noble Savage. Ben (in his distinctive red and white toga), had introduced himself to the group earlier in the day as a painter ("What do you paint?"..."Fuckin houses!") and immediately commanded everyone's respect. You could not doubt his commitment.
Jonny's eratic style and tendency to end sermons unexpectedly, before dashing off across the campsite with a line of 30 followers in tow, contributed to the menace. Knowledge of the scope of his message was confirmed when someone from another site approached with: "Is the one they call Jonny here? I hear you can fix stuff." As we returned to our tents, a plaintive and distant cry of "Shut the fuck up Jonny" was heard trailing over a remote hill. I half expected to see a Wicker Man burning ominously as the sun came up.

Dublin Lunar Transport Command Station

2005-11-09T13:08:00.000Z

As a buachaill, I spent a great deal of my time assembling intergalactic civic buildings with the Construx Lunar Command Station set. The splendour of Construx was in realising the most outrageous prospects for our collective future. There were specialist surgery space stations, satelite concert venues (surely Ziggy Stardust would have approved) and "Fun Factory" in Dun Laoghaire was transplanted to the moon. My early childhood boiled down to the asthetics of dice-like connectors, white beams and the beautiful sheen from a blue panel. When constructed, the station allowed the perverse voyeurism of a Hitchcock film. Hours were spent mindful of tension in the blue paneled medical theatres and the precarious flight paths of incoming jets. Meccano seemed hopelessly dull in comparison.
Imagine the delerium when I recognised my fledgeling dreams in the transport plans of our very own Dublin Area Rapid Transport system. It seems impossible that the "overhead tunnels" in Blackrock and Booterstown were designed by anyone other than a Construx enthuasiast. Though the example above may not reveal the true likeness, my stations were replete with the same elevator design, corridor and stairwell features.
Having completely forgotten my lunar fascination, I was overwhelmed to see them fully realised in the cold light of day. I stood beneath the elevator terminus, closed one eye and stared through the white rigging beams to the sky. There was a little tear I can tell you. Bring on the Bionic Chest and Hand Amputation Facility!

Motives for Starting a Blog

2005-11-08T17:53:00.000Z

1. Vanity.

2. I'm wrapping up my research masters and intend to ply my trade as a journalist. I'm sure that a weblog will draw out a formidable discipline and lead to submittions/publications in all the right places.

3. Having spent the last two years entombed in a bright blue cubicle box, researching how we haven't evolved since cavemen and the disastrous implications for our survival in the Information Age, I feel compelled to pitch my tent on the interweb; if only to find my place in the midst of all the hysteria.

4. I have been encouraged by the unflinching support for my previous efforts to contribute to the virtual community. Let me take this opportunity to thank the small (but extremely loyal) partisans of my Milli Vanilli community on orkut; in particular DJ (an actual disk jockey), Lelo and the one and only Trust.

5. I've a habit of pestering my mates to listen to new music I come across and noticed recently the overwhelming irritation caused by overloading them with all the great music that is around at the moment. I intend to put together a group of beginner's guides to my favourite bands and review recent albums.

6. A recent diet of Six Feet Under, Pedro Peramo and a succession of dissolved friendships has forced me to face the impending spectre of Death. I intend to battle against the dying light by preserving my image (just as a butterfly in aspic) in a selection of galleries. Visitors are encouraged to append a verdict of either "In Your Prime" or "Slowly Fading" to those pictures in which I feature.