Speis

The 'What are you thinking?' question is a staple of the magazine feature articles. The ones that come under sections called things like 'Life' and 'Relationships' and are full of sober, well-intentioned and (fatally) reasoned accounts of human interaction. It's the reasonable part that dooms the whole exercise. Anyway, one of the handy safe zones for the men and women (mostly women, sorry to generalise like that) is to fall back on the question and pretend that it is a useful way to define men and women and the way they get on. It's an opportunity for women to despair of the male species and guys to make glib and pretend that they are cyborgs who don't feel or think but only drink beer and scratch themselves.

(by the way I was looking for a picture of a brain to go with this and made the mistake of googling images of brains before lunch. Now I'm not hungry)

Now I don't know what other people are thinking but personally my brain is just a sea of constant obscenities with the occasional idea drowning somewhere in the torrent (whoa, I am getting major deja vu right now, what will happen if I keep typing?).

Yeah fucking tool see if i don't give you a good pounding you no good cocksucker motherfucker I'll eat you and your family you dumb little bastard you fat fucker you whore of babylon i'm the daddy and you can just...

And so on. I don't know who it's directed at or where it all comes from but I do notice that it's worst when I walk around Dublin. Maybe I just like the rhythm of the words or it's thoughts that don't require any effort to produce. It's a kind of white noise. (It's weird to think that there are people who don't know what a fuzzy television screen looks like, or remember tvs that took minutes to warm up or can recall having only 4 stations and they all had closing down times where the screen was just blank or showed that little girl with the doll playing noughts and crosses.)

The mind cursing was especially strong today. But I can explain it, I was browsing recruitment websites for temp jobs. It is essentially the same place I was at 15 months ago when I ducked out and applied for my postgrad. So here I am again, cursing.

google jobs dublin who's this bastard i'll just click here you asshole where do i send my bloody cv? oh no you cocks, i have to register first, you jerks i don't want to click through 3 screens outlining my fucking aspirations i just want one of those stupid office drone jobs that i always find when i'm skint and broke like today. no i don't give a shit if you're equal opportunities employer and i don't know what the hell all this white irish european stuff is and what in the name of lucifer is all this Southern Ireland crap you stupid motherfucking Uk site, it's just ireland you dumb bastards...

And that's my morning. Thank god no one reads this.

I have an introductory meeting with a recruitment consultant tomorrow morning. 10.30am is my moment to shine.

Had this sudden desire to read Wuthering Heights over the weekend. Needless to say, after much rooting around in my pile of books, I couldn't find my battered old college copy. So I set out this morning to track down a cheap copy.

Went to my usually reliable second hand book shop off Grafton but came out empty-handed. Forced to face the fact that although I always come out of there with a book, it's never the one I went in looking for. Tried the Hodges Figgis bargain basement but they only had every other book written by the Bronte sisters. Upstairs they had loads of copies of Wuthering Heights, bound variously in leather, fancy paper and what could well have been ancient Egyptian papyrus. So, no affordable copies then.

Same story in Waterstones, except they even had a copy that looked like it was directed at the Mills & Boon readers out there. The cover had a pale-skinned lady with a heaving bosom and a winsome expression. Still too expensive.

Surprisingly, it was Eason's that saved me. Picked up a copy for €2.90. So what if the print is tiny? Who cares if the cheap paper will riddle my hands with papercuts? The Classics should be available to all. Now I can go home and wait for my original copy to turn up.

Emergency workers in Ireland are to be issued with stab-proof vests because ambulance workers and firefighters are reguarly being attacked while doing their jobs.

'one Dublin fire-fighter needed 35 stitches in his face after being struck with a bottle'

I wonder about that:

I've just been smashed in the head with a bottle.
Here, let me get you a protective vest.
Didn't you hear me, spanner, it's my head.

But really, what's the mentality behind attacking people who put out fires and transport the seriously ill? How socially retarded do you have to be to see lifesavers as targets?

And why don't the Gardaí need protection? They must get even more hassle.

I've lived in Dublin over a year now and I'd never seen people fighting outside of homes or concerts. I was going to a comedy show in Vicar Street and my friends hadn't turned up yet. I had 10 minutes to wait but I didn't mind because I had a book. A steady crowd of people were shuffling along the pavement towards the venue. The sun was out and the evening was still and muggy. I was looking for a place to sit down and read without being disturbed. I saw a bus shelter. I walked up to the shelter, thinking how great it is that you can just sit down on the bench and pretend you're waiting for a bus and no one hassles you. It was one of those fancy double shelters, with tv screens that tell you how late your bus is. Though really it's just two normal shelters shoved together. This one was a bit grotty. There were no buses due for 10 minutes. so I figured I'd have some calm while I waited. I took out my book and read. Soon I became aware of someone singing in the other side of the shelter. He (she, whoever it was)roared out the lyrics to some singalong classic that I can't remember, without any embarassment or consideration. I didn't look up, there's no point in encouraging people. Plus, it didn't really bother me. Displays of public singing, nudity or affection don't really bother me. After a minute I realised someone was tapping my foot with their own. (I should probably explain at this point that I'm a really heavy reader, when I get into a book or a paper I go into a kind of trance where I'm not really aware of what's going on around me. One time, in primary school, I came out of a reading daze to see that all my classmates were looking at me with interest while my teacher roared at me to pay attention. Like I said, I a reader.). Someone was trying to get my attention. The other person was still singing. I looked up, first at the singer, who I could see now was a young man, red rings around his eyes, short black hair, tracksuit top. He was with his girlfriend. She was sitting on the bench. He was straddling her, singing and moving back and forth, with the carefree exhuberance of a man who has found something other than his hand to masturbate with. The guy getting my attention was also young, with longer, darker hair and a navy tracksuit top. He might have been holding a can, I'm sketching on this detail for some reason. He was looking at me, smiling craftily and indicating the couple beside us. I wasn't really taking things in at this point but I quickly realised what a volatile situation I was in. Were these guys friends? Was I being invited to laugh along at a shared joke, one bloke cheerily poking fun at his mate and his bird? Or were we all just strangers, each of us a bit out of it on our stimulant of choice, and I was being invited by one, who could have been a psycho, to laugh at another who could have been a nutter. Which, as it happened, he was. I made a half smile, hoping that it would sate the guy in front of me, and not attract the attention of the singer. It didn't work. He was already getting to his feet. He was young and ropy, smaller than the laugher.
"Are you laughing at me?"
This is never a good start to a conversation.
"Do you think I'm funny?"
Oh shit oh shit we're entering Joe Pesci in Goodfellas territory now.
Laugher puts up his hands and drops his smile.
'No no, I wasn't laughing at you.'
Singer turns around, pleased himself and probably keen to get back to his girlfriend. He looks down at me.
"Are you laughin at me?"
I try to empty all emotion from my face and any shred of challenge from my voice.
No.
My voice is surprisingly still. He seems satisfied by this.
Then he comes back to make sure about Laugher, who is backing away against the wall.
'No I didn't mean it, here take all my money just don't hurt me.'
The singer doesn't like this and his hands come up, there's a thump and a splat. I'm not sure what happened, I was staring down at my boots, reading but not taking it in, wondering if I was the subject of some extravagant joke. People don't just smack each other for something this stupid, right?
Laugher is singing to himself, quietly. Singer turns away and Laugher starts up again.
'Oh please don't hurt me, I'll give you all me money-'
He advances on the singer and his girl. I think of Gollum at this moment.
'-I'll even suck your cock.'
Singer comes back at him. He definitely gets him in the dead centre of his face this time. I furiously read my book. Singer sits back down, as if this was all normal. I slip my book into my bag, waiting for my chance.
Laugher is holding a hand to his face and looking at me.
'Why didn't you do anything? You just let him hit me. What's wrong with you?'
I stay silent. Anything to avoid the notice of Rocky over there. And what was I going to do? One bloke mocks another and gets a thump. He shouldn't have piped up and the other guy shouldn't have smacked him.
It's very easy to say that now.
I saw a gap and ducked out the back of the shelter and walked quickly away. It was no more than a minute. My friends arrived soon after. I threw one glance back at the shelter, I couldn't see inside but I thought I saw a flash of white and blue tracksuits at the edges.
But that wouldn't have made any sense.

A journalist is making a call to a contact:

"Hello? Hello? Can you hear me? ... Yes, we were speaking earlier in the week...Yeah, about the article ... Sorry, it's a bad line ... Are those your children screaming in the background?"

Oh boy, I really hope they weren't someone else's kids.

I'm having a chicken and egg moment. It's very upsetting. I seem to be hearing great gluts of brilliant music on the radio. There are all these songs out there right now that I'm loving. There's one that Zane Lowe plays on his tv spots called 'Crazy' by Gnarles Barclay and it's got this infectious '"i remember when/ I remember/I remember/ when I lost my mind" thing that makes my head somersault. But it's the tip of the iceberg. New stuff from Snow Patrol and Pearl Jam. The Editors doing a cover of Gorillaz 'Feel Good Inc.' The Flaming Lips with their feelgood song 'Yeah Yeah Yeah'. And the Yeah Yeah Yeahs have their new song called 'Gold Lion' which is that sleazy rock that they do so well. Jack White is sneaking songs out with a band called The Raconteurs. (look at the picture in the band bio, there he is in the back, hiding) Local stuff too. Rodriogo Y Gabriela release an album and it jumps to the top of the Irish album charts. That's all instrumental no vocals Mexican guitar magic and everyone here is humming it. Bell X1 have a song called 'Flame' that's all about marshmallows and has this nifty bit at the end where the music fades out and everyone is singing like they're hanging out around a campfire. The Arctic Monkeys are being hyped to smithereens but 'When the sun goes down' is a fine piece of addictive pop rock. And watching Ray Darcy dancing in his (tiny) back yard has turned me back on to Ok Go.

It's all good and I don't mind if you just skipped that whole paragraph of enthusiasm. That's how damn nifty I feel everytime I switch on the radio. But here's my problem. I've recently started consciously seeking out music on radio. I listen to Zane Lowe when I'm working in college and Ray Darcy and Ian Dempsey play good music in the mornings on Today FM. Late night on 2FM has always been strong, especially Cormac Battle on a Sunday night. Rick O'Shea introduced my ears to lemon demon's 'Ultimate Showdown', which is basically nirvana for any pop culture nerd out there.

So my question is. Have I just happened to tune in at a time when musicians around the world are all hitting the bullseye? Or is it always this good if you take the time to seek it out?

Today, March 8th is International Women's Day, a festival that has been around for over 80 days and its origins lie in the socialist and suffrage movements.

I don't like it.

Don't get me wrong, I think there should be a day dedicated to discussions of equality and fairness for women, I just have a problem with the air of indignant outrage that some of the discussions I've heard today. All day on the radio, back and forth like a tennis ball, men have been asking "When's National Men Day?" and women have been replying "Every day is national men's day".

That's not right.

If you want to talk about equality, then you should apply it to everyone. Equally. Then maybe we could keep moving the discussion forward instead of just flipping it around.

However on the upside I found pictures of the First Albanian Annual National Men's Day 2002. What would men do to celebrate their manliness? Hold meetings, enjoy a good sit and have beards. Delightful.

{Express yourself!} .. from the heart
cause if you wanna start to move
up the chart then expression is a big part of it
You ain't efficient when you flow, you ain't swift
Movin like a tortoise, full of rigor mortis
There's a little bit more to show

That’s Dr. Dre from NWA singing about the importance of finding one’s own voice. As I understand his point, he’s saying that being yourself is the biggest part of having a style. If you’re copying what others have already accomplished and made their own, you’ve got all the grace and verve of a dead turtle.

I got into this journalism course because of the writing. That’s the part I really enjoy, when I have all the information in front of me and it’s time to put it all together and give it that spin that makes it my own, for good or bad. Mostly bad, I have to admit. Anyway, I have this idea that I’d like to write a book someday. What it would be about, I don’t know, but the idea won’t go away. This course seemed like a stepping stone to that goal, a way of scraping a living without having to wow book publishers. Writing things to make money, it always sounded too good to be true. Maybe someday it won’t.

I still write things for my own amusement, this blog, naturally, and other things, when the mood takes me and the words are just ready. When I finished my English degree I couldn’t read a book, any book, for months afterwards. I don’t want that to happen with this course.

If I finished this programme and I was a journalist (whatever that is), but I couldn’t write for pleasure, only profit, then everything I’ve sunk into this course - money, amibition, time and energy – would have been a massive, ironic, waste of it all.

Cause if I strike, it ain't for your good healthBut I won't strike if you just..

{Express yourself!} {Express yourself!}
{Go on and do it..}
{Express yourself!} {Express yourself!}
{Go on and do it..}
{Express yourself!}
{Go on and do it..} {Go on and do it..}
{*music fades*}

-N.W.A. 'Express Yourself'

It's difficult to come to terms with one's own prejudices. You can pretend you don't have one. Or admit to a minor, inoffensive dislike: "people who talk on mobile phones during dinner", "that charity mugger who once mimed the act of removing my headphones at me", "Gary Glitter". Personally I was hoping I'd get by for another few decades before being forced to admit that I'm a spiteful, nasty, bitter person who would sooner boil his own arms off than pay someone a genuine compliment. Ah, the truth shall set you free. Come and dance around the maypole with the grinning pixies and woodland folk while I whisper secrets in your ear.

I can't stand Cork.

It's the accent. And the city. The ridiculous opera house. Those desperate claims to be the real capital of Ireland. Look at this map

The capital city is marked with a little red star and it sure as hell isn't hovering over the river Lee. And don't get me started on that 'People's Republic of Cork' nonsense. It's not a seperate country - last time I checked Cork city was still hanging off the arse end of Ireland.

I know it doesn't make a lot of sense to hate a city but work with me here, people, there is a point to this. While I was working in Village magazine over Christmas (Jesus, is anyone else completely bored of hearing me say that?) they gave me a travel book to review. Sort of a chirpy local history and landmark guide. Written by a friend of the mag.

'Here Dave, see if you can knock out 400 words on that.'

'My pleasure. What's it about?'

'Uh...oh yeah, Cork city.'

My voice shrivelled like an old piece of bacon.

'Great'.

So maybe now you can appreciate what kind of strain I was under as I tried to write a fair account of 'That's Cork'.

Here's what happened. To be honest, I kinda like it.

'A Corkman says to his mate, 'I was reading in a magazine that they are describing Cork as the Paris of Ireland.' The other replies, 'Why aren't they calling Paris the Cork of France?'"

So it is with Tom Galvin's new book That's Cork, a slim, fact-packed guide to the sights and sounds of 'de real capital'. It's not a tourist guide – more a determined expedition to the heart of the Cork psyche...

This is odd. I pop the lid on my blog and monkey around in the undercarraige for a bit and I find out that someone found my blog through Google. What did they type in? 'Irish journalism student'? 'DIT time-waster'? No, they wanted a 'Guide to taking revenge'. Weirder still, the person was searching from the Netherlands on Jan 17 06. So someone in Holland is seeking revenge and found my blog. O-kay.

[Backs away from the computer. Wipes sweat from brow. Spots yesterday's paper. Flicks through it nervously. Gets distracted by an article on South-American basket weaving. Takes a thoughtful sip from a buttle of cranberry juice.]

From the teacher comments on a radio project I submitted:

'Your voice at the start was at complete variance with your normal voice throughout the rest of the show. You sound like an American - very Joe Jacksonish.'

What does that have to do with, well, anything?

It's my 'avatar'.

I was watching this BBC documentary about how the brain works. They were explaining a thing called 'gaze aversion'. We find it hard to think when we're looking at someone's face because we're too distracted to think straight. We're conditioned to examine faces for clues about what the other person is thinking. Now because the human face is one of the most complex reads, looking at one blanks out most of our other thought processes.

Try it out, ask someone a hard question, and watch them look away. It explains why people can't meet your eyes when they're lying to you, because they're thinking of a quick lie. The truth doesn't need think time.

I've beem experiencing a lot of gaze aversion recently. Pretty much every time I mention my dissertation topic to people. We may all be beatufiul and unique flowers but mention the idea of basing a college dissertation on computer game journalism and just about everyone's eyeballs glaze over in the same way. Maybe it needs a snappier title?

Haven't updated properly in a while. Here is some filler before I find the will to somethingsomething

I did some work experience in Village magazine over the Christmas break. They printed a few pieces for me and helpfully posted them on their websitemedoodle for immortal posterity. Here I talk about the Gruadian and here I review a pedantic tome.

I am lazy [cut and paste to infinity] I am lazy I am lazy I am lazy I am lazy I am lazy I am lazy I am lazy I am lazy I am lazy I am lazy I am lazy I am lazy I am lazy I am lazy I am lazy I am lazy going home

# posted by Name @ 5:19 p.m. 0 comments

Playing around with Media Player 10: browsing the web, listening to a random selection of songs and using the 'rating' feature. I have just given out my first 5-star rating, for 'Graceland' by Paul Simon.

For some reason, this feels /awesome/.

Oh look, the Kinks are playing 'Waterloo Sunset'. Here lads, have a gold star.

I don't know where to start.

This is my lunch. There's too much in it, but I'm not complaining about that. There should always be too much in a sandwich. Nothing worse than lifting a pallid slice of bread to see a few lone strips of ham and a glob of mustard.

The problem with the roll is that you have to overfill it. You're cutting down the middle of a cylinder, right, and you're opening it out to fill with delicious ingredients. Now, I'm no scientician, but there's no way to seal that cylinder up again without spilling the filling all over your desk. Call it the 'end of holiday suitcase effect'. So you clamp it shut and lunge it at your open mouth.

But that doesn't work because the best way to approach it would be with the open side on top, to prevent the whole thing sliding out the side as you crunch onwards. But few people have a mouth that wide. So you nibble at the side like a mouse tackling a piece of corn.

And you can't stop. Because the filling is always on the verge of flying in all directions. Every time you increase or reduce the pressure on the roll, bits dribble out. Hold it up to grab a mouthful of coke and everything drops onto your lap.

It's a very silly way of eating lunch.

I could go on.

I think I will.

There are the days when you decide you want sauce or dressing and you end up wearing sweet chilli sauce on your hands and mouth for the rest of the day. Or it's late in the afternoon and the roll isn't soft and springy but hard and jagged and you can feel your gums bleed every time your teeth clamped into this toughened yeast treat.

Don't get me started on the difficulties of eating a breakfast roll, with sausage, bacon, fried egg and ketchup all quivering precariously on a mound of hardened lard, as the people around you try to remember what CPR stands for.

I suppose you could ask the deli lady to cut your roll in half but frankly that makes you a bit of a sissy in my book.

Saw King Kong last night. I enjoyed it a lot but the story seemed very familiar. Let me see: headstrong woman goes to exotic locale to meet mythic Lord of the Jungle, finds him and befriends him after some humourous misunderstandings, before she takes him back to New York City where he flounders in his new, strange environment.

Come on, Peter Jackson, I think we've all seen Crocodile Dundee.

Regardless of influences, I was impressed by the way Jackson has stuck to his b-movie roots - Kong might have cost 300 squillion dollars but it's still just a big sack of cheesy thrills, high-concepts and broad acting. More power to it. It's hard to make a 3hour+ period film that doesn't drag but Kong has enough happening on screen to keep its audience engaged.

Schoolgirl, mother killed in two road accidents

Supt John Roche from Gorey Garda station said Ms McGlynn appeared to have fallen under the rear of a 40-foot articulated lorry.

Ms McGlynn, who is believed to have come originally from Bray, Co Wicklow, managed to push a pram containing her three-month-old son out of the way before she was killed.

She did that and in a couple of days she'll just be another Irish road-death statistic.

Philip Roth grants a rare interview to a Dutch journalist, Martin Krasnik, about his new book The Plot Against America. I won't waste your time picking out snappy soundbites but I think you should all read it.

Attention MAJers:

Some of you have been wondering if it's possible to track visitors to your blogs. You'll be delighted to hear that it's wonderfully simple. Scroll down the side menu on this site, past the cute little bear, don't dawdle on the link to your own blog, there, right at the bottom, is a little black globe. That is a tracker. And so, because I love you all (as well as being on a serious work-dodging streak) here is my simple Guide to Taking Revenge on People Who Think They Can Just Visit Your Site and not be Used to Fuel Your Titanic Ego:

Step 1: go to the Extreme Tracking site.
Step 2: click on Get Your Free Tracker.
Step 3: Fill in the name of your site (anything you like), URL (exactly as it appears), your timezone (whatever feels right) and then think of a login and password (you'll need this to make any changes in the future).
Step 4: Click on Get Your Tracker Code. You should see a couple of html code lines. Copy it.
Step 5: Go to Blogger and open the settings for your blog. Go to your site template. Scroll down to the bottom and paste the code in. I put mine right at the end before the line, but it might depend on your the template you're using.
Step 6: Save the changes, Republish your blog and have a look.

Happy stalking.

Indoor Air Castles
Originally uploaded by aciddave.

Went to my weekly Capoeira class but there'd been a double booking and the room was full of bouncy castles.

I didn't mind.

This kid is my God.

Or maybe this old woman.

Damn, I sense a schism coming on.

People with broadband, do you like lip-synching? Do you have 3 and half minutes to spare? I have just the thing for you.

Fellow Journalism students, are you worried that the media has no real power over events? Then take heart at the actions of James Hipwell, a former Daily Mirror journalist, who used his City Slickers column to manipulate the stock market. After buying shares in a company, he would reccomend it to his readers, wait for them to trudge out and buy up the stock, then simply sell his shares for a tidy profit and go streaking through hospital wards.

Overall, he made £41,000 from this practice, tax-free and on top of his salary. Not bad for a little dishonesty on the side, eh?

bla bla bla found guilty doo doo dee faces a maximum sentence of seven years in prison tum tee tum £41,000?!