Rolfman blows out his cangles.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Okay, okay I'll stop making jokes about celebrities having birthdays on the same day as those people in my my life who are truly important. It has become a yearly tradition to displace the name of a a man truly admire and is dear to my heart, with Norah Jones or Eric Clapton. I want to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU ROLF HARRIS. I want to say, as someone who is clearly not a celebrity, I'm sorry for neglecting you for all these years.
Rolfman blows out his cangles.
Rolfman blows out his cangles.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
Astrologers have said for centuries that the moon's eclipse has a disruptive effect on the human, upsetting the ego, unbalancing the passions, and breaking down everything from relationships to technical equipment. Largely new age rubbish, you might think, but considering the long classical association between the moons movements and womanly moodiness, I am ready to open an ear to their less the scientific view. After all, if there is a connection between the full moon and the flowing of blood, be it menstrual or otherwise, imagine the bodyshock that something as momentous an eclipse could give you. I, for one, forgot about the lunar eclipse last Saturday, and as luck would have it I was sitting in a comfortable cinema while outside the darkened room the peoples of Cork City (and beyond presumably) underwent apocalyptic celestial emotional contortions their judgement-day screams were inaudible under the sound of Hank Azaria and co. having a meta-humorous whinge in For Your Consideration. I sat there, in the Kino cinema, sipping my cup of tea oblivious to the astrological disaster that was going on outside.
We exited the cinema onto Washington street, the street lamps washing the bleary faces of eclipse witnesses a dirty yellow. There seemed to be something in the eyes of these tortured souls, something in-between having looked into the abyss, seeing the tortures of the damned, and having a couple too many scoops early on in the night and can't quite get in anywhere. A large horde of boisterous male revelers where inches away form us amid the crowd, asking everyone not very politely if they wouldn't mind terribly getting their "ticks out for the lads". At least I think that's what they said. It was hard to to penetrate their ill-defined harmony; all I could think of was listening to Christy Browne underwater.
Our pace hastened, we avoided the embarrassing indignity of having to respond to the horde, embarrassing since I had ample flaccid pectorials the sight of which they were so eagerly requesting. A few yards later, we passed an alleyway where some nice gentlemen were painting a wall with a a coat of fine yellow. Except change the words "painting a" with "throwing copious amounts of beer bottles at" and a "coat of fine yellow" with dribbling dutch piss-water, probably procured form the off-license, the wall of which was now coated in this fine piss-yellow. Passing the courthouse, a few yards ahead I was almost I had to stop in my tracks while a skateboards rattled down the steps and almost broke its fall with my head. Me and Aggie stopped and stared at this invisible homicidal skateboarder, before pressing on, ever-wary of the increasing dangers closing in on us.
At the corner of Patrick's Street and Merchant's Quay there stood an old gent cautiously cradling his walking stick, as if he was struggling to stay upright against the bustle about him. For a moment I thought him to be a sober bastion of sense amidst the ruckus, before he muttered something at me.
"What did he say?" Aggie asked.
"Just walk, walk quite fast."
"Why? What did he say?"
"I think he just asked me if he could come home with me."
And walk fast we did, getting to the sanity of the Cornerhouse, the least rowdy pub in the world. We felt like survivors of a natural disaster, like the heroes of The Day of the Triffids or 28 days Later. In that vein I suggested that we should repopulate the species and we should get on the job toute suite - it was our duty - nay our destiny. It was a tough job but I said that if the situation demanded it I'm sure I could rise to the occasion. The only thing that raised was her eyebrow and her hand as it came into not-so-soft contact with my cheek.
Women. I blame the moon.
Astrologers have said for centuries that the moon's eclipse has a disruptive effect on the human, upsetting the ego, unbalancing the passions, and breaking down everything from relationships to technical equipment. Largely new age rubbish, you might think, but considering the long classical association between the moons movements and womanly moodiness, I am ready to open an ear to their less the scientific view. After all, if there is a connection between the full moon and the flowing of blood, be it menstrual or otherwise, imagine the bodyshock that something as momentous an eclipse could give you. I, for one, forgot about the lunar eclipse last Saturday, and as luck would have it I was sitting in a comfortable cinema while outside the darkened room the peoples of Cork City (and beyond presumably) underwent apocalyptic celestial emotional contortions their judgement-day screams were inaudible under the sound of Hank Azaria and co. having a meta-humorous whinge in For Your Consideration. I sat there, in the Kino cinema, sipping my cup of tea oblivious to the astrological disaster that was going on outside.
We exited the cinema onto Washington street, the street lamps washing the bleary faces of eclipse witnesses a dirty yellow. There seemed to be something in the eyes of these tortured souls, something in-between having looked into the abyss, seeing the tortures of the damned, and having a couple too many scoops early on in the night and can't quite get in anywhere. A large horde of boisterous male revelers where inches away form us amid the crowd, asking everyone not very politely if they wouldn't mind terribly getting their "ticks out for the lads". At least I think that's what they said. It was hard to to penetrate their ill-defined harmony; all I could think of was listening to Christy Browne underwater.
Our pace hastened, we avoided the embarrassing indignity of having to respond to the horde, embarrassing since I had ample flaccid pectorials the sight of which they were so eagerly requesting. A few yards later, we passed an alleyway where some nice gentlemen were painting a wall with a a coat of fine yellow. Except change the words "painting a" with "throwing copious amounts of beer bottles at" and a "coat of fine yellow" with dribbling dutch piss-water, probably procured form the off-license, the wall of which was now coated in this fine piss-yellow. Passing the courthouse, a few yards ahead I was almost I had to stop in my tracks while a skateboards rattled down the steps and almost broke its fall with my head. Me and Aggie stopped and stared at this invisible homicidal skateboarder, before pressing on, ever-wary of the increasing dangers closing in on us.
At the corner of Patrick's Street and Merchant's Quay there stood an old gent cautiously cradling his walking stick, as if he was struggling to stay upright against the bustle about him. For a moment I thought him to be a sober bastion of sense amidst the ruckus, before he muttered something at me.
"What did he say?" Aggie asked.
"Just walk, walk quite fast."
"Why? What did he say?"
"I think he just asked me if he could come home with me."
And walk fast we did, getting to the sanity of the Cornerhouse, the least rowdy pub in the world. We felt like survivors of a natural disaster, like the heroes of The Day of the Triffids or 28 days Later. In that vein I suggested that we should repopulate the species and we should get on the job toute suite - it was our duty - nay our destiny. It was a tough job but I said that if the situation demanded it I'm sure I could rise to the occasion. The only thing that raised was her eyebrow and her hand as it came into not-so-soft contact with my cheek.
Women. I blame the moon.
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