After a hellish day of labs on Friday, I had a dinner at Phil's that really hit the spot, and then repaired to the Bulldog.
The drunken antics of all concerned was a source of merriment, but the hangover I had the next day most certainly wasn't. That's absolutely the last time I stay out until 5am. The extended opening hours of the Bully have their drawbacks.
Today saw me making breakfast in a kitchen which is actually considered to be available only to the bedsits outside my section, owing to the fact that in spite of the landlord being told that one of the two hobs in our own kitchen is broken, it has yet to be fixed, and now the other one has packed up as well. One schmuck from the other bedsits laboured the point that it was inconvenient for everyone else, almost to the point where I nearly strangled him. I got what he was saying, but I won't go without breakfast just to please someone else.
As it is, our own kitchenette (a small corridor with a few appliances, basically) has no oven, and I've alreay told the landlord that I may need to use the oven in the other kitchen once or twice a week. He agreed to this, but now it looks as if he needs to make the other lodgers agree to this as well. He has been texted. He'd better get back to me soon.
This place is having more than its fair share of teething problems, and while it's a given that I'll be moving out once the academic year is finished, even if I stay in Brighton for the summer, I'm now beginning to wonder if I'll even make it that far. The whole moving process took enough out of me the first time though, and it gets in the way of all things academic as well. I'll have to play this one by ear, I think.
I'm getting tired of this shit. It's been quite a while since I've had to live in a place with this kind of atmosphere. I've gone from one extreme (living on my own) to this, and because it's not the usual house share set up, it's the negative aspects of the former combined with the pain-in-the-arse aspects of this particular setup. Living on my own wasn't that bad, it was just the area I was in, in those particular circumstances.
Oh, I just want to press the fast-forward button and move beyond all this crap.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Can you say 'Control Freak'?
God Almightly, it hasn't taken long for trouble to rear its ugly head.
I came home from college yesterday after a hard day, feeling rather satisfied with myself, and found this on my bed:
I came home from college yesterday after a hard day, feeling rather satisfied with myself, and found this on my bed:
Bloody hell. Ignoring the fact that as I am still in the process of unpacking, so of course it's going to be a bit untidy, these people are invading my living space and then passing comment on it. I told them I was more than capable of cleaning my room myself. As for the TV, it was never blaring, and if I was disturbed by someone else's tv, I would just ask them politely to turn it down, which is what they should do. Then there is the snotty tone, behind which it is implied that because I am a 'student', I need reminding that I must stay quiet and tidy at all times. I should say that to the one (whoever it was) who crashed up the stairs past my room at 2 am last Saturday night.
I just got off the phone from the landlord and he explained that his wife was 'in a bit of a mood' when she wrote it, to which I replied that I was put in quite the mood when I read it. He explained that she was a bit house-proud, which is fair enough, but that is quite the letter to get when you've only just moved into somewhere.
I could write her a letter back that would cut the legs from under her, but I know that it's best not to reply in anger. I'll sit on it for a while.
This is definitely not a place I will stay in for the duration of my degree though.
Monday, February 13, 2006
I have moved!
At last, I am more or less set up in the new house. I have acquired a room overlooking the seafront in Kemptown (hereafter referred to as 'bn2', its postcode) , and I am right in the middle of everything. The university is a bit far from where I am, relatively speaking, but I don't care. I can walk it in 40 minutes, whereas all my favourite pubs, clubs and shops are all within a stone's throw. The rent is saucy enough, but I'll make it up on the taxis that I won't have to get any more when going home. And I'm right next door to Brighton's main cruising ground, The Bushes.
The move from my old flat was done quite quickly, but was a bit of a nightmare at times. I fear some of my clothes may have been lost in transit, and only time will tell if they turn up again.
I never really liked the place I was living in before, and the area was chav central, so even though this new place is essentially a bedsit, the fact that the overall tone of the place is classier puts that quibble in the shade.
Last night, I had some after hours drinks in a nearby bar, until quite late. There will be other perks becoming obvious soon, I'm sure. I passed a megahot bear on the main street a couple of days ago. If I hadn't been so preoccupied with the whole removal saga, I would have swooped in, but I'm sure I'll see him again.
It's been a depressing, draining weekend, and now college has started again. I need to think about a holiday of some kind, to recharge my batteries, but now things are looking up slightly, thank God.
The move from my old flat was done quite quickly, but was a bit of a nightmare at times. I fear some of my clothes may have been lost in transit, and only time will tell if they turn up again.
I never really liked the place I was living in before, and the area was chav central, so even though this new place is essentially a bedsit, the fact that the overall tone of the place is classier puts that quibble in the shade.
Last night, I had some after hours drinks in a nearby bar, until quite late. There will be other perks becoming obvious soon, I'm sure. I passed a megahot bear on the main street a couple of days ago. If I hadn't been so preoccupied with the whole removal saga, I would have swooped in, but I'm sure I'll see him again.
It's been a depressing, draining weekend, and now college has started again. I need to think about a holiday of some kind, to recharge my batteries, but now things are looking up slightly, thank God.
Friday, February 10, 2006
My head is ready to EXPLODE!
Venting time!
January has been just the worst month in a long time for me. I have had to write two time-consuming reports and study for and sit two exams, all the while being broke and concious of the fact that by this Monday coming, I have to be out of my current flat and have found somewhere to live.
Realistically, I couldn't do much househunting in the run-up to the exams, so I left it until after Friday January 27th, where I figured that the two weeks holidays would give me enough time to find somewhere else to live. It is only today that I have finally sorted out somewhere, but not everything has been finalised, and I won't know for sure what my story is until about 8pm this evening.
Not surprisingly, I'm feeling just a bit fucking burned out. I haven't had a chance to stop and take a breather since I got back here, and the two weeks holidays that were supposed to be chill-time for me have almost been as bad as the four weeks that came before them. I need a break, badly. But once I move into the new place over the weekend (enough of an ordeal, with all the stuff I have), do I get a break? Oh no. Another assignment is due in this day week and I also have to find a job, with no small amount of urgency.
I knew going back to do this course wouldn't be easy, but I am seriously feeling the pinch right now. God only knows how I am going to take this for another two and a half years.
Deep deep breaths. This time next Friday everything will hopefully feel a little bit better.
Oooohhhh.....
January has been just the worst month in a long time for me. I have had to write two time-consuming reports and study for and sit two exams, all the while being broke and concious of the fact that by this Monday coming, I have to be out of my current flat and have found somewhere to live.
Realistically, I couldn't do much househunting in the run-up to the exams, so I left it until after Friday January 27th, where I figured that the two weeks holidays would give me enough time to find somewhere else to live. It is only today that I have finally sorted out somewhere, but not everything has been finalised, and I won't know for sure what my story is until about 8pm this evening.
Not surprisingly, I'm feeling just a bit fucking burned out. I haven't had a chance to stop and take a breather since I got back here, and the two weeks holidays that were supposed to be chill-time for me have almost been as bad as the four weeks that came before them. I need a break, badly. But once I move into the new place over the weekend (enough of an ordeal, with all the stuff I have), do I get a break? Oh no. Another assignment is due in this day week and I also have to find a job, with no small amount of urgency.
I knew going back to do this course wouldn't be easy, but I am seriously feeling the pinch right now. God only knows how I am going to take this for another two and a half years.
Deep deep breaths. This time next Friday everything will hopefully feel a little bit better.
Oooohhhh.....
My face is bald
I completely shaved off my goatee this morning. I needed to start again anyway, mainly because it had gone slightly asymmetrical in the last while due to my recent shaving around it one night when I was drunk (not a good idea, don't ever take a razor to your face in a state of inebriation).
I very much regret it though. I looked better with it than without, and once it grows back, I'm leaving it there, most likely until I die.
I very much regret it though. I looked better with it than without, and once it grows back, I'm leaving it there, most likely until I die.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Exasperation is...
- Getting chatted up by a guy at a bus stop
- It turns out he is a rugby player and has a fantasy body (His name was Darren and he plays for Portsmouth RFC)
- Comes to a nightclub with you
AND THEN:
- He has 'problems' getting money out of the cash machine so you end up buying him drinks and paying for putting his coat in the cloakroom
- He turns out to have more issues with himself than a bag of cats on drowning day
- He sticks his tongue down some other guy's throat but swears they are 'just good friends'
- He asks you to wait until 3am, the time the nightclub closes, and promises that he'll go home with you then...
AND THEN CHANGES HIS FUCKING MIND AND DECIDES HE DOESN'T WANT TO GO THROUGH WITH IT AFTER ALL!
Aaaaaarrrraaaaaggghhhhh!
In retrospect, the fact that the muppet had paid £350 for a pair of Prada jeans should have acted as some kind of warning light.
Current mood: Capable of murder.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
¡Hola!
Inspired by the big hairy man-mountains that I saw in Bear Cub, I have decided to learn Spanish.
Knowing myself, of course, I was reluctant to shell out money for a course of book and tapes in case I gave up after two days and they ended up gathering dust on the shelf. However, one of the newspapers over here, the Independent, gave away a free learning CD of the language with its paper yesterday, and the free book to go with it today, so I bought both. Not bad for £2.70.
The course is only six weeks long, so I figure that it won't be too much of an undertaking. So...
Avanti!*
* This might not actually be Spanish.
Knowing myself, of course, I was reluctant to shell out money for a course of book and tapes in case I gave up after two days and they ended up gathering dust on the shelf. However, one of the newspapers over here, the Independent, gave away a free learning CD of the language with its paper yesterday, and the free book to go with it today, so I bought both. Not bad for £2.70.
The course is only six weeks long, so I figure that it won't be too much of an undertaking. So...
Avanti!*
* This might not actually be Spanish.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Kate Bush - Aerial
Prologue
I waited long and listened hard, trying to arrive at a definitive opinion on this, the first album from La Bush in twelve years. Then I realised that my opinions of almost all the records I own are pretty fluid, and I can end up revising my opinion of entire albums over a year after I've heard them for the first time. So, is this one any good?
Yes it is, though sometimes I feel like adding a qualifier to that.
Me and Kate go back over 15 years. I remember seeing the video for Cloudbusting when I was in my early teens, and startled by the amount of personality in what can often be a very tedious art form for getting across the essence of a song and its band. From then I was hooked, and my sister's copy of The Whole Story was fair game. Soon after that, I got my hands on The Sensual World, which was part of the soundtrack to my sometimes miserable first attempt at higher education. One of the strengths of Kate Bush is how she simply doesn't anything like anyone else at all, and on that album it was all there. Rock outs, love songs, ethereal dream sequences, everything. One song on it, This Rocket's Tail, made singers like Robert Plant sound like petulant little brats, and that was down to the fact that she can still hold a note while howling and shrieking through a passage, and that's one of her main strengths. I discovered more of this kind of melodrama on the Hounds of Love, while working my way backwards through her catalogue.
There wasn't much howling and shrieking on the more mellow follow-up, The Red Shoes, but it still had some great moments in spite of that, the most prominent in my mind being Moments of Pleasure.
Aerial is a bit like that. It's mellow, she doesn't cut loose like on her earlier albums, and this is why she'll appeal to a certain portion of the easily-listening crowd. There's no wailing declarations of lost love or anger due to some abstract event, but there is still plenty of dreamlike compositions and abstract reference points. Songs like Bertie and Mrs. Bartolozzi, the latter of which sees her describing the minutiae of her doing her laundry(!), refer to her domestic bliss, A Coral Room has flashes of a plane crashing and an underwater city, and An Architect's Dream and The Painter's Link feature Rolf Harris (yes Puppy, you were right that time!) joining in singing about the easel and the brush, so to speak. Some of the songs also revolve around Birdsong, and the pattern on the album cover actually represents the sound wave pattern of the song of a blackbird.
The song I've linked to above is one of the better ones, and a good indication of the overall feel of the album.
(Goddammit! I can't type this entry without the CD skipping. Windows XP multitasking, my arse.)
So there you go. She still has it, even if she's reigning herself a little days. It's still a worthy buy. Just don't expect any Ninth-Waveisms.
Going by her current rate of output, we can expect the next one in 2017.
I waited long and listened hard, trying to arrive at a definitive opinion on this, the first album from La Bush in twelve years. Then I realised that my opinions of almost all the records I own are pretty fluid, and I can end up revising my opinion of entire albums over a year after I've heard them for the first time. So, is this one any good?
Yes it is, though sometimes I feel like adding a qualifier to that.
Me and Kate go back over 15 years. I remember seeing the video for Cloudbusting when I was in my early teens, and startled by the amount of personality in what can often be a very tedious art form for getting across the essence of a song and its band. From then I was hooked, and my sister's copy of The Whole Story was fair game. Soon after that, I got my hands on The Sensual World, which was part of the soundtrack to my sometimes miserable first attempt at higher education. One of the strengths of Kate Bush is how she simply doesn't anything like anyone else at all, and on that album it was all there. Rock outs, love songs, ethereal dream sequences, everything. One song on it, This Rocket's Tail, made singers like Robert Plant sound like petulant little brats, and that was down to the fact that she can still hold a note while howling and shrieking through a passage, and that's one of her main strengths. I discovered more of this kind of melodrama on the Hounds of Love, while working my way backwards through her catalogue.
There wasn't much howling and shrieking on the more mellow follow-up, The Red Shoes, but it still had some great moments in spite of that, the most prominent in my mind being Moments of Pleasure.
Aerial is a bit like that. It's mellow, she doesn't cut loose like on her earlier albums, and this is why she'll appeal to a certain portion of the easily-listening crowd. There's no wailing declarations of lost love or anger due to some abstract event, but there is still plenty of dreamlike compositions and abstract reference points. Songs like Bertie and Mrs. Bartolozzi, the latter of which sees her describing the minutiae of her doing her laundry(!), refer to her domestic bliss, A Coral Room has flashes of a plane crashing and an underwater city, and An Architect's Dream and The Painter's Link feature Rolf Harris (yes Puppy, you were right that time!) joining in singing about the easel and the brush, so to speak. Some of the songs also revolve around Birdsong, and the pattern on the album cover actually represents the sound wave pattern of the song of a blackbird.
The song I've linked to above is one of the better ones, and a good indication of the overall feel of the album.
(Goddammit! I can't type this entry without the CD skipping. Windows XP multitasking, my arse.)
So there you go. She still has it, even if she's reigning herself a little days. It's still a worthy buy. Just don't expect any Ninth-Waveisms.
Going by her current rate of output, we can expect the next one in 2017.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Brokeback Mountain
Just came away from seeing this, and really liked it. You'd want to have been in a coma not to have heard about all the praise being lavished on it, and I think it's the critics trying to make up for the fact that they overreacted to The Hulk, which wasn't really bad except for the CGI effects, which made Hulk himself look like the green giant out of the ads for tinned sweetcorn.
The general critical opinion is that Heath Ledger has excelled in this, and his protrayal of a surly incommunicative farm hand was spot on. Gyllenhaal's role was pretty much up there too, with him in a role I wouldn't really have imagined for him. Also, if a film can be described as 'minimal' then this is it. Everything progresses slowly, with a fair bit of emphasis on background scenery (not entirely dissimilarly to Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon), yet Ang Lee makes sure it still holds your interest all the way. It's pretty much at the opposite end to the more post-modern films of gay interest, with the traditional theme of coming to terms with love in an era where it is pretty much regarded as an aberration, at the forefront. The hype about 'steamy cowboy sex scenes' couldn't have been wider of the mark, and the film is all the better for that omission. The soundtrack complimented it well too, with a single finger-picking guitar composition running through it in a way not dissimilar to Ry Cooder's one in Paris, Texas.
So, go see. There really isn't a whole lot else out there anyway, Christ Almighty.
The trailer I saw for Walk The Line, a bio of Johnny Cash, looked pretty cool too. That has been pencilled in.
The general critical opinion is that Heath Ledger has excelled in this, and his protrayal of a surly incommunicative farm hand was spot on. Gyllenhaal's role was pretty much up there too, with him in a role I wouldn't really have imagined for him. Also, if a film can be described as 'minimal' then this is it. Everything progresses slowly, with a fair bit of emphasis on background scenery (not entirely dissimilarly to Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon), yet Ang Lee makes sure it still holds your interest all the way. It's pretty much at the opposite end to the more post-modern films of gay interest, with the traditional theme of coming to terms with love in an era where it is pretty much regarded as an aberration, at the forefront. The hype about 'steamy cowboy sex scenes' couldn't have been wider of the mark, and the film is all the better for that omission. The soundtrack complimented it well too, with a single finger-picking guitar composition running through it in a way not dissimilar to Ry Cooder's one in Paris, Texas.
So, go see. There really isn't a whole lot else out there anyway, Christ Almighty.
The trailer I saw for Walk The Line, a bio of Johnny Cash, looked pretty cool too. That has been pencilled in.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
A sex entry
I went to the Bulldog on Friday night. Ten minutes inside the door and I had notched up shifts from three different guys, with one of them also engaging me ... er... further down.
My arrival was likened by Phil to that of an exocet missile. Perhaps I go too far? In any case, I also got entangled with a hot'n'horny Scotsman. Time will tell if that progresses to something more. I had acquired a headache earlier in the day that just would not go away, so I wasn't really up for moving quickly with anyone, much as I would have liked to.
Friday's exam sucked, and I fear I'll be doing that one again. This last month has been hell for all of us, and it showed on Friday evening, with a lot of people going home early or just not really in the form for a whole day of partying, myself included. But it's over now. I have two weeks to find somewhere else to live, and hopefully I'll get a job in that time as well.
Oh, the stress is starting to take its tole.
My arrival was likened by Phil to that of an exocet missile. Perhaps I go too far? In any case, I also got entangled with a hot'n'horny Scotsman. Time will tell if that progresses to something more. I had acquired a headache earlier in the day that just would not go away, so I wasn't really up for moving quickly with anyone, much as I would have liked to.
Friday's exam sucked, and I fear I'll be doing that one again. This last month has been hell for all of us, and it showed on Friday evening, with a lot of people going home early or just not really in the form for a whole day of partying, myself included. But it's over now. I have two weeks to find somewhere else to live, and hopefully I'll get a job in that time as well.
Oh, the stress is starting to take its tole.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Chris Penn. October 1965 - January 2006
I heard about this on the radio last night, and sure enough, it's true. Chris Penn, brother of Seán, was found dead in his beachside apartment on Wednesday morning. He was 40 years old.
The only films I saw that starred him were Reservoir Dogs, True Romance, and Footloose, and those apart, I never really was that pushed about the rest. Having said that, I still have to see Rumblefish and Short Cuts.
Most of the articles written so far have concentrated on how his career was outshone by his more famous brother, but I found Seán's overwrought posturing a bit hard to take sometimes, and to my knowledge, Chris doesn't have an out-and-out bomb like Shanghai Surprise to his name.
Other commentators have pointed out that as his weight ballooned due to cocaine abuse, his career shrank. Maybe the latter was in fact due to the former, but I have to say I found that meatiness suited him. So here I provide some pictures:
Rest in peace Chris. You nailed a few noteworthy roles, you made more money than most people do, and you could have doubled nicely as a human duvet. Not bad, all in all.
The only films I saw that starred him were Reservoir Dogs, True Romance, and Footloose, and those apart, I never really was that pushed about the rest. Having said that, I still have to see Rumblefish and Short Cuts.
Most of the articles written so far have concentrated on how his career was outshone by his more famous brother, but I found Seán's overwrought posturing a bit hard to take sometimes, and to my knowledge, Chris doesn't have an out-and-out bomb like Shanghai Surprise to his name.
Other commentators have pointed out that as his weight ballooned due to cocaine abuse, his career shrank. Maybe the latter was in fact due to the former, but I have to say I found that meatiness suited him. So here I provide some pictures:
Rest in peace Chris. You nailed a few noteworthy roles, you made more money than most people do, and you could have doubled nicely as a human duvet. Not bad, all in all.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Exams...
Had microbiology this afternoon, which basically consisted of MCQs and a short answer section.
The MCQs weren't a complete disaster, but the smell of bullshit from my written answers would have driven away a dragon. At least the labs I've had to suffer for the last three months contribute substantially to the overall course mark, and I averaged a grade B there.
Now, here I sit, at 1:20am, learning about how tablets are made, and what goes into them. I never knew they could consist of so many ingredients other than the active drug substance itself. Bloody hell. I sit this one - the last - on Friday, and then it's out on a bender from hell with the class.
Roll on the weekend.
The MCQs weren't a complete disaster, but the smell of bullshit from my written answers would have driven away a dragon. At least the labs I've had to suffer for the last three months contribute substantially to the overall course mark, and I averaged a grade B there.
Now, here I sit, at 1:20am, learning about how tablets are made, and what goes into them. I never knew they could consist of so many ingredients other than the active drug substance itself. Bloody hell. I sit this one - the last - on Friday, and then it's out on a bender from hell with the class.
Roll on the weekend.
Friday, January 20, 2006
South Park, with a rant attached.
Around a fortnight ago, Comedy Central was forced to pull the season finale of South Park, an episode entitled 'Bloody Mary'.
This particular one - there's no way of putting this delicately - features a statue of the Virgin Mary bleeding from the ass. This miracle brings people flocking to South Park to be healed, until it transpires that in fact Mary's just having a period. Then the Pope declares that 'a chick bleeding out her vagina is no miracle', and everyone goes home disgruntled.
Unfortunately for Comedy Central, the episode was scheduled to run the before the Catholic celebration of the Feast of the immaculate conception. An American organisation, the Catholic league, succeeded in having the episode pulled from the air, never to be repeated. How they managed this may something to do with the fact that Viacom, the parent company of Comedy Central, has on its board of members a staunch Catholic. The Catholic League also succeeded in securing an apology from Viacom. What's that flying out the window? It looked like the first amendment...
Last year, the Jerry Springer opera opened to substantial controversy in the UK. I didn't see it, and it looked a bit shit frankly, but in spite of protest it was shown here. It showed that although catholicism had a voice here, it wasn't an overpowering one. Which is the way it should be.
The Friday Thing, a satirical commentsheet and the source of much of the previous three paragraphs, points out that this is an indication of, on the other hand, how much influence Catholicism has in the ol' Red White and Blue right now. Similarly offensive episodes have been aired previously (a couple of years ago, to be precise), but when the Catholic League tried to intervene then, they were told to fuck off. Something appears to have changed.
South Park is funny. Its subversion is rudimentary, it can often be peurile, and it's nowhere near as clever as The Simpsons was, but it does have one substantial jewel in its crown: Eric Cartman. He alone makes it worth watching.
The tenets on which the Catholic church have founded itself are so ridiculous - and, it should be pointed out, damaging to women and minorities in general everywhere - that it has no-one to blame but itself for becoming this kind of target. Its bound to be offensive to some catholics, but considering the whole subtext of the immaculate conception in general (docile woman accepts pregnancy as a gift from God, without sullying herself with the 'sin' of intercourse) the church have brought this on themselves.
So. I am going to help in my own little way. Here is a link to a bittorrent location of the episode.
It's fair to say that Matt Stone and Trey Parker wouldn't have the balls to try something like this with the Muslim faith though, even though that's as deserving a target as Christianity.
And now to my next point.
Comedy Central has pulled another another episode of South Park this week. It's called "Come out of the Closet" Tom Cruise. You don't have to be a genius to deduce from the title what that one is about, and all that reminds me of something.
There is rather irritating tendency for people inside and outside the gay community to 'out' people, as soon as they come 'under suspicion'. Even in academia, gay activists such as Andrew Hodges and David Hutter, in the pamphlet 'With Downcast Gays' (a good read, though flawed by its militant politics) point out that the writer E.M. Forster 'betrayed' the gay community by remaining in what was essentially 'the closet'. Maybe he did the gay community a disservice, maybe he didn't, but whom he slept with was ultimately his own business.
Fast forward quite a few years, and now we have people pointing the finger at everyone from Kevin Spacey to Tom Selleck to Tom Cruise. What the fuck does it matter if they are or not? If we (or more accurately, the media) have advanced to the point where we are 'accepting' of other people's preferences, why do we still have to know what their gender of preference is? It's none of our business.
I was in a pub once, in a discussion with someone about a work colleague that neither of us particularly liked. Up came the subject of the unlikeable one's sexual orientation. "At least you say what you are", pointed out the other drinker. To this day, I don't particularly think the unlikeable one is gay, and I couldn't care even less, but I'm pretty convinced that subconciously, the other drinker intended it [his orientation] as a slur because he didn't like him, not out of objectivity or some crusading purpose.
I'm pretty sure that this is what is at the root of what goes on with a lot of outing. A gay person's life is improved immeasurably once they come out. It could almost - though not quite - be argued that by outing someone, you are doing them a favour. But you are also performing an invasion of privacy that is pretty much without equal, and it is almost always something other than altruism that is behind someone making the demand that someone else come out of the closet. It is inevitably more about demander, than demandee.
Tom Cruise has attracted this shit because, on the surface, he is someone that attracts begrudgery. He has made a lot of money playing to the standard Hollywood archetype of the 'red-blooded' action hero, much, it has to be said, to the detriment of the more artistic aspects of his profession. He is good-looking - though not, I must stress, at all my type - and has had quite a few beauties on his arm.
He's also a bit of an arse, with all the Scientology, and in that rubbish about Brooke Shields he really was operating outside his field of expertise. In fact he should have been slapped hard across the face for that one, and it is this characteristic of his that lead people to react by characterising him contemptously. And it's pretty telling to see what they come out with.
Ricky Martin has attracted it. Paul Newman has attracted it. George Michael attracted it for some time before he was very publicly caught, but sometimes there is smoke without fire. Sometimes it's just mean-minded unattractive jealousy with a twist of disrespect for gay men. If you disparage someone, including their orientation as backup can turn the spotlight on what your core beliefs really are, and it can make for a rather unattractive sight.
The 'outing' of politicians that have a history of opposing gay rights is somewhat different, and serves a worthwhile purpose in one sense, but it still leaves a nasty taste in my mouth, because by their 'exposure' - try as much as you like to get away from it - you are equating their orientation with something shameful. I suppose the end just about justifies the means, but only just. I wish there was some other way though.
Lastly, some of the gay community are at this as well. Is it out of a sense of injured loyalty, or do they feel better if a closet gay man finally comes around to joining their ranks? I can't imagine why the latter would be the case. Some say that by remaining in the closet, a public figure contributes to the oppression of gay men and women, forgetting that if there was no oppression, whether or not they are in the closet simply wouldn't be an issue for anyone except themselves.
Tom Cruise's decision to remain secretive is most likely motivated by career considerations. The offers of a lead role as a hero in an action movie would probably dry up if he came out. Maybe there's more to it, but if I'm confronted with one prick taking issue with another prick on the basis of the sexuality of the latter, I'm not so much on the side of the latter, as against that of the former.
So. South Park, as entertaining as it can be, is not really so cool with this episode. It's probably not the intention of Stone and Parker, they're most likely just trying to get up the nose of Cruise himself. Unfortunately, the screen 'idol' succeeded in getting Comedy Central to pull that one as well by threatening to sue them, so he's pretty much won, and strangely enough, I don't feel too outraged about this.
You can still watch it here though, and judge for yourself. I'm nothing if not fair.
P.S. If you think there is hypocrisy evident in this post, you need to get a sense of history. Fast.
This particular one - there's no way of putting this delicately - features a statue of the Virgin Mary bleeding from the ass. This miracle brings people flocking to South Park to be healed, until it transpires that in fact Mary's just having a period. Then the Pope declares that 'a chick bleeding out her vagina is no miracle', and everyone goes home disgruntled.
Unfortunately for Comedy Central, the episode was scheduled to run the before the Catholic celebration of the Feast of the immaculate conception. An American organisation, the Catholic league, succeeded in having the episode pulled from the air, never to be repeated. How they managed this may something to do with the fact that Viacom, the parent company of Comedy Central, has on its board of members a staunch Catholic. The Catholic League also succeeded in securing an apology from Viacom. What's that flying out the window? It looked like the first amendment...
Last year, the Jerry Springer opera opened to substantial controversy in the UK. I didn't see it, and it looked a bit shit frankly, but in spite of protest it was shown here. It showed that although catholicism had a voice here, it wasn't an overpowering one. Which is the way it should be.
The Friday Thing, a satirical commentsheet and the source of much of the previous three paragraphs, points out that this is an indication of, on the other hand, how much influence Catholicism has in the ol' Red White and Blue right now. Similarly offensive episodes have been aired previously (a couple of years ago, to be precise), but when the Catholic League tried to intervene then, they were told to fuck off. Something appears to have changed.
South Park is funny. Its subversion is rudimentary, it can often be peurile, and it's nowhere near as clever as The Simpsons was, but it does have one substantial jewel in its crown: Eric Cartman. He alone makes it worth watching.
The tenets on which the Catholic church have founded itself are so ridiculous - and, it should be pointed out, damaging to women and minorities in general everywhere - that it has no-one to blame but itself for becoming this kind of target. Its bound to be offensive to some catholics, but considering the whole subtext of the immaculate conception in general (docile woman accepts pregnancy as a gift from God, without sullying herself with the 'sin' of intercourse) the church have brought this on themselves.
So. I am going to help in my own little way. Here is a link to a bittorrent location of the episode.
It's fair to say that Matt Stone and Trey Parker wouldn't have the balls to try something like this with the Muslim faith though, even though that's as deserving a target as Christianity.
And now to my next point.
Comedy Central has pulled another another episode of South Park this week. It's called "Come out of the Closet" Tom Cruise. You don't have to be a genius to deduce from the title what that one is about, and all that reminds me of something.
There is rather irritating tendency for people inside and outside the gay community to 'out' people, as soon as they come 'under suspicion'. Even in academia, gay activists such as Andrew Hodges and David Hutter, in the pamphlet 'With Downcast Gays' (a good read, though flawed by its militant politics) point out that the writer E.M. Forster 'betrayed' the gay community by remaining in what was essentially 'the closet'. Maybe he did the gay community a disservice, maybe he didn't, but whom he slept with was ultimately his own business.
Fast forward quite a few years, and now we have people pointing the finger at everyone from Kevin Spacey to Tom Selleck to Tom Cruise. What the fuck does it matter if they are or not? If we (or more accurately, the media) have advanced to the point where we are 'accepting' of other people's preferences, why do we still have to know what their gender of preference is? It's none of our business.
I was in a pub once, in a discussion with someone about a work colleague that neither of us particularly liked. Up came the subject of the unlikeable one's sexual orientation. "At least you say what you are", pointed out the other drinker. To this day, I don't particularly think the unlikeable one is gay, and I couldn't care even less, but I'm pretty convinced that subconciously, the other drinker intended it [his orientation] as a slur because he didn't like him, not out of objectivity or some crusading purpose.
I'm pretty sure that this is what is at the root of what goes on with a lot of outing. A gay person's life is improved immeasurably once they come out. It could almost - though not quite - be argued that by outing someone, you are doing them a favour. But you are also performing an invasion of privacy that is pretty much without equal, and it is almost always something other than altruism that is behind someone making the demand that someone else come out of the closet. It is inevitably more about demander, than demandee.
Tom Cruise has attracted this shit because, on the surface, he is someone that attracts begrudgery. He has made a lot of money playing to the standard Hollywood archetype of the 'red-blooded' action hero, much, it has to be said, to the detriment of the more artistic aspects of his profession. He is good-looking - though not, I must stress, at all my type - and has had quite a few beauties on his arm.
He's also a bit of an arse, with all the Scientology, and in that rubbish about Brooke Shields he really was operating outside his field of expertise. In fact he should have been slapped hard across the face for that one, and it is this characteristic of his that lead people to react by characterising him contemptously. And it's pretty telling to see what they come out with.
Ricky Martin has attracted it. Paul Newman has attracted it. George Michael attracted it for some time before he was very publicly caught, but sometimes there is smoke without fire. Sometimes it's just mean-minded unattractive jealousy with a twist of disrespect for gay men. If you disparage someone, including their orientation as backup can turn the spotlight on what your core beliefs really are, and it can make for a rather unattractive sight.
The 'outing' of politicians that have a history of opposing gay rights is somewhat different, and serves a worthwhile purpose in one sense, but it still leaves a nasty taste in my mouth, because by their 'exposure' - try as much as you like to get away from it - you are equating their orientation with something shameful. I suppose the end just about justifies the means, but only just. I wish there was some other way though.
Lastly, some of the gay community are at this as well. Is it out of a sense of injured loyalty, or do they feel better if a closet gay man finally comes around to joining their ranks? I can't imagine why the latter would be the case. Some say that by remaining in the closet, a public figure contributes to the oppression of gay men and women, forgetting that if there was no oppression, whether or not they are in the closet simply wouldn't be an issue for anyone except themselves.
Tom Cruise's decision to remain secretive is most likely motivated by career considerations. The offers of a lead role as a hero in an action movie would probably dry up if he came out. Maybe there's more to it, but if I'm confronted with one prick taking issue with another prick on the basis of the sexuality of the latter, I'm not so much on the side of the latter, as against that of the former.
So. South Park, as entertaining as it can be, is not really so cool with this episode. It's probably not the intention of Stone and Parker, they're most likely just trying to get up the nose of Cruise himself. Unfortunately, the screen 'idol' succeeded in getting Comedy Central to pull that one as well by threatening to sue them, so he's pretty much won, and strangely enough, I don't feel too outraged about this.
You can still watch it here though, and judge for yourself. I'm nothing if not fair.
P.S. If you think there is hypocrisy evident in this post, you need to get a sense of history. Fast.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Maybe I have a nice natural smell?
The Scene: Denis in the lift, headed for the ground floor. A woman gets on halfway down. I recognise her (I think) as one of the lab technicians from the microbiology department.
Her: "That's a nice eau-de-toilette you're wearing. What is it?"
Me (Not sure if I heard right): "Sorry?"
Her: "That's a nice eau-de-toilette you're wearing. What is it?"
Me: "Er....I'm not wearing any..."
Her (surprised): "Oh..."
The lift stops at my floor. I get out.
Me (over my shoulder, back towards her): "It must be someone else's..."
I'm no good at accepting unsolicited compliments from strangers.
I do wear 'Body Mechanics for Men' from the Body Shop as a deodorant though. Maybe it was that.
Her: "That's a nice eau-de-toilette you're wearing. What is it?"
Me (Not sure if I heard right): "Sorry?"
Her: "That's a nice eau-de-toilette you're wearing. What is it?"
Me: "Er....I'm not wearing any..."
Her (surprised): "Oh..."
The lift stops at my floor. I get out.
Me (over my shoulder, back towards her): "It must be someone else's..."
I'm no good at accepting unsolicited compliments from strangers.
I do wear 'Body Mechanics for Men' from the Body Shop as a deodorant though. Maybe it was that.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
A thought about alcohol
I become a much nicer, more friendly person when I'm drunk. Too much so, it could be argued. I suppose it's better than what happens with a lot of people, which is that they get aggressive, or near-psychotic, and start getting into fights. I'm the opposite. If I get confronted with that kind of trouble, I usually dispel it with loads of unthreatening amicability.
There is a downside to this. During a night out which involves beer, I can ending up entertaining the most moronic argument or slagging match and hearing the other person out, and it is only the next day, when I wake up, that I realise that sometimes a box into the face can work wonders for people who turn into a shambling mess after a drinking session. Or at the very least, walking off and leaving them on their own when their back is turned.
Current mood: Exasperated
There is a downside to this. During a night out which involves beer, I can ending up entertaining the most moronic argument or slagging match and hearing the other person out, and it is only the next day, when I wake up, that I realise that sometimes a box into the face can work wonders for people who turn into a shambling mess after a drinking session. Or at the very least, walking off and leaving them on their own when their back is turned.
Current mood: Exasperated
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Back in Brighton...
Exams in two weeks, and what do I do on my first day back? Go out drinking. And stay out until 7am. This is simply NOT on. I've got work to do!
Over Christmas I had ordered the DVD of 'Bear Cub', a film that first came out over a year ago but, thanks to the fact that it wasn't shown over here at the time and I missed subsequent screenings of it, one that I hadn't got around to seeing. This was wrecking my head verily, as my interest had been seriously piqued by the trailer, or more accurately, the men in the trailer. Watch it and I think you'll agree. I tried to do a screen capture of one of the scenes on the DVD and include it here, but it keeps fucking up, so no joy.
Anyway, I came back to Brighton on Sunday night (Boy, was getting a train from Gatwick at 11:20pm a barrel of laughs. Especially when the train timetable display changed the platform number of interest TWO MINUTES before the train came in) and found the DVD in my letterbox, much to my delight. A quick rendez-vous with Phil and it was decided that we would watch it on the plasma screen at his place to do it justice. With two bags of Nachos, dip, buttered popcorn, chocolate and alcohol in hand, we settled down.
Set in Madrid, the film tells the story of how a gay dentist, whose life is one big party, ends up looking after his 9-year old nephew after the mother is detained indefinitely in a different country. Add to this the fact that the boy's paternal grandmother wants custody of the child as she believes, surprise surprise, a gay man does not for a fit parent make.
The difference between this and almost every other film I've seen of gay interest is how it resonated in so many ways with me at an everyday level. Right from the opening slightly comedic sex scene, I was going 'Lord, I know what that's like.' A scene where the lead character is in the sauna having his nipples played with brought back to me how many times I've already had to tell guys that tit torture has never been my thing (I must be the only gay man on the planet who feels like this, from what I can see), a part where they are all mangled on cocaine made me laugh out loud, it brought back so many memories, and the prowling of the cruising areas reminded me of what I could avail of later, if I felt like it.
Other than that, the standard themes of HIV, homophobia etc. were dealt with in a very straight-up no-nonsense way. As a piece of art, the film didn't break a huge amount of ground, but it was probably the most realistic representation of the gay lifestyle I've seen in some time. And the men rocked. Loads of big hairy eye-candy everywhere. The only fly in the ointment was that I missed a thing about Richard Dawkins on BBC something, and also a programme about linguistics (they were doing a thing on the mauling of the English language by management-speak, a pet peeve of mine) but hey.
Anyway, it was kickin'. Get it out, and make sure you get the directors cut, with all the sex scenes left intact, so you can see it at its artistic best, har har.
So after that, we went out drinking, went back to the house, drank some more, watched some porn, and drank some more again. I then left, mystifyingly refusing the offer of a bed, at half-past bloody four in the morning and went cruising in The Bushes. There, I got entangled with a guy, and walked all the way home afterwards, thanks to the dearth of taxis around at the time. Bloody cabbies! What do they think they're doing, knocking off before 6am!
Today, I rose rather late. Lectures tomorrow. No more debauchery. There's a new man in town.
Oh déjà vu...
Over Christmas I had ordered the DVD of 'Bear Cub', a film that first came out over a year ago but, thanks to the fact that it wasn't shown over here at the time and I missed subsequent screenings of it, one that I hadn't got around to seeing. This was wrecking my head verily, as my interest had been seriously piqued by the trailer, or more accurately, the men in the trailer. Watch it and I think you'll agree. I tried to do a screen capture of one of the scenes on the DVD and include it here, but it keeps fucking up, so no joy.
Anyway, I came back to Brighton on Sunday night (Boy, was getting a train from Gatwick at 11:20pm a barrel of laughs. Especially when the train timetable display changed the platform number of interest TWO MINUTES before the train came in) and found the DVD in my letterbox, much to my delight. A quick rendez-vous with Phil and it was decided that we would watch it on the plasma screen at his place to do it justice. With two bags of Nachos, dip, buttered popcorn, chocolate and alcohol in hand, we settled down.
Set in Madrid, the film tells the story of how a gay dentist, whose life is one big party, ends up looking after his 9-year old nephew after the mother is detained indefinitely in a different country. Add to this the fact that the boy's paternal grandmother wants custody of the child as she believes, surprise surprise, a gay man does not for a fit parent make.
The difference between this and almost every other film I've seen of gay interest is how it resonated in so many ways with me at an everyday level. Right from the opening slightly comedic sex scene, I was going 'Lord, I know what that's like.' A scene where the lead character is in the sauna having his nipples played with brought back to me how many times I've already had to tell guys that tit torture has never been my thing (I must be the only gay man on the planet who feels like this, from what I can see), a part where they are all mangled on cocaine made me laugh out loud, it brought back so many memories, and the prowling of the cruising areas reminded me of what I could avail of later, if I felt like it.
Other than that, the standard themes of HIV, homophobia etc. were dealt with in a very straight-up no-nonsense way. As a piece of art, the film didn't break a huge amount of ground, but it was probably the most realistic representation of the gay lifestyle I've seen in some time. And the men rocked. Loads of big hairy eye-candy everywhere. The only fly in the ointment was that I missed a thing about Richard Dawkins on BBC something, and also a programme about linguistics (they were doing a thing on the mauling of the English language by management-speak, a pet peeve of mine) but hey.
Anyway, it was kickin'. Get it out, and make sure you get the directors cut, with all the sex scenes left intact, so you can see it at its artistic best, har har.
So after that, we went out drinking, went back to the house, drank some more, watched some porn, and drank some more again. I then left, mystifyingly refusing the offer of a bed, at half-past bloody four in the morning and went cruising in The Bushes. There, I got entangled with a guy, and walked all the way home afterwards, thanks to the dearth of taxis around at the time. Bloody cabbies! What do they think they're doing, knocking off before 6am!
Today, I rose rather late. Lectures tomorrow. No more debauchery. There's a new man in town.
Oh déjà vu...
Monday, January 02, 2006
And onto a new year...
Well, it's been, and I got a little drunk and demented in Dingle, and now it's gone, and I'm on the last leg of the holidays. Time to get on the new year's resolutions. Smokes and alcohol shall feature, as usual. Let's see if I can make it work this year. My stomach is extremely pissed off with how I've been shovelling junk into it indiscriminately, and it's been letting me know in know uncertain terms: While I was out in partying over the past couple of days, I had to keep a toilet nearby at all times. Uurgh...
I had a fear when I came home for the holidays that I would end up getting no study done. I have got some done, but all of this work could more or less be compressed into one day. I refuse to get upset about it. I have one week left.
When I go back, I have exams at the end of January. I also have to find somewhere new to live before the 8th of February. On top of that, I have to find a proper part-time job so that I can be more self sufficient. It's going to be a busy month.
Now I go do laundry. Excitement!
I had a fear when I came home for the holidays that I would end up getting no study done. I have got some done, but all of this work could more or less be compressed into one day. I refuse to get upset about it. I have one week left.
When I go back, I have exams at the end of January. I also have to find somewhere new to live before the 8th of February. On top of that, I have to find a proper part-time job so that I can be more self sufficient. It's going to be a busy month.
Now I go do laundry. Excitement!
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Civil partnerships in the United Kingdom
I'm a bit tardy, downright sloppy in fact, in not writing about this earlier, but you'd want to have been living under a rock not to know that same-sex civil partnerships have now come to pass in the United Kingdom.
I had first heard about this when I had visited the two Craigs out in Arundel a while back. They have since availed of this new piece of legislation and on Wednesday the 21st of this month, after a 20-year 'courtship', they have gone ahead and tied the knot. They are amongst the first of all of the gay couples in the Brighton area to do so, and I wish them the very best.
Nazinger, I beg your pardon, the recently elected Pope Benedict XVMCIIwhat-fucking-ever is, of course, timely in his announcements: He has recently come out and pronounced that no priest-in-waiting may enter a seminary if he has ever exhibited tendencies toward 'the intrinsic disorder' that is homosexuality, within 3 months prior to the proposed time of enrolement. In a particularly noxious twist, the Vatican has issued this 'in response' to the revelations of child sex abuse at the hands of American priests, thus reinforcing in some of the smaller minds amongst us the 'link' that exists between homosexuality and paedophilia.
Here we fucking go again. The Vatican quite simply refusing to grow up and acknowledge the diversity that exists outside of their enclave in Rome. What they don't seem to appreciate is that at ground level, quite a lot of priests are embarassed at the stream of rubbish that is flowing out of there. Some of the less rigid amongst them may find that their job is made increasingly difficult by the pronouncements of a loathsome little toad in Rome who just cannot appreciate that guys who dig other guys are simply never going to go away. Seriously, we've been around since before biblical times, and step by step, we're winning all of our battles as time goes on. Get the fuck over it. Some priests, such as this guy here, are already 'rebelling' by refusing to give assurance that they won't engage in same-sex relations with - oh, this takes my breath away - the man they are marrying. You couldn't make up such a ridiculous scenario.
More and more, the Vatican are digging their own graves with these edicts, and widening what is already a substantial divide between them and the commmon church-goer. With public coverage and acceptance being given to the gay community more and more, we are now more visible than ever, and it has now got to the point where almost every straight person in Western Society knows or is related to someone who warms to the idea of warming up someone of their own gender, and this is where the cardinals are shooting themselves in the foot. They are forcing people to take sides, and if you were presented with the choice between a friend or relative in real life, and some abstract figure who is claimed to be represented by someone such as Ratzinger, well, I know which option I would choose. Only the most simple-minded amongst the Right need to be given instruction on how to live their life in this way.
Incidentally, it's good to see that people like Debbie Gaston aren't allowing organised religion to get in the way of their religious beliefs.
As an aside, if there is such a higher power, why are some people so readily accepting of the theory that he would have someone like Benedict as his spokesman here on Earth? If I were The Almighty, I would have long ago handed his holiness his P45 and found someone a bit more personable. Perhaps it's down to iconography, and how people have more respect for inaccessible figureheads, but I might be overreaching...
Anyhow, the partnerships have come to pass, and some political commentators, along with some of my friends, hold that it won't be long before it happens in Ireland as well. We'll see about that, but the fact that it now exists in so many European countries is good for me at the moment.
Lastly, another absolute red rag of mine. A recent letter to the editor of the Irish Times:
Discounting this clown's issues with terminology and the all-too-typical attempt to justify himself in paragraph four - I'll get to them later - one concept that needs investigation in this context is that of political correctness.
Political correctness was, like many social phenomena described in detail in the media, something that never really took off. It's central premise, the neuturing of modern speech, especially was something that existed only in the minds of a select few. Terminology such as 'intellectually challenged', 'horizontally advantaged', and 'vertically challenged' most likely had a half-life of about 5 seconds, yet were touted by those in the public eye for quite some time after everyone else had sensibly begun to ignore them. In short, if it ever did exist, it really does not anymore, at least not in the form in which it was originally conceived.
Here is something else. Thanks to variety of social factors, racism, and to a lesser extent, homophobia, stopped becoming acceptable in everyday life some years back. I'm not a social commentator, I can't draw a line in the sand and say exactly where this happened, but it is now not considered good social grace to disparage someone on either of these grounds and offend anyone in mixed company, and society in general is all the better for it.
Somewhere along the line being gay, or at the very least being polysexual, became kind of hip. One reason may have been that it was a way of dissociating oneself from, or offending, the old guard, in whatever form that might have been. Another reason was that it still has a aspect of sexual experimentation to it, along with the attendant party scene, that has since been relegated to the margins in mainstream heterosexual society.
Assimilation eventually came about, and now we have come to today's situation. Racism and homophobia, seen as the preserve of the uneducated redneck who never left his home town and never saw much of the world, is now quite unfashionable. But it's still there, buried in the subconcious of people who, under different circumstances, would never have been that pushed about erasing it from within themselves before.
So now, when people want to give life to the small-minded little shit inside them without looking like the under-developed prat that they are, they need a scapegoat, and boy is the PC concept fast becoming the punchbag of modern times. They give voice to their opinions, but when those are met with protest, they say such sensitivities are borne out of a stifling form of political correctness, the implication being that most people think like them at some level and thus they are absolved. Another annoying term of excuse, with connotations of plain-speaking, is 'irreverance'.
Horseshit. Ignorance is ignorance, and while homophobia is a strong word to use in these circumstances, their comments point to the fact that they are still little boys at heart, who haven't really experienced enough of the world. It's a result of people trying to excuse themselves because they have had a certain sensibility foisted upon them that they are not ready for, at least not yet.
I've always thought that Liberal bashing is done by those who have just a little too much time on their hands, or need to get out more, but now I think of it as a odious form of self-absorption. If these people themselves found that their own rights were being infringed, their whinging would be coming out of every available news outlet, but because it's someone else, they feel free to take potshots. It's the spoiled little kid within each of them being given a voice.
There is no PC brigade. If a slur from a person in the vein mentioned above induces a negative reaction in someone else, that's because the person is being an ignoramus, not a 'plain speaker'. End of story.
This brings me to his support of the Pope. You cannot support someone who condemns gays outright, and yet suddenly immediately afterwards start bleating that you 'don't have a problem with gays'. It just doesn't wash. At all. Not with a figure like that.
Which leads me to the other two points. First, his justificaton in paragraph four. It reminds me of something...
Sometime back, I saw an episode of The Office on TV, which had Gareth, anticharismatic par excellence, talking about gays in the army. He was against it, on the grounds that they might be sexually distracted by the other men in uniform on the battlefield, but then quickly defended himself against accusations of homophobia by pointing out that he had loads of gay musicians in his record collection, such as George Michael and Freddie Mercury ("And", he points out, "They're all bummers"). It was a genius sketch, mainly because most of us, least of all me, know someone this retarded in real life. The parallels between this sketch and the guy above, is that as lines of reasoning go, it's MORONIC!
Last, the use of the term 'homosexual'. It is true that the article referred to in the letter above goes to some lengths to avoid using the term, but in order to help the reader understand why, a quick history lesson.
Once upon a time, not so long ago at all, the medical establishment regarded homosexuality as a disorder, and as such it merited listing in the bible of psychiatry, the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual). The term they used to describe it at that time? Yep, you guesssed it. That was where the definition first surfaced. The term 'heterosexual' enjoys nowhere near the same kind of dubious history. Even now I'm still not a fan of the homo term, it just sounds too clinical, as if the person in question is some kind of curiosity, and I've noticed at a superficial level, that it can indicate in the user a certain aversion to aspects of our lifestyle. But maybe I'm being too 'PC', and 'not representative of the plain-speaking people of Ireland'. Oh, and if you find gay men getting defensive when you disparage aspects of their community, it's probably because they have a sense of history and are sick of fighting their corner all the time. Conflict can do that to you sometimes.
So on that note, plain speakers, don't diss gays. Apart from anything else it's not cool, and it'll make you look like a twat and you won't get laid. And you've already got quite a lot of catching up to do in that department before you get to where we are.
Hah!
I had first heard about this when I had visited the two Craigs out in Arundel a while back. They have since availed of this new piece of legislation and on Wednesday the 21st of this month, after a 20-year 'courtship', they have gone ahead and tied the knot. They are amongst the first of all of the gay couples in the Brighton area to do so, and I wish them the very best.
Nazinger, I beg your pardon, the recently elected Pope Benedict XVMCIIwhat-fucking-ever is, of course, timely in his announcements: He has recently come out and pronounced that no priest-in-waiting may enter a seminary if he has ever exhibited tendencies toward 'the intrinsic disorder' that is homosexuality, within 3 months prior to the proposed time of enrolement. In a particularly noxious twist, the Vatican has issued this 'in response' to the revelations of child sex abuse at the hands of American priests, thus reinforcing in some of the smaller minds amongst us the 'link' that exists between homosexuality and paedophilia.
Here we fucking go again. The Vatican quite simply refusing to grow up and acknowledge the diversity that exists outside of their enclave in Rome. What they don't seem to appreciate is that at ground level, quite a lot of priests are embarassed at the stream of rubbish that is flowing out of there. Some of the less rigid amongst them may find that their job is made increasingly difficult by the pronouncements of a loathsome little toad in Rome who just cannot appreciate that guys who dig other guys are simply never going to go away. Seriously, we've been around since before biblical times, and step by step, we're winning all of our battles as time goes on. Get the fuck over it. Some priests, such as this guy here, are already 'rebelling' by refusing to give assurance that they won't engage in same-sex relations with - oh, this takes my breath away - the man they are marrying. You couldn't make up such a ridiculous scenario.
More and more, the Vatican are digging their own graves with these edicts, and widening what is already a substantial divide between them and the commmon church-goer. With public coverage and acceptance being given to the gay community more and more, we are now more visible than ever, and it has now got to the point where almost every straight person in Western Society knows or is related to someone who warms to the idea of warming up someone of their own gender, and this is where the cardinals are shooting themselves in the foot. They are forcing people to take sides, and if you were presented with the choice between a friend or relative in real life, and some abstract figure who is claimed to be represented by someone such as Ratzinger, well, I know which option I would choose. Only the most simple-minded amongst the Right need to be given instruction on how to live their life in this way.
Incidentally, it's good to see that people like Debbie Gaston aren't allowing organised religion to get in the way of their religious beliefs.
As an aside, if there is such a higher power, why are some people so readily accepting of the theory that he would have someone like Benedict as his spokesman here on Earth? If I were The Almighty, I would have long ago handed his holiness his P45 and found someone a bit more personable. Perhaps it's down to iconography, and how people have more respect for inaccessible figureheads, but I might be overreaching...
Anyhow, the partnerships have come to pass, and some political commentators, along with some of my friends, hold that it won't be long before it happens in Ireland as well. We'll see about that, but the fact that it now exists in so many European countries is good for me at the moment.
Lastly, another absolute red rag of mine. A recent letter to the editor of the Irish Times:
Madam,
Why are commentators on homosexuality so reluctant to use the word "homosexuality"? Is it an example of the Sellafield/Windscale syndrome, whereby, to change the public perception of something, all that is required is to call it by a different name?
In his article on civil partnerships for homosexual couples (Opinion and Analysis, December 21st), Niall Crowley of the Equality Authority uses the phrase "gay, lesbian, or bisexual", or some variation on it, no less than 15 times, while eschewing the term "homosexual". He evinced a similar tendency in his article on December 6th responding to the Vatican document on homosexuality.
He gives the game away right at the end of the latest article, where he uses the term 'all forms of mutually supportive relationships - same sex or heterosexual' when it would have been easier to say 'homosexual or heterosexual'.
Lest I be accused of homophobia, while I agree with the Pope's recent pronouncements on homosexuality, I have met many homosexuals over the course of my life and have generally got on well with them. I experienced a brief homosexual phase myself, lasting about a month, when I was a teenager. Many of my favourite actors - Dirk Bogarde, Sir John Gielgud, Leonard Rossiter, Denholm Elliot inter alia - were homosexuals. One of my favourite films, Death in Venice, based on the book by Thomas Mann, is about a homoerotic attraction towards a beautiful young boy.
One of the important tenets of a democracy is freedom of speech, but I have noticed over the years that if one expresses an opinion contrary to the liberal beliefs espoused by most of those working in the media - who incidentally are not representative of the so-called "plain people of Ireland" - one is accused of being accused of being conservative or intolerant or worse. For instance, as Eamonnn Gavin (December 21st), any suggestion that the number of foreigners entering this country should be restricted is met with accusations of racism. Similarly, any expression of dissent about the propriety of homosexuality is met with accusations of homophobia.
Tendentious articles such as Niall Crowley's latest two contributions are extremely annoying because they are clearly written from a politically correct perspective, the chief characteristic of which is an inability or unwillingness to speak plainly.
Yours, etc.
Discounting this clown's issues with terminology and the all-too-typical attempt to justify himself in paragraph four - I'll get to them later - one concept that needs investigation in this context is that of political correctness.
Political correctness was, like many social phenomena described in detail in the media, something that never really took off. It's central premise, the neuturing of modern speech, especially was something that existed only in the minds of a select few. Terminology such as 'intellectually challenged', 'horizontally advantaged', and 'vertically challenged' most likely had a half-life of about 5 seconds, yet were touted by those in the public eye for quite some time after everyone else had sensibly begun to ignore them. In short, if it ever did exist, it really does not anymore, at least not in the form in which it was originally conceived.
Here is something else. Thanks to variety of social factors, racism, and to a lesser extent, homophobia, stopped becoming acceptable in everyday life some years back. I'm not a social commentator, I can't draw a line in the sand and say exactly where this happened, but it is now not considered good social grace to disparage someone on either of these grounds and offend anyone in mixed company, and society in general is all the better for it.
Somewhere along the line being gay, or at the very least being polysexual, became kind of hip. One reason may have been that it was a way of dissociating oneself from, or offending, the old guard, in whatever form that might have been. Another reason was that it still has a aspect of sexual experimentation to it, along with the attendant party scene, that has since been relegated to the margins in mainstream heterosexual society.
Assimilation eventually came about, and now we have come to today's situation. Racism and homophobia, seen as the preserve of the uneducated redneck who never left his home town and never saw much of the world, is now quite unfashionable. But it's still there, buried in the subconcious of people who, under different circumstances, would never have been that pushed about erasing it from within themselves before.
So now, when people want to give life to the small-minded little shit inside them without looking like the under-developed prat that they are, they need a scapegoat, and boy is the PC concept fast becoming the punchbag of modern times. They give voice to their opinions, but when those are met with protest, they say such sensitivities are borne out of a stifling form of political correctness, the implication being that most people think like them at some level and thus they are absolved. Another annoying term of excuse, with connotations of plain-speaking, is 'irreverance'.
Horseshit. Ignorance is ignorance, and while homophobia is a strong word to use in these circumstances, their comments point to the fact that they are still little boys at heart, who haven't really experienced enough of the world. It's a result of people trying to excuse themselves because they have had a certain sensibility foisted upon them that they are not ready for, at least not yet.
I've always thought that Liberal bashing is done by those who have just a little too much time on their hands, or need to get out more, but now I think of it as a odious form of self-absorption. If these people themselves found that their own rights were being infringed, their whinging would be coming out of every available news outlet, but because it's someone else, they feel free to take potshots. It's the spoiled little kid within each of them being given a voice.
There is no PC brigade. If a slur from a person in the vein mentioned above induces a negative reaction in someone else, that's because the person is being an ignoramus, not a 'plain speaker'. End of story.
This brings me to his support of the Pope. You cannot support someone who condemns gays outright, and yet suddenly immediately afterwards start bleating that you 'don't have a problem with gays'. It just doesn't wash. At all. Not with a figure like that.
Which leads me to the other two points. First, his justificaton in paragraph four. It reminds me of something...
Sometime back, I saw an episode of The Office on TV, which had Gareth, anticharismatic par excellence, talking about gays in the army. He was against it, on the grounds that they might be sexually distracted by the other men in uniform on the battlefield, but then quickly defended himself against accusations of homophobia by pointing out that he had loads of gay musicians in his record collection, such as George Michael and Freddie Mercury ("And", he points out, "They're all bummers"). It was a genius sketch, mainly because most of us, least of all me, know someone this retarded in real life. The parallels between this sketch and the guy above, is that as lines of reasoning go, it's MORONIC!
Last, the use of the term 'homosexual'. It is true that the article referred to in the letter above goes to some lengths to avoid using the term, but in order to help the reader understand why, a quick history lesson.
Once upon a time, not so long ago at all, the medical establishment regarded homosexuality as a disorder, and as such it merited listing in the bible of psychiatry, the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual). The term they used to describe it at that time? Yep, you guesssed it. That was where the definition first surfaced. The term 'heterosexual' enjoys nowhere near the same kind of dubious history. Even now I'm still not a fan of the homo term, it just sounds too clinical, as if the person in question is some kind of curiosity, and I've noticed at a superficial level, that it can indicate in the user a certain aversion to aspects of our lifestyle. But maybe I'm being too 'PC', and 'not representative of the plain-speaking people of Ireland'. Oh, and if you find gay men getting defensive when you disparage aspects of their community, it's probably because they have a sense of history and are sick of fighting their corner all the time. Conflict can do that to you sometimes.
So on that note, plain speakers, don't diss gays. Apart from anything else it's not cool, and it'll make you look like a twat and you won't get laid. And you've already got quite a lot of catching up to do in that department before you get to where we are.
Hah!
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
King Kong Kickass!
Slight spoiler ahead...
After hauling myself out of bed this morning at the ungodly hour- well, ungodly by Christmas holiday standards - of twenty-past eight, I got a lift to Cork with my mother and hit the shops looking for my father's Christmas present. He (my father) has given up the subtle art of dropping hints like clangers about what he wants for Christmas, and this year has simply told us directly that he wants a rather obscure yet popular traditional Irish music CD this year. God forbid that it would be easy to find, and after searching specialist shops, Golden Discs, HMV, and Virgin records, I was still empty handed. I ended up getting one of the shops to order it in, and fingers crossed I'll have it on Thursday. Other than that, that's my Christmas shopping taken care of. Our family, thank God in heaven, have opted for a Christmas Kindle setup this year, and that suits my moth-infested wallet down to the ground.
Anyway, at about 11 O'Clock I got on a bus out to Mahon Point shopping centre. Two things about Mahon point: It has one of the best shopping centres for miles around in Cork, along with one of the best cinemas as well. The other thing is that it is in ...erm...Mahon.
I have yet to come across an area anywhere in Ireland that is as drab, grey, and utterly uninspiring as this place. Housing estates as far as the eye can see, that are serviced by a bus route that is really rather shit. Hell is not other people, it is not war, it is not Bray (thank you, Linus), it is Mahon. Add to this the thought that in my attempt to escape the rabble that infest the cinemas of the city centre, I may have jumped out of the Wok and into the furnace. Oh well...
So into the shopping centre I went, found that King Kong was about to start, nabbed an early bird ticket for only EUR2.50 (the munchies were 13 fucking euro, but that's something else) and settled down to enjoy.
You don't have to know your directors to know that this has come from the maker of the Lord of the Rings. The visuals are as striking as they come (as someone who doesn't handle heights very well, I squirmed at the shots of Kong on top of the building being attacked by aircraft, and the scenes with the overgrown insects were...*shudder*) but there is still a decent heart at the centre of the film, and there aren't many in the kind of directorial company kept by Jackson that can effectively combine the two. The sets of New York in the 1930s were spot on - at least to me - and the characters all gelled well together. Naomi Watts can scream with the best of them, and Adrien Brody, whom I last saw in The Jacket, is fast becoming one of my favourite 'character' actors ("That performance was effluent"). Jack Black's film director, well, headed for caricature, but there you go.
I also liked the 'Heart of Darkness' thread running through the background, and have a look at the chase scenes with the dinosaurs and reflect on how another director has been outclassed by Jackson. You know who I mean.
Anyway, it was sad at the end. The outcome was not what you would hope for, but one that you knew was coming. Not like Godzilla, for example, where you wanted the thing dead, nay, anyone involved in the making of the film dead, by the time the end had rolled around.
So there you have it. Denis heartily recommends. Go see. The only downside was that the shitness of the transport service was highlighted when I had to wait 40 minutes afterwards to get a bus back into the city.
But the best thing? The sum total of the viewing population during this film: Four. Me, and three elderly noiseless pensioners. Just the way I like it.
After hauling myself out of bed this morning at the ungodly hour- well, ungodly by Christmas holiday standards - of twenty-past eight, I got a lift to Cork with my mother and hit the shops looking for my father's Christmas present. He (my father) has given up the subtle art of dropping hints like clangers about what he wants for Christmas, and this year has simply told us directly that he wants a rather obscure yet popular traditional Irish music CD this year. God forbid that it would be easy to find, and after searching specialist shops, Golden Discs, HMV, and Virgin records, I was still empty handed. I ended up getting one of the shops to order it in, and fingers crossed I'll have it on Thursday. Other than that, that's my Christmas shopping taken care of. Our family, thank God in heaven, have opted for a Christmas Kindle setup this year, and that suits my moth-infested wallet down to the ground.
Anyway, at about 11 O'Clock I got on a bus out to Mahon Point shopping centre. Two things about Mahon point: It has one of the best shopping centres for miles around in Cork, along with one of the best cinemas as well. The other thing is that it is in ...erm...Mahon.
I have yet to come across an area anywhere in Ireland that is as drab, grey, and utterly uninspiring as this place. Housing estates as far as the eye can see, that are serviced by a bus route that is really rather shit. Hell is not other people, it is not war, it is not Bray (thank you, Linus), it is Mahon. Add to this the thought that in my attempt to escape the rabble that infest the cinemas of the city centre, I may have jumped out of the Wok and into the furnace. Oh well...
So into the shopping centre I went, found that King Kong was about to start, nabbed an early bird ticket for only EUR2.50 (the munchies were 13 fucking euro, but that's something else) and settled down to enjoy.
You don't have to know your directors to know that this has come from the maker of the Lord of the Rings. The visuals are as striking as they come (as someone who doesn't handle heights very well, I squirmed at the shots of Kong on top of the building being attacked by aircraft, and the scenes with the overgrown insects were...*shudder*) but there is still a decent heart at the centre of the film, and there aren't many in the kind of directorial company kept by Jackson that can effectively combine the two. The sets of New York in the 1930s were spot on - at least to me - and the characters all gelled well together. Naomi Watts can scream with the best of them, and Adrien Brody, whom I last saw in The Jacket, is fast becoming one of my favourite 'character' actors ("That performance was effluent"). Jack Black's film director, well, headed for caricature, but there you go.
I also liked the 'Heart of Darkness' thread running through the background, and have a look at the chase scenes with the dinosaurs and reflect on how another director has been outclassed by Jackson. You know who I mean.
Anyway, it was sad at the end. The outcome was not what you would hope for, but one that you knew was coming. Not like Godzilla, for example, where you wanted the thing dead, nay, anyone involved in the making of the film dead, by the time the end had rolled around.
So there you have it. Denis heartily recommends. Go see. The only downside was that the shitness of the transport service was highlighted when I had to wait 40 minutes afterwards to get a bus back into the city.
But the best thing? The sum total of the viewing population during this film: Four. Me, and three elderly noiseless pensioners. Just the way I like it.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Back in Mallow...
Well, I'm home since Saturday evening, though it was a pure miracle I got here at all. The last few days in brief:
Friday: Go out for a meal, in a vain attempt to be sensible and avoid getting trashed. After meal, break off from group and go meet up with Phil and head for the Star Inn.
Can anyone see in advance how this night will end up? If you said 'ending up at Phil's boozing until the early hours', you'd be right. Talk about sabotaging myself.
The Star Inn was fun, though the owner was a bit stand-offish this time, toward the end. I don't care. I'll get around to him eventually. After that, The Bulldog. The novelty of going to this place still hasn't worn off: There's always someone new to chat up.
So why did I lock mouths with someone I had been with before, who's not really my type? Aaarrrggghhh!
Anyway it was fun, and when I fell into bed at 4am I had no idea of the day that lay ahead of me.
Saturday: Wake up with a horrible hangover (Taste of Phil's gin martinis still at the back of my throat. Never drinking them again!) and in an amazing feat of mind over matter, get my nausea-wracked ass out of bed to pack for the flight home. It is in the back of my head that the flight is at 7:10pm so I aim to be at the airport an hour beforehand.
I make it to the train station at 5:27pm. I see from the TV display that the train to Gatwick airport, which I must catch if I'm to get there in time, is at 5:34. I queue, with mounting hysteria, for my train ticket, and manage to board the train at 5:33 and 30 seconds. I settle and relax, thinking to myself how lucky I am, and that even though I haven't checked my flight details for quite a while, that I was right, that the flight is at 7:10pm.
Isn't it?
I get there at 6pm and lug my bags over to the screens that tell you the flight details. The entry of interest makes my blood run cold:
1810 - Cork - EZY878 - Check-in closed
For reasons that will forever remain unknown, mostly to myself, I had got the departure time wrong by one hour. One hour in the wrong direction. Why do I put myself through these ordeals? Why?
Depressed, and still hungover, I went over to the check-in desk. I mention that it is probably too late to check in, and the girl there confirms this. She mentions that I should go over to their Sales desk, so I do, with leaden heart. I speak to the guy there, he gets on the phone, and manages to get me on the flight list! It turns out that the flight has been delayed by one hour, so boarding is still a possibility. After checking in my bags, I head to the departure gate. Everyone else is seriously disgruntled at the delay, I am thanking the Lord above.
I get home, check my bank balance online, and as a consequence realise that most of time at home will revolve around studying, and nothing else. Oh well, at least I took care of all the essentials first this time, but there'll be no trip to Dublin this Christmas, or anywhere else for that matter. At least New Year's Eve will be in Dingle this year, which should be cool.
Yesterday and today, I vegged.
Other than that, buckets of college coursework await. Onward ho!
Saturday, December 10, 2005
After 12 years of waiting...
...I got the new Kate Bush album 'Aerial'.
I am not yet ready to pass comment on this milestone.
I am not yet ready to pass comment on this milestone.
Aaarrrgghh! Again.
For some reason, the college network has disabled cookies at the server end, which means I can't change the settings back to what they were when I log in. The consequences? I can't log into blogger - the reason for lack of posts lately - and I can't order anything on my visa card as an online 'shopping cart' needs cookies enabled to be able to work properly.
In other news, I got entangled with the owner of the Star Inn in Brighon last night, although I ended up bringing someone else home at the end of the night. This latter guy had an interest in a third party as well, but that person wasn't too keen on our lack of specificity in the sex department (I don't really like categorisation) and opted not to come home with us as a result, so I had to make do with a standard me-and-one-other scenario. Oh well, I shouldn't complain.
Loads of work to do. No more men this side of Christmas. No alcohol either.
(Resolution lifespan: 1 hour)
In other news, I got entangled with the owner of the Star Inn in Brighon last night, although I ended up bringing someone else home at the end of the night. This latter guy had an interest in a third party as well, but that person wasn't too keen on our lack of specificity in the sex department (I don't really like categorisation) and opted not to come home with us as a result, so I had to make do with a standard me-and-one-other scenario. Oh well, I shouldn't complain.
Loads of work to do. No more men this side of Christmas. No alcohol either.
(Resolution lifespan: 1 hour)
Monday, November 28, 2005
An awkward moment is...
...when your mother hands you some plastic bag-wrapped toiletries she found in your room, and upon closer inspection, you see that it is two tubes of KY Jelly.
I only had one in that drawer at home though, the other one must belong to my sister. Too much information? Oh well...
The weekend with my parents over went pretty well, discounting the horrible hangover I had halfway through, and the uncomfortable bed I had made for myself with the sofa cushions laid out on the floor (My parents got my bed). I only got about 3 hours sleep last night. I only got about 2 the night before, but I didn't notice the lack of comfort so much that time as I was wasted. Thankfully the Sunday hangover didn't linger long enough to get in the way of having a Sunday roast at Dan's mother's place, which was very nice, though I had to fight to stay awake afterwards. Everyone else seemed to want to fight for me to stay awake then too. The abuse!
Now that I have some money coming to me, a sex trip to London is in order I feel. Outside of that, I am paying for all essentials for the coming months first, before I start spending money on other stuff. I have learned my lesson! A quiet christmas is for the best this year, I think. 3 more weeks (including this one) left in college.
More classes this afternoon. Unnhhh!
I only had one in that drawer at home though, the other one must belong to my sister. Too much information? Oh well...
The weekend with my parents over went pretty well, discounting the horrible hangover I had halfway through, and the uncomfortable bed I had made for myself with the sofa cushions laid out on the floor (My parents got my bed). I only got about 3 hours sleep last night. I only got about 2 the night before, but I didn't notice the lack of comfort so much that time as I was wasted. Thankfully the Sunday hangover didn't linger long enough to get in the way of having a Sunday roast at Dan's mother's place, which was very nice, though I had to fight to stay awake afterwards. Everyone else seemed to want to fight for me to stay awake then too. The abuse!
Now that I have some money coming to me, a sex trip to London is in order I feel. Outside of that, I am paying for all essentials for the coming months first, before I start spending money on other stuff. I have learned my lesson! A quiet christmas is for the best this year, I think. 3 more weeks (including this one) left in college.
More classes this afternoon. Unnhhh!
Friday, November 25, 2005
Thank God. THANK GOD!
My bank manager in Ireland has agreed to loan me another £1000! Oh joy and rapture! The perfect end to another hellish week of labs. Now I can have a life again, and pay the rent so I don't end up sleeping on the side of the road.
I'm pretty much done with microbe analysis now, thank fuck, but I have some computer thing on genetic engineering to do next week, and all of that is still Hebrew to me.
I say Hebrew instead of Greek, as having brushed with the former over the summer while testing Blackberry phones, Greek is positively a joy to behold compared to Hebrew. A new phrase of my invention shall be absorbed into the English language!
"Nah, mate. I don't get it. It's all Hebrew to me..."
Hmmm.
Parents tomorrow. Flat still looks like shit. Get on it Denis!
I'm pretty much done with microbe analysis now, thank fuck, but I have some computer thing on genetic engineering to do next week, and all of that is still Hebrew to me.
I say Hebrew instead of Greek, as having brushed with the former over the summer while testing Blackberry phones, Greek is positively a joy to behold compared to Hebrew. A new phrase of my invention shall be absorbed into the English language!
"Nah, mate. I don't get it. It's all Hebrew to me..."
Hmmm.
Parents tomorrow. Flat still looks like shit. Get on it Denis!
Monday, November 21, 2005
Aaaarrrrrggghhhh!!!
If I have to read about microbes of pharmaceutical importance such as Staphylococcus Aureus, Pseudomonas Aeruginosa, Escheria Coli and Salmonella one more time, I WILL KILL!
Aaarrrrrggghhhh!
Aaarrrrrggghhhh!
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Trying new things...
After a hellish week of labs, independent reading, and more labs, I managed to round it off in a rather novel way.
Last night I called out to Arundel, a town about 30 miles outside Brighton, and met up with two chaps, both of whom were engaged to one another, both of whom, funnily enough, were called Craig. On top of that, they both had goatees.
One other thing they had in common last night was me.
It was rather a fun threesome, though I was a bit subdued this morning as I made my way to the train station to go back to Brighton. Maybe it's the workload I have to get through for the exams after Christmas. Maybe it's that I'm sick of poverty. Maybe drinking that bottle of red wine wasn't a good idea. Maybe...
Oh BLEH! I think I'm fit only for a day in front of the TV today, but I must at least try and do some study. That, and make a start on tidying up the flat. My parents are coming around next weekend.
Dum dee dum...
Last night I called out to Arundel, a town about 30 miles outside Brighton, and met up with two chaps, both of whom were engaged to one another, both of whom, funnily enough, were called Craig. On top of that, they both had goatees.
One other thing they had in common last night was me.
It was rather a fun threesome, though I was a bit subdued this morning as I made my way to the train station to go back to Brighton. Maybe it's the workload I have to get through for the exams after Christmas. Maybe it's that I'm sick of poverty. Maybe drinking that bottle of red wine wasn't a good idea. Maybe...
Oh BLEH! I think I'm fit only for a day in front of the TV today, but I must at least try and do some study. That, and make a start on tidying up the flat. My parents are coming around next weekend.
Dum dee dum...
Friday, November 11, 2005
I'm a bit late with this, but...
Editor free after Kemp 'assault'
Sometime last week, Rebekah Wade, poisonous editor of arguably the most poisonous and shittest newspaper in the whole world, The Sun, was held for assaulting her husband, Ross Kemp, but was later released without charge.
It would perhaps be rather politically incorrect of me to say that he should have returned the favour by clattering her up and down the street. Just a little.
Sod it. He should have stabbed her in the head. The world would be a much better place without her.
I have always found Rebekah Wade a curious proposition. She's educated enough to carve out a career that would have more cerebral connotations (apparently she's studied in the Sorbonne), and by all accounts she has some ability in the socialite/networking arena. It would not be unreasonable, then, to expect to see her establish herself in the broadsheet sector, seeing as she wanted to be a journalist since she was 14. Her ambition is, to understate it somewhat, substantial.
Unfortunately it is not ambition of the intellectual bent, and this is where the rot sets in all over the place. I have yet to see an intelligent newspaper that outsells shit like the red tops, and it's a deeply depressing indictment of the critical faculties of the general public. The Sun has always been the worst of this lot though, and when I read some time back that Wade was coming back on board as its editor, the gist of the Irish Times article was that no-one really expected her to effect many changes. Satan's emissary himself, Rupert Murdoch, likes the page 3 girls apparently, and her argument that this little feature alienates a potentially lucrative audience - women - fell on deaf ears.
An argument based on economic considerations rather than female solidarity. See what I mean?
Anyway, around the time she was made editor my curiosity was piqued, and I decided some monitoring of the integrity of the paper was in order. I shouldn't have bothered. It's hard to know who is more contemptible, the careerist c*#%s who form most of the papers staff, or the readership on the ground. I would argue that enforced sterilisation of the latter would be a service to the human race in general, but I'd wager that the journalists who write their rubbish have as much contempt for their readers as anyone, seeing as securing an internship at one of the red-tops is apparently a very competitive business.
I'm not berating the Sun for its base level, it's the fact that it's so damn obvious about its leanings it might as well come with a siren attached, and STILL it shifts serious units all over the UK. For shame. For shame.
I'm not sure which aspects of Wade's reporting have irked me the most. The consequences of the Name and Shame campaign, overseen by her while she worked at the News of the World, were as much the fault of the TOTAL FUCKING MORONS participating in the riots that followed as anyone, and all tabloids go batshit fucking mental when it comes to paedophilia, so I would have to say that it was the Sun's coverage of the 'War on Terror' (oh, how I cringe to even use the phrase) that literally had me gaping in disbelief.
I remember the editorial of the paper in this regard in the run-up to the US devastation occupation of Iraq. Tony Blair was Bush's obvious ally while most EU countries were still humming and hawing about whether to get involved or not. The Sun, subtle as always in its approach, 'rated' each country out of ten according to how willing they were to commit to Bush's cause - I vaguely remember France enjoying a position near the bottom of the league table) - and I stood there wondering how on earth a newspaper could get away with being so obviously biased. It was like the Belgrano 'Gotcha' headline in its blatantness. The reason that the Sun pulls it off, of course, is that its readers are incapable of higher intellectual thought processes and its well the husband beater knows it. What gets me is the influence this paper has (why? why? why?) and how she wields it.
I must say, though, I derived a smug sense of satisfaction when I saw its bleating yesterday, after the terror bill was defeated.
Incidentally, a story about paedophilia I linked to a while ago was made all the worse for the two innocent nursery workers wrongly accused of this crime, by what was nothing more than a call for a witch hunt issued by the Sun in 1999. Guess who was deputy editor of the newspaper at that time? You have three, and the first two don't count. It makes you wonder how many lives the evil vengeful witch has ruined altogether.
So there you have it. Rebekah Wade knows that there are a great many thick turnips out there, and boy is she more than happy to capitalise on it by playing to them. More than anything else though, she draws attention to the fact that ambition doesn't necessarily mean being good at your job, it just means manoeuvring yourself into a position of influence and making buckets of money. There you have it folks, the former no longer can be equated with the latter in journalism, it seems. When the history books are rewritten about the 'War on Terror' in Iraq, she will most likely be remembered as the voice of evil in all the madness. Her assassination is all that can save us now.
In a similar vein, I saw Piers Morgan, ex-editor of the Mirror, present a show on TV during the week entitled 'Most Pointless Celebrities'. How rich was that?
Note: The above piece should be accepted in the vein of humour in which it was (just about) intended.
Sometime last week, Rebekah Wade, poisonous editor of arguably the most poisonous and shittest newspaper in the whole world, The Sun, was held for assaulting her husband, Ross Kemp, but was later released without charge.
It would perhaps be rather politically incorrect of me to say that he should have returned the favour by clattering her up and down the street. Just a little.
Sod it. He should have stabbed her in the head. The world would be a much better place without her.
I have always found Rebekah Wade a curious proposition. She's educated enough to carve out a career that would have more cerebral connotations (apparently she's studied in the Sorbonne), and by all accounts she has some ability in the socialite/networking arena. It would not be unreasonable, then, to expect to see her establish herself in the broadsheet sector, seeing as she wanted to be a journalist since she was 14. Her ambition is, to understate it somewhat, substantial.
Unfortunately it is not ambition of the intellectual bent, and this is where the rot sets in all over the place. I have yet to see an intelligent newspaper that outsells shit like the red tops, and it's a deeply depressing indictment of the critical faculties of the general public. The Sun has always been the worst of this lot though, and when I read some time back that Wade was coming back on board as its editor, the gist of the Irish Times article was that no-one really expected her to effect many changes. Satan's emissary himself, Rupert Murdoch, likes the page 3 girls apparently, and her argument that this little feature alienates a potentially lucrative audience - women - fell on deaf ears.
An argument based on economic considerations rather than female solidarity. See what I mean?
Anyway, around the time she was made editor my curiosity was piqued, and I decided some monitoring of the integrity of the paper was in order. I shouldn't have bothered. It's hard to know who is more contemptible, the careerist c*#%s who form most of the papers staff, or the readership on the ground. I would argue that enforced sterilisation of the latter would be a service to the human race in general, but I'd wager that the journalists who write their rubbish have as much contempt for their readers as anyone, seeing as securing an internship at one of the red-tops is apparently a very competitive business.
I'm not berating the Sun for its base level, it's the fact that it's so damn obvious about its leanings it might as well come with a siren attached, and STILL it shifts serious units all over the UK. For shame. For shame.
I'm not sure which aspects of Wade's reporting have irked me the most. The consequences of the Name and Shame campaign, overseen by her while she worked at the News of the World, were as much the fault of the TOTAL FUCKING MORONS participating in the riots that followed as anyone, and all tabloids go batshit fucking mental when it comes to paedophilia, so I would have to say that it was the Sun's coverage of the 'War on Terror' (oh, how I cringe to even use the phrase) that literally had me gaping in disbelief.
I remember the editorial of the paper in this regard in the run-up to the US devastation occupation of Iraq. Tony Blair was Bush's obvious ally while most EU countries were still humming and hawing about whether to get involved or not. The Sun, subtle as always in its approach, 'rated' each country out of ten according to how willing they were to commit to Bush's cause - I vaguely remember France enjoying a position near the bottom of the league table) - and I stood there wondering how on earth a newspaper could get away with being so obviously biased. It was like the Belgrano 'Gotcha' headline in its blatantness. The reason that the Sun pulls it off, of course, is that its readers are incapable of higher intellectual thought processes and its well the husband beater knows it. What gets me is the influence this paper has (why? why? why?) and how she wields it.
I must say, though, I derived a smug sense of satisfaction when I saw its bleating yesterday, after the terror bill was defeated.
Incidentally, a story about paedophilia I linked to a while ago was made all the worse for the two innocent nursery workers wrongly accused of this crime, by what was nothing more than a call for a witch hunt issued by the Sun in 1999. Guess who was deputy editor of the newspaper at that time? You have three, and the first two don't count. It makes you wonder how many lives the evil vengeful witch has ruined altogether.
So there you have it. Rebekah Wade knows that there are a great many thick turnips out there, and boy is she more than happy to capitalise on it by playing to them. More than anything else though, she draws attention to the fact that ambition doesn't necessarily mean being good at your job, it just means manoeuvring yourself into a position of influence and making buckets of money. There you have it folks, the former no longer can be equated with the latter in journalism, it seems. When the history books are rewritten about the 'War on Terror' in Iraq, she will most likely be remembered as the voice of evil in all the madness. Her assassination is all that can save us now.
In a similar vein, I saw Piers Morgan, ex-editor of the Mirror, present a show on TV during the week entitled 'Most Pointless Celebrities'. How rich was that?
Note: The above piece should be accepted in the vein of humour in which it was (just about) intended.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
A song
Now (and then) - Billy Corgan
Nice and atmospheric, this one. It's taken from his most recent release, The Future Embrace. Overall the Corgan has veered off in a more electronic synthy direction compared to the psychedelic rock-outs of his earlier stuff. It's not a million miles away from Ava Adore, by way of comparison. There's also a rather out-there cover of the Bee Gees 'To Love Somebody', a duet with Robert Smith, though the hairy one can hardly be heard at all.
He's not firing on all the cylinders that he used to when he was in the Smashing Pumpkins, and this album will take a bit of getting used to, but he still has flashes of the genius that, in my opinion, made him better than Kurt at the height of the early 90's alternative explosion. He also did a unique line in a curious sort of frontman anti-charisma, which was refreshingly different and served to scare off the casual everyman (I don't like sharing my bands with just anybody, you know).
I always thought the Pumpkins were at their best when they were doing slightly off-kilter alt. rock rather than writing rock anthems. Gish was uniformly great and possessed of Billy's greatest flash of all, Rhinoceros, and Siamese Dream kicked ass, but Pisces Iscariot...Wow. I remember hearing that when getting a lift to Limerick to visit my brother, and hearing it, I was in a trance for the whole journey. Soothe, Obscured, Blue, La Dolly Vita, Starla, just about everything on that was indie eccentricity brilliantly married with RAWK (man). Sometimes I think they should swap around their A-sides and their B-sides. And of course the Pumpkins had drummer Jimmy Chamberlin, who James Iha once referred to as the most gifted of all of them.
It got a little bombastic for them with Mellon Collie, what with drug overdoses and everything, but songs like Porcelina.. and Thru the Eyes of Ruby still showed that when they pushed out the boat, they were one of the most killer bands on the planet. Then came Ava Adore, cool once you had gotten used to it, with another classy highlight in the form of For Martha. Then came Machina.., which had some low points but still a very very high one in the form of Glass and the Ghost Children. And then came the split.
Then came Zwan, a project that still threw up some good songs in spite of what some Pumpkins fans will tell you, but they split acrimoniously as well. Bad feeling and fortune seems to follow Billy like a bad smell sometimes.
Now there is this offering, which has its moments, but I suspect it won't really do it for the indie kids, if they still exist. They seem to be a dying breed now. It just isn't the same as it was in my day anymore!
It's official. I have turned into my father.
Anyway, on billycorgan.com the shaven headed one has already announced that he wants his own band back. God only knows if they'll all ever be able to sit in the same room again, let alone play together, but if it results in a return to their heyday, I'm all for it.
In other news, the lab I was supposed to have today was replaced with a placement in a Pharmacy for three hours. All of the stuff I had to do under supervision was done and stamped in my logbook, so even though I'll have other visits to other clinics, I can now relax safe in the knowledge that the requirements for this aspect of the course have already been dealt with for the whole year. Woo hoo!
Nice and atmospheric, this one. It's taken from his most recent release, The Future Embrace. Overall the Corgan has veered off in a more electronic synthy direction compared to the psychedelic rock-outs of his earlier stuff. It's not a million miles away from Ava Adore, by way of comparison. There's also a rather out-there cover of the Bee Gees 'To Love Somebody', a duet with Robert Smith, though the hairy one can hardly be heard at all.
He's not firing on all the cylinders that he used to when he was in the Smashing Pumpkins, and this album will take a bit of getting used to, but he still has flashes of the genius that, in my opinion, made him better than Kurt at the height of the early 90's alternative explosion. He also did a unique line in a curious sort of frontman anti-charisma, which was refreshingly different and served to scare off the casual everyman (I don't like sharing my bands with just anybody, you know).
I always thought the Pumpkins were at their best when they were doing slightly off-kilter alt. rock rather than writing rock anthems. Gish was uniformly great and possessed of Billy's greatest flash of all, Rhinoceros, and Siamese Dream kicked ass, but Pisces Iscariot...Wow. I remember hearing that when getting a lift to Limerick to visit my brother, and hearing it, I was in a trance for the whole journey. Soothe, Obscured, Blue, La Dolly Vita, Starla, just about everything on that was indie eccentricity brilliantly married with RAWK (man). Sometimes I think they should swap around their A-sides and their B-sides. And of course the Pumpkins had drummer Jimmy Chamberlin, who James Iha once referred to as the most gifted of all of them.
It got a little bombastic for them with Mellon Collie, what with drug overdoses and everything, but songs like Porcelina.. and Thru the Eyes of Ruby still showed that when they pushed out the boat, they were one of the most killer bands on the planet. Then came Ava Adore, cool once you had gotten used to it, with another classy highlight in the form of For Martha. Then came Machina.., which had some low points but still a very very high one in the form of Glass and the Ghost Children. And then came the split.
Then came Zwan, a project that still threw up some good songs in spite of what some Pumpkins fans will tell you, but they split acrimoniously as well. Bad feeling and fortune seems to follow Billy like a bad smell sometimes.
Now there is this offering, which has its moments, but I suspect it won't really do it for the indie kids, if they still exist. They seem to be a dying breed now. It just isn't the same as it was in my day anymore!
It's official. I have turned into my father.
Anyway, on billycorgan.com the shaven headed one has already announced that he wants his own band back. God only knows if they'll all ever be able to sit in the same room again, let alone play together, but if it results in a return to their heyday, I'm all for it.
▪
In other news, the lab I was supposed to have today was replaced with a placement in a Pharmacy for three hours. All of the stuff I had to do under supervision was done and stamped in my logbook, so even though I'll have other visits to other clinics, I can now relax safe in the knowledge that the requirements for this aspect of the course have already been dealt with for the whole year. Woo hoo!
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
The weekend
..fair kicked ass. I visited London for the birthday party of Sarah. We ended up in the city centre at a club called uptight, which was like revisiting my early 20's with all the college rock they played. 2am saw Sarah, her flatmate James and I singing along to Donna Summer at the top of our voices. Getting home that night was character building, to say the least. Getting a taxi after clubs close in central London is harder to pull off than in Dublin, so we managed to squeeze onto a night bus along with what seemed like the rest of the population of suburban London for a rowdy journey home. And of course the train back to Brighton the next day was a delight.
I have also lately discovered a new love: Bloody Marys. Learn how to make them here!
Nothing much else. The college course has gone into overdrive. This week, I have a microbiology lab and a medicine design lab, the latter of which is in the same vein as the labs I did last year. Oh, I can't wait. Roll on the weekend.
I have also lately discovered a new love: Bloody Marys. Learn how to make them here!
Nothing much else. The college course has gone into overdrive. This week, I have a microbiology lab and a medicine design lab, the latter of which is in the same vein as the labs I did last year. Oh, I can't wait. Roll on the weekend.
Monday, October 24, 2005
More Michael Moore
New Michael Moore project gives drug companies a sick feeling.
I heard about this at a party on Friday night, and I must say I saw it coming a mile off. I'll be interested to see how he handles this, though the comment by Rachel Bloom about portrayals that aren't fair or balanced rings true to some extent. We all know that pharmaceutical companies have been guilty of some fairly substantial misdeeds, but a documentary that merely highlights these wrongs isn't going to cut it. Insight needs to be given into why these companies have never directly held up their hands and admitted their faults and mistakes.
While in this vein, I have applied for placements with two community pharmacy chains for next summer, Lloyds and Boots. I can posture in due course about how I'm above their philosophy, but for the moment I need experience and the guarantee of summer work. Hopefully these places won't stick me out in the middle of nowhere when the time comes around.
While I'm on the subject, the paycheque I got from my summer work has taken the heat off for the time being, but I can't afford to be complacent. In short? I need to start jobhunting again. YUK!
I heard about this at a party on Friday night, and I must say I saw it coming a mile off. I'll be interested to see how he handles this, though the comment by Rachel Bloom about portrayals that aren't fair or balanced rings true to some extent. We all know that pharmaceutical companies have been guilty of some fairly substantial misdeeds, but a documentary that merely highlights these wrongs isn't going to cut it. Insight needs to be given into why these companies have never directly held up their hands and admitted their faults and mistakes.
While in this vein, I have applied for placements with two community pharmacy chains for next summer, Lloyds and Boots. I can posture in due course about how I'm above their philosophy, but for the moment I need experience and the guarantee of summer work. Hopefully these places won't stick me out in the middle of nowhere when the time comes around.
While I'm on the subject, the paycheque I got from my summer work has taken the heat off for the time being, but I can't afford to be complacent. In short? I need to start jobhunting again. YUK!
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
The last few days in brief
Last Friday I had a test (they don't waste time getting back into it around here), and I think it went OK.
That night, I met up with Phil and as is always the case when I meet him, there was debauchery. I heard that Schwartz, the bar I went to before, is closing down for renovations for quite some time. There were many encounters there this time, surprise surprise, though some of them were a bit clumsy thanks to my drunkeness. I ended up back at some guy's place for a while for some fun anyway, before heading home at about 4am.
Saturday saw me meet up with Danny for an all-day drinking session.
Sunday saw me go over to Danny and his girlfriend June's place for a nice roast dinner. I went straight there after doing my shopping at Asda, so I had to lug that home after the dinner, only to discover that the eggs I had bought had broken and flowed very nicely all over everything else. This is the second time this has happened. Reminder to self: Pack eggs separately from now on.
Yesterday saw me meet up with Phil again for drinks, food from an all-you-can-eat Chinese menu, and the cinema. A link was posted up recently by another blogger I know, pointing to a location where you can see the first nine minutes of 'Serenity' for free (as luck would have it, the opportunity has now passed). Once I had seen that, I was sucked in. It strikes me as a good idea for getting people to go and see a film, reel them in, and then watch them queue up to see it. In any case it was good, and I recommend.
After that, we went on a tour of Brighton's legendary cruising ground, the Bushes. I'm not sure if I'd venture down there myself though, it's very dark and secluded and there have been assaults down there before. I'll see. One rather memorable part of it was when we walked down a narrow pathway, passing a group of six people. Two of them were locked in an embrace that was, to say the least, rather passionate, and the other four were engaged in, wait for it, a foursome. I wouldn't have minded stopping to look, just out of curiosity to see how the hell one co-ordinates such an encounter from a mechanical point of view alone, but I thought better of it.
We finished up in a Mausoleum watching a jazz band at around midnight, which was a pretty cool way to round off everything.
After that we went back to Phil's for a short while to watch porn on a large plasma TV (the only way to do it, really), where a German guy with loads of tattoos had everything but the kitchen sink put up his arse. I think I need to research the long-term medical implications of this. It can't be good. That tattooed guy was hot, though.
Today I did nothing.
Not feeling renewed with energy today, so off home I go now.
That night, I met up with Phil and as is always the case when I meet him, there was debauchery. I heard that Schwartz, the bar I went to before, is closing down for renovations for quite some time. There were many encounters there this time, surprise surprise, though some of them were a bit clumsy thanks to my drunkeness. I ended up back at some guy's place for a while for some fun anyway, before heading home at about 4am.
Saturday saw me meet up with Danny for an all-day drinking session.
Sunday saw me go over to Danny and his girlfriend June's place for a nice roast dinner. I went straight there after doing my shopping at Asda, so I had to lug that home after the dinner, only to discover that the eggs I had bought had broken and flowed very nicely all over everything else. This is the second time this has happened. Reminder to self: Pack eggs separately from now on.
Yesterday saw me meet up with Phil again for drinks, food from an all-you-can-eat Chinese menu, and the cinema. A link was posted up recently by another blogger I know, pointing to a location where you can see the first nine minutes of 'Serenity' for free (as luck would have it, the opportunity has now passed). Once I had seen that, I was sucked in. It strikes me as a good idea for getting people to go and see a film, reel them in, and then watch them queue up to see it. In any case it was good, and I recommend.
After that, we went on a tour of Brighton's legendary cruising ground, the Bushes. I'm not sure if I'd venture down there myself though, it's very dark and secluded and there have been assaults down there before. I'll see. One rather memorable part of it was when we walked down a narrow pathway, passing a group of six people. Two of them were locked in an embrace that was, to say the least, rather passionate, and the other four were engaged in, wait for it, a foursome. I wouldn't have minded stopping to look, just out of curiosity to see how the hell one co-ordinates such an encounter from a mechanical point of view alone, but I thought better of it.
We finished up in a Mausoleum watching a jazz band at around midnight, which was a pretty cool way to round off everything.
After that we went back to Phil's for a short while to watch porn on a large plasma TV (the only way to do it, really), where a German guy with loads of tattoos had everything but the kitchen sink put up his arse. I think I need to research the long-term medical implications of this. It can't be good. That tattooed guy was hot, though.
Today I did nothing.
Not feeling renewed with energy today, so off home I go now.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
WTF?!
Comfortably esconsed on the couch last night, I was flicking channels and noticed that 'Lost Highway' was on at about midnight. As I didn't have any classes today, I decided to settle down and get into it.
Everything in it was trademark Lynch, lots of foreboding music and weird flashes, and it was the first time I'd seen Bill Pullman in a role as edgy as the one he had in this. Unsurprisingly, Patricia Arquette's character was nutso.
I'd heard it was a bit of a headfuck though, and just as I thought, halfway through the film everything was turned on it's head, with Pullman's character suddenly being replaced by the one of Balthazar Getty, only for the latter to revert back to the former toward the end. This revelation won't spoil it for you, in fact it'll give you foresight that most people will need when taking on this thing.
Lynch pulled a stunt like this with Mulholland Drive as well. As soon as Naomi Watt's character looked into the cube thing, everthing went pear-tarte-tatin and the viewer was left going ".....errr.....", but at least that one happened towards the end, so you had a chance to enjoy a relatively linear plot up until then.
My take on that cube incident in Mulholland Drive was that Betty Elms was offered a glimpse into the future of her relationship with Rita, but that's not one on which I would stake my life by any means. As for the metamorphosis in Lost Highway, I would really need to see it again. People may have thought that Twin Peaks, Wild at Heart, and even Eraserhead were out there, but at least they made sense.
Still a good movie though. The saxophone playing kicked ass and the other stuff by David Bowie, Trent Reznor, and Billy Corgan's nifty 'Eye' was good too. But if anyone wants to enlighten me further on it, and indeed on Mulholland Drive as well, feel free.
Everything in it was trademark Lynch, lots of foreboding music and weird flashes, and it was the first time I'd seen Bill Pullman in a role as edgy as the one he had in this. Unsurprisingly, Patricia Arquette's character was nutso.
I'd heard it was a bit of a headfuck though, and just as I thought, halfway through the film everything was turned on it's head, with Pullman's character suddenly being replaced by the one of Balthazar Getty, only for the latter to revert back to the former toward the end. This revelation won't spoil it for you, in fact it'll give you foresight that most people will need when taking on this thing.
Lynch pulled a stunt like this with Mulholland Drive as well. As soon as Naomi Watt's character looked into the cube thing, everthing went pear-tarte-tatin and the viewer was left going ".....errr.....", but at least that one happened towards the end, so you had a chance to enjoy a relatively linear plot up until then.
My take on that cube incident in Mulholland Drive was that Betty Elms was offered a glimpse into the future of her relationship with Rita, but that's not one on which I would stake my life by any means. As for the metamorphosis in Lost Highway, I would really need to see it again. People may have thought that Twin Peaks, Wild at Heart, and even Eraserhead were out there, but at least they made sense.
Still a good movie though. The saxophone playing kicked ass and the other stuff by David Bowie, Trent Reznor, and Billy Corgan's nifty 'Eye' was good too. But if anyone wants to enlighten me further on it, and indeed on Mulholland Drive as well, feel free.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
At last...
Well, I'm back in Brighton a week now, and as one would expect, it's been a return to form. Dublin was cool while it lasted, though I never got to see the play A View from the Bridge, with crazy fucking hot Meloni in the main role, as it was booked out for the entire run. That was my one disappointment, but I went to see Wolf Creek in the cinema, which kicked some horror butt.
Having got off the plane on Monday morning, I met the venerable Danny in a boozer at about 4pm and stayed out until about 4am the following morning. Registering the next morning at 9:30 in the college was a barrel of laughs, I can tell you. In the course of the 12-hour bender, I lost the microchip for the electricity meter Dan had given me (I've taken on his apartment for £55 a week! Happy days...), and so I had to put up with an apartment without a power supply for a few days until I got a new one in the post. I got around this by heading to north London to visit my brother for a while, only getting back yesterday, engulfed in the fog of a hangover. It was a good few days, just lying around drinking beer and eating food. I have also acquired a new addiction: a cop show called The Shield. I always felt that there was a glut of police dramas around, what with CSI and Law and Order, and God knows what else, but this one I like. The first two series were at my bro's pad, on DVD, and I ended up watching about 9 or 10 episodes in two days. My only regret there was that I didn't bring the rest of them back with me, but that's for another time.
Lectures start tomorrow at 9am. This year looks rather more taxing than the one that has gone before it, and the department still haven't lost their irritating habit of running one subject across 3 or more consecutive lecture hours, thus making sure you stop absorbing information after about an hour. Tomorrow is a full day of lectures, but only one subject is covered: Therapeutic Aspects of Neuroendocrinology and Pharmacokinetics. I imagine we'll all be hanging over the desks by lunchtime, and there'll still be another 3 hours to go. At least I'll be catching up with more people throughout the day.
In other news that no-one could ever see coming, and that has the potential to tip the earth on its axis, I must announce that I am broke again. My grant cheque had better have arrived while I was in London. As it is, it'll take 5 days to clear into my account when I lodge it. Oh, this is all sounding strangely familiar.
Also, I'm having a crisis of faith with this blog at the moment, and am not sure whether to continue with it, move it to livejournal (or somewhere where you can password-protect some entries), or end it altogether. I've decided to keep going for the moment, though the future feels precarious. We'll see...
Having got off the plane on Monday morning, I met the venerable Danny in a boozer at about 4pm and stayed out until about 4am the following morning. Registering the next morning at 9:30 in the college was a barrel of laughs, I can tell you. In the course of the 12-hour bender, I lost the microchip for the electricity meter Dan had given me (I've taken on his apartment for £55 a week! Happy days...), and so I had to put up with an apartment without a power supply for a few days until I got a new one in the post. I got around this by heading to north London to visit my brother for a while, only getting back yesterday, engulfed in the fog of a hangover. It was a good few days, just lying around drinking beer and eating food. I have also acquired a new addiction: a cop show called The Shield. I always felt that there was a glut of police dramas around, what with CSI and Law and Order, and God knows what else, but this one I like. The first two series were at my bro's pad, on DVD, and I ended up watching about 9 or 10 episodes in two days. My only regret there was that I didn't bring the rest of them back with me, but that's for another time.
Lectures start tomorrow at 9am. This year looks rather more taxing than the one that has gone before it, and the department still haven't lost their irritating habit of running one subject across 3 or more consecutive lecture hours, thus making sure you stop absorbing information after about an hour. Tomorrow is a full day of lectures, but only one subject is covered: Therapeutic Aspects of Neuroendocrinology and Pharmacokinetics. I imagine we'll all be hanging over the desks by lunchtime, and there'll still be another 3 hours to go. At least I'll be catching up with more people throughout the day.
In other news that no-one could ever see coming, and that has the potential to tip the earth on its axis, I must announce that I am broke again. My grant cheque had better have arrived while I was in London. As it is, it'll take 5 days to clear into my account when I lodge it. Oh, this is all sounding strangely familiar.
Also, I'm having a crisis of faith with this blog at the moment, and am not sure whether to continue with it, move it to livejournal (or somewhere where you can password-protect some entries), or end it altogether. I've decided to keep going for the moment, though the future feels precarious. We'll see...
Monday, September 19, 2005
Concert Photos
Well, just about every one of the photos I took at the two concerts I went to turned out shit. Even for Sonic Youth, where I was quite close to the stage, the disposable camera I had really just didn't seem up to the job. A bad workman and his tools? Oh well...
Nevertheless, dear reader, I have provided these pictures for you, so you can...er...wonder at their lack of brilliance. Oh piffle, I'm just sticking them up here because Sonic Youth are the coolest and I just want to put them on my blog.
Here is a small breakdown of what went on:
Sonic Youth on stage. Left to right, Lee Ranaldo, Jim O'Rourke, Kim Gordon, and Thurston Moore, with Steve Shelley at the back. Yes, I know you can hardly see them, but that's not the point.
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Here is Thurston Moore and his antics (Climbing on fittings, walking down near crowd, messing with guitar to make some cool noise. Again, he is hardly visible, but try)
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Here is a picture of the stage when the Chemical Brothers came on. They remained virtually hidden throughout the set, but the crowd didn't seem to mind.
In fact the only ones that came out halfway decent were the two pictures I took of the hot guy I met afterwards with his girlfriend.
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Now onto the Pixies concert. I couldn't get anywhere near the stage, so gaze in awe at pictures of two of members on the screen. Kim Deal looks like a suburban mother! Frank Black is more portly than ever!
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So yes, all in all not exactly Rolling Stone material, though better to have some document than none at all.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Memoirs, and not this one...
I went to a discussion meeting in Tallaght Library last night. Nuala O Faoláin and two of her sisters had been invited to discuss how each of their perceptions of growing up in the same family - and their resultant memoirs - differed from each other in outlook and content.
My curiosity stemmed from the fact that, apart from Nuala's memoir being in my top ten when it comes to reading lists, Nuala's sister Deirdre wrote a memoir that is by all accounts uplifting when compared to Nuala's essays in melancholia and anger.
I managed to bag a seat very near the front (someone who had reserved one hadn't shown up. Ha!) and settled down with one of the glasses of wine they were giving out. Eventually Dermot Bolger, South County Dublin's writer in residence, came up, said a few words and then introduced not just Nuala and Deirdre, but their other sister Gráinne as well.
It was interesting to see the three of them, especially Nuala, and when the main sister of interest spoke for the first time it was suddenly driven home that up until then, my own impression of her had only ever come from her words, and how hearing her for the first time, regional accent and all, made her appear more human.
This example could be extended to people in general. You are not always in control of the impression you make on people when you meet them in person, but when those people have nothing to go on but your writing, those little words can be a very powerful tool indeed.
I think I'm stating the extremely obvious here...
One of the first things that was put out there by N was how sometimes your individual voice can be disempowered within your own family, that they feel that because they know you better than anyone, they can think you are getting away with something when you make a public statement, because they believe they know you better than anyone else. Also referred to was the potential minefield writing a book about your family can prove to be, as you are writing about the people closest to you.
Then it moved over to the other two sisters, and I was struck by the fact that, while Gráinne's public persona was not entirely different to Nuala's, Deirdre's is a bit sunnier in disposition. One word she self-deprecatingly used to describe herself was 'simple', and once made the point that Nuala and Gráinne were possessed of more depth than she was. Perhaps she was selling herself short with her phraseology, but on the surface at least, she seemed less self-absorbed than the other two.
It wouldn't come as a surprise to anyone who has read either of the two memoirs that the discussion centred not just around the difference in perspectives, but around the parents of the three sisters. One method Dermot Bolger adopted was to read an account of an incident from Nuala's life from her memoir, and then read Deirdre's account of the same incident from the other memoir. It yielded some amusing results from time to time.
Then questions were taken from the audience. I racked my brains for something, feeling that I shouldn't waste the opportunity. I came up with two questions. The first one, did Nuala ever get to meet the woman who had experimented sexually with Nuala's mother in boarding school, an experimentation which eventually led to the expulsion of the latter from that school? The second one, did she place more weight of expectation on her mother, given that she focused more on that woman's failings as a parent, rather than her father's, in her book?
I hesitated (I'm not possessed of an innate ability to judge other people's boundaries) and was lost. Perhaps it was for the best, re-reading what it was I intended to ask her. One of the last comments that came was from a woman with a wavering voice. Just about maintaining her composure, she said that the discussion had a particular resonance with her as she had found her father to be an 'unimaginable bastard' and couldn't understand how her younger sister thought he was a wonderful man. It was compelling stuff. The whole evening was, really.
And in keeping with the tone, when I stepped out into the open air after the three sisters had understandably fled via the back exit, it was raining.
An interesting night though.
If you the reader hasn't read 'Are You Somebody?' by Nuala O' Faoláin, get on it. It's insightful, thoughtful, and very readable. It's probably one of the best books about modern Ireland and its problems in print right now, and it's one of my favourites at this moment in time.
My curiosity stemmed from the fact that, apart from Nuala's memoir being in my top ten when it comes to reading lists, Nuala's sister Deirdre wrote a memoir that is by all accounts uplifting when compared to Nuala's essays in melancholia and anger.
I managed to bag a seat very near the front (someone who had reserved one hadn't shown up. Ha!) and settled down with one of the glasses of wine they were giving out. Eventually Dermot Bolger, South County Dublin's writer in residence, came up, said a few words and then introduced not just Nuala and Deirdre, but their other sister Gráinne as well.
It was interesting to see the three of them, especially Nuala, and when the main sister of interest spoke for the first time it was suddenly driven home that up until then, my own impression of her had only ever come from her words, and how hearing her for the first time, regional accent and all, made her appear more human.
This example could be extended to people in general. You are not always in control of the impression you make on people when you meet them in person, but when those people have nothing to go on but your writing, those little words can be a very powerful tool indeed.
I think I'm stating the extremely obvious here...
One of the first things that was put out there by N was how sometimes your individual voice can be disempowered within your own family, that they feel that because they know you better than anyone, they can think you are getting away with something when you make a public statement, because they believe they know you better than anyone else. Also referred to was the potential minefield writing a book about your family can prove to be, as you are writing about the people closest to you.
Then it moved over to the other two sisters, and I was struck by the fact that, while Gráinne's public persona was not entirely different to Nuala's, Deirdre's is a bit sunnier in disposition. One word she self-deprecatingly used to describe herself was 'simple', and once made the point that Nuala and Gráinne were possessed of more depth than she was. Perhaps she was selling herself short with her phraseology, but on the surface at least, she seemed less self-absorbed than the other two.
It wouldn't come as a surprise to anyone who has read either of the two memoirs that the discussion centred not just around the difference in perspectives, but around the parents of the three sisters. One method Dermot Bolger adopted was to read an account of an incident from Nuala's life from her memoir, and then read Deirdre's account of the same incident from the other memoir. It yielded some amusing results from time to time.
Then questions were taken from the audience. I racked my brains for something, feeling that I shouldn't waste the opportunity. I came up with two questions. The first one, did Nuala ever get to meet the woman who had experimented sexually with Nuala's mother in boarding school, an experimentation which eventually led to the expulsion of the latter from that school? The second one, did she place more weight of expectation on her mother, given that she focused more on that woman's failings as a parent, rather than her father's, in her book?
I hesitated (I'm not possessed of an innate ability to judge other people's boundaries) and was lost. Perhaps it was for the best, re-reading what it was I intended to ask her. One of the last comments that came was from a woman with a wavering voice. Just about maintaining her composure, she said that the discussion had a particular resonance with her as she had found her father to be an 'unimaginable bastard' and couldn't understand how her younger sister thought he was a wonderful man. It was compelling stuff. The whole evening was, really.
And in keeping with the tone, when I stepped out into the open air after the three sisters had understandably fled via the back exit, it was raining.
An interesting night though.
If you the reader hasn't read 'Are You Somebody?' by Nuala O' Faoláin, get on it. It's insightful, thoughtful, and very readable. It's probably one of the best books about modern Ireland and its problems in print right now, and it's one of my favourites at this moment in time.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
I drool, part II
I have discovered a new lust. It goes by the name of Chris Meloni.
I first saw this guy in Runaway Bride, a Julia Roberts and Richard Gere vehicle. There was nothing else on the telly that night - you must believe me - so I sat and watched it. I remember looking more than once at Monsieur Meloni, but didn't really think about him anymore after that. It was only when the film was repeated on some channel recently that I got another look at him, and it was then I resolved that I would google him at work the next day.
A quick search found that he is also one of the main stars of Law and Order: SVU and some other films I was vaguely aware of, but it was when I read more about his role in the prison drama 'Oz', the first question that came to mind was this.
Was I living under a fucking rock not to have known that this series had hot guy nudity, at a time when I was living in Dublin that had cable with a HBO channel?
I remember when Oz aired first I never really paid it much heed. Another example of life sometimes passing me by. Anyway, the series features lots of naked Chris, apparently, and he plays a gay character who has a liaison with another prisoner. I'm there. I never really cared for Law and Order: SVU and the sight of Senor Meloni in a suit doesn't really do it for me, but he sizzles as a convict, and with that I provide some examples. Click to enlarge, to enlarge like a .....*cough*....
Hot stuff. All pictures courtesy of christopher-meloni.com. To access real Chris nudity, click here and scroll down the page a bit. Then click on the numbers under his picture. Needless to say, it's not exactly work safe.
As it happens, a production of Arthur Miller's play A View from the Bridge is running in Dublin at the Gate Theatre, and guess who is playing one of the leading characters? Yup, it doth be Herr Meloni. I think I shall start making plans about being there also.
As an aside, the Hot Foreign Guy I was drooling over all year is a dead ringer for Chris. I think my taste in men is moving away from hair and more towards muscle.
As another aside, in the film Runaway Bride the story is that Roberts' character is dating Meloni's but dumps him for Gere's at the end. Was she fucking blind?
I first saw this guy in Runaway Bride, a Julia Roberts and Richard Gere vehicle. There was nothing else on the telly that night - you must believe me - so I sat and watched it. I remember looking more than once at Monsieur Meloni, but didn't really think about him anymore after that. It was only when the film was repeated on some channel recently that I got another look at him, and it was then I resolved that I would google him at work the next day.
A quick search found that he is also one of the main stars of Law and Order: SVU and some other films I was vaguely aware of, but it was when I read more about his role in the prison drama 'Oz', the first question that came to mind was this.
Was I living under a fucking rock not to have known that this series had hot guy nudity, at a time when I was living in Dublin that had cable with a HBO channel?
I remember when Oz aired first I never really paid it much heed. Another example of life sometimes passing me by. Anyway, the series features lots of naked Chris, apparently, and he plays a gay character who has a liaison with another prisoner. I'm there. I never really cared for Law and Order: SVU and the sight of Senor Meloni in a suit doesn't really do it for me, but he sizzles as a convict, and with that I provide some examples. Click to enlarge, to enlarge like a .....*cough*....
 |  |
 |  |
Hot stuff. All pictures courtesy of christopher-meloni.com. To access real Chris nudity, click here and scroll down the page a bit. Then click on the numbers under his picture. Needless to say, it's not exactly work safe.
As it happens, a production of Arthur Miller's play A View from the Bridge is running in Dublin at the Gate Theatre, and guess who is playing one of the leading characters? Yup, it doth be Herr Meloni. I think I shall start making plans about being there also.
As an aside, the Hot Foreign Guy I was drooling over all year is a dead ringer for Chris. I think my taste in men is moving away from hair and more towards muscle.
As another aside, in the film Runaway Bride the story is that Roberts' character is dating Meloni's but dumps him for Gere's at the end. Was she fucking blind?
Another gig...
The Pixies played well last night, but I still preferred the gig where I saw them in the Phoenix Park for some reason. Lansdowne road is simply too big for a intimate gig. You feel (probably because you are) just one of several thousand. Yes, the Phoenix park is bigger than Lansdowne, but the fact that it's a park improves the experience. There are loads of places you can just throw yourself down to chill out in a park, but you don't get that feeling in a stadium. When you're on your own, as I was, the only thing to do is drink, really. That worked last Friday,but not last night, and it brings problems that I've previously referred to. However much of a journey it was to get anywhere near the moshpit, it was even harder to get out when you needed a piss break. I marvel at people who brought their pints right up there with them. They must have bladders of iron.
Another problem was that no matter how close I tried to get the stage, I was still WAY back. Our merry headliners looked like miniatures from where I was, a fact that only the screens could help with. On Friday I was able to get right up to the stage, so this impression suffered by comparison.
The Kings of Leon were supporting. They appear to have generated some fuss since they arrived on the music scene, but from last night's performance I can't really see why. They certainly don't do anything for me.
It wasn't all bad for me, just not as good as it could have been. The band itself were on top form, playing songs from every album, it was just difficult enough to get into it. This going to concerts alone lark, it's for the birds really. It never really bothered me until yesterday, but next time I'll make more of an effort to drag someone with me.
Anyway, the disposable camera has been used up, so pictures will follow soon enough.
Another problem was that no matter how close I tried to get the stage, I was still WAY back. Our merry headliners looked like miniatures from where I was, a fact that only the screens could help with. On Friday I was able to get right up to the stage, so this impression suffered by comparison.
The Kings of Leon were supporting. They appear to have generated some fuss since they arrived on the music scene, but from last night's performance I can't really see why. They certainly don't do anything for me.
It wasn't all bad for me, just not as good as it could have been. The band itself were on top form, playing songs from every album, it was just difficult enough to get into it. This going to concerts alone lark, it's for the birds really. It never really bothered me until yesterday, but next time I'll make more of an effort to drag someone with me.
Anyway, the disposable camera has been used up, so pictures will follow soon enough.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Sonic Youth ROCKED!
So did the Chemical brothers, though they played a rather short set.
Friday evening saw me hotfoot out of work at 4pm, making a beeline for Marlay Park. I got to the front door of my building, dressed for warm weather, only to witness pouring rain outside.
Mercifully it abated, and stayed that way for the rest of the day.
I went to the venue alone, but met a guy and his girlfriend, got talking to them and hung out for a while. I had little interest in the first two bands (though they sounded good enough), I was really only there for New York's finest. So I loaded up on Budweiser (the main sponsor of the event. Bleh!) and got down. I forgot one thing. The cardinal rule of concert-going.
STOP DRINKING 45 MINUTES BEFORE YOUR FAVOURITE ACT OTHERWISE YOU HAVE TO RUN TO THE GENTS DURING THEIR SET.
I was down by the toilets when I heard a familiar-sounding wall of feedback, so I legged it to the front of the crowd, camera in hand. The first thing I noticed was how SY still look good, even though the average age of the band members must be close to fifty by now. Kim Gordon still looks cool at what must now be about fifty-two, though I'm still not sure about that dress. Lee Ranaldo, grey as a badger but there you go.
The way they played their set was to take about two songs from each album, going back as far as Evol. So basically we got treated to stuff like I love you Golden Blue (the opener), Schizophrenia, Pacific Coast Highway, Mote (during which Lee seemed to forget half the words), Drunken Butterfly, Pattern Recognition, Rain on Tin (closing), and other ones I don't remember right now.
Then I went off, drank some more, and came back for the Chemical Brothers. A good set, though a bit short. The crowd were mightily pissed off with this, and booed when the steward came on to signal the end of the gig. Of course at that stage I scoped out a hot guy, bounded up and asked if I could take a picture of him for that reason. He agreed, and his girlfriend seemed to take it pretty well.
All I have to do is wait for the pictures to come out and see if I knew what I was doing. The Pixies are headlining today at Lansdowne Road. Yay again!
Last night I went to the workshop about challenging internalised homophobia. It was fine, if a bit light, and I met some interesting people at it. Of course the two hours of workshop was followed by four hours of sociable drinking and now I'm sitting here wishing I had been sensible and gone home straight after.
It was the first time I'd been in a bar with topless male dancers doing their thing on the bar counter. I'm so out of the loop: there are about two gay bars after opening in Dublin since I went to Brighton and I never knew anything about them.
Now to get my head off the desk and do something...
Friday evening saw me hotfoot out of work at 4pm, making a beeline for Marlay Park. I got to the front door of my building, dressed for warm weather, only to witness pouring rain outside.
Mercifully it abated, and stayed that way for the rest of the day.
I went to the venue alone, but met a guy and his girlfriend, got talking to them and hung out for a while. I had little interest in the first two bands (though they sounded good enough), I was really only there for New York's finest. So I loaded up on Budweiser (the main sponsor of the event. Bleh!) and got down. I forgot one thing. The cardinal rule of concert-going.
STOP DRINKING 45 MINUTES BEFORE YOUR FAVOURITE ACT OTHERWISE YOU HAVE TO RUN TO THE GENTS DURING THEIR SET.
I was down by the toilets when I heard a familiar-sounding wall of feedback, so I legged it to the front of the crowd, camera in hand. The first thing I noticed was how SY still look good, even though the average age of the band members must be close to fifty by now. Kim Gordon still looks cool at what must now be about fifty-two, though I'm still not sure about that dress. Lee Ranaldo, grey as a badger but there you go.
The way they played their set was to take about two songs from each album, going back as far as Evol. So basically we got treated to stuff like I love you Golden Blue (the opener), Schizophrenia, Pacific Coast Highway, Mote (during which Lee seemed to forget half the words), Drunken Butterfly, Pattern Recognition, Rain on Tin (closing), and other ones I don't remember right now.
Then I went off, drank some more, and came back for the Chemical Brothers. A good set, though a bit short. The crowd were mightily pissed off with this, and booed when the steward came on to signal the end of the gig. Of course at that stage I scoped out a hot guy, bounded up and asked if I could take a picture of him for that reason. He agreed, and his girlfriend seemed to take it pretty well.
All I have to do is wait for the pictures to come out and see if I knew what I was doing. The Pixies are headlining today at Lansdowne Road. Yay again!
Last night I went to the workshop about challenging internalised homophobia. It was fine, if a bit light, and I met some interesting people at it. Of course the two hours of workshop was followed by four hours of sociable drinking and now I'm sitting here wishing I had been sensible and gone home straight after.
It was the first time I'd been in a bar with topless male dancers doing their thing on the bar counter. I'm so out of the loop: there are about two gay bars after opening in Dublin since I went to Brighton and I never knew anything about them.
Now to get my head off the desk and do something...
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Homophobia and you:
I am the girl kicked out of her home because I confided in my mother that I am a lesbian.
I am the prostitute working the streets because nobody will hire a transsexual woman.
I am the sister who holds her gay brother tight through the painful, tear-filled nights.
We are the parents who buried our daughter long before her time.
I am the man who died alone in the hospital because they would not let my partner of twenty-seven years into the room.
I am the foster child who wakes up with nightmares of being taken away from the two fathers who are the only loving family I have ever had. I wish they could adopt me.
I am one of the lucky ones, I guess. I survived the attack that left me in a coma for three weeks, and in another year I will probably be able to walk again.
I am not one of the lucky ones. I killed myself just weeks before graduating high school. It was simply too much to bear.
We are the couple who had the realtor hang up on us when she found out we wanted to rent a one-bedroom for two men.
I am the person who never knows which bathroom I should use if I want to avoid getting the management called on me.
I am the mother who is not allowed to even visit the children I bore, nursed, and raised. The court says I am an unfit mother because I now live with another woman.
I am the domestic-violence survivor who found the support system grow suddenly cold and distant when they found out my abusive partner is also a woman.
I am the domestic-violence survivor who has no support system to turn to because I am male.
I am the father who has never hugged his son because I grew up afraid to show affection to other men.
I am the home-economics teacher who always wanted to teach gym until someone told me that only lesbians do that.
I am the woman who died when the EMTs stopped treating me as soon as they realized I was transsexual.
I am the person who feels guilty because I think I could be a much better person if I didn’t have to always deal with society hating me.
I am the man who stopped attending church, not because I don't believe, but because they closed their doors to my kind.
I am the person who has to hide what this world needs most, love.
I am the person who is afraid of telling his loving Christian parents he loves another male.
Repost this if you believe homophobia is wrong.
(The above from adamof on livejournal)
While on the subject, I'm booked into this workshop thing on Monday, for challenging internalised homophobia. I've seen that term bandied about quite a lot lately, and have a few opinions on it myself, so participating in it can't do any harm, except maybe fill me full of dread at the prospect of walking into a room full of strangers and then having to work in small groups with them.
Work is intense, but if I get out of here tomorrow early enough, I have the Chemical Brothers and Sonic Youth to look forward to in Marlay Park. Yay!
I am the prostitute working the streets because nobody will hire a transsexual woman.
I am the sister who holds her gay brother tight through the painful, tear-filled nights.
We are the parents who buried our daughter long before her time.
I am the man who died alone in the hospital because they would not let my partner of twenty-seven years into the room.
I am the foster child who wakes up with nightmares of being taken away from the two fathers who are the only loving family I have ever had. I wish they could adopt me.
I am one of the lucky ones, I guess. I survived the attack that left me in a coma for three weeks, and in another year I will probably be able to walk again.
I am not one of the lucky ones. I killed myself just weeks before graduating high school. It was simply too much to bear.
We are the couple who had the realtor hang up on us when she found out we wanted to rent a one-bedroom for two men.
I am the person who never knows which bathroom I should use if I want to avoid getting the management called on me.
I am the mother who is not allowed to even visit the children I bore, nursed, and raised. The court says I am an unfit mother because I now live with another woman.
I am the domestic-violence survivor who found the support system grow suddenly cold and distant when they found out my abusive partner is also a woman.
I am the domestic-violence survivor who has no support system to turn to because I am male.
I am the father who has never hugged his son because I grew up afraid to show affection to other men.
I am the home-economics teacher who always wanted to teach gym until someone told me that only lesbians do that.
I am the woman who died when the EMTs stopped treating me as soon as they realized I was transsexual.
I am the person who feels guilty because I think I could be a much better person if I didn’t have to always deal with society hating me.
I am the man who stopped attending church, not because I don't believe, but because they closed their doors to my kind.
I am the person who has to hide what this world needs most, love.
I am the person who is afraid of telling his loving Christian parents he loves another male.
Repost this if you believe homophobia is wrong.
(The above from adamof on livejournal)
While on the subject, I'm booked into this workshop thing on Monday, for challenging internalised homophobia. I've seen that term bandied about quite a lot lately, and have a few opinions on it myself, so participating in it can't do any harm, except maybe fill me full of dread at the prospect of walking into a room full of strangers and then having to work in small groups with them.
Work is intense, but if I get out of here tomorrow early enough, I have the Chemical Brothers and Sonic Youth to look forward to in Marlay Park. Yay!
Friday, August 12, 2005
Money, money, money...
Things I have missed because I was in Mallow for two months without money:
Dublin Pride
Dublin Gay Film Festival
Brighton Pride
Not to mention the fact that I haven't been able to go to a gym since I came home, and am fast losing the gains I made throughout this last year as a result.
Now I hear that the social welfare office are not giving me as much as they should be for the time I wasn't working, so I am as broke as ever.
I'm getting quite sick of being constant poverty. Some of it is down to bad financial management skills and not living within my means, but when I take a step back and look at the whole thing, my means aren't that vast. Yet any of the interests I have that require money have been shelved, and it's not for the first time, and I'm getting pissed off with it. I've been under the shadow of debt of one kind or another for the past 8 years or so, and I am quite fucking fed up with it. Poverty is part and parcel of being a student, unfortunately it was also part of parcel of being an IT contractor in unstable employment, and the hype about Dublin should be believed: it is rip-off central.
I swear, I'm the first person to speak out against getting on the treadmill of the world, but while money is far from everything, it is even further from nothing. Ever since I left home at the age of 19, it has always been a problem for me. I've either had some and blown it too quickly, or not had enough to begin with. This is one of the reasons I picked a vocational course when I went back to college: I've spent my twenties struggling; I'll be damned if I'll do the same for my thirties as well. Reality has bitten a great big chunk out of my ass.
I still can't reconcile myself to a lifetime of working for a living in the way most people do though, but I reckon I'll have to play that one by ear.
Dublin Pride
Dublin Gay Film Festival
Brighton Pride
Not to mention the fact that I haven't been able to go to a gym since I came home, and am fast losing the gains I made throughout this last year as a result.
Now I hear that the social welfare office are not giving me as much as they should be for the time I wasn't working, so I am as broke as ever.
I'm getting quite sick of being constant poverty. Some of it is down to bad financial management skills and not living within my means, but when I take a step back and look at the whole thing, my means aren't that vast. Yet any of the interests I have that require money have been shelved, and it's not for the first time, and I'm getting pissed off with it. I've been under the shadow of debt of one kind or another for the past 8 years or so, and I am quite fucking fed up with it. Poverty is part and parcel of being a student, unfortunately it was also part of parcel of being an IT contractor in unstable employment, and the hype about Dublin should be believed: it is rip-off central.
I swear, I'm the first person to speak out against getting on the treadmill of the world, but while money is far from everything, it is even further from nothing. Ever since I left home at the age of 19, it has always been a problem for me. I've either had some and blown it too quickly, or not had enough to begin with. This is one of the reasons I picked a vocational course when I went back to college: I've spent my twenties struggling; I'll be damned if I'll do the same for my thirties as well. Reality has bitten a great big chunk out of my ass.
I still can't reconcile myself to a lifetime of working for a living in the way most people do though, but I reckon I'll have to play that one by ear.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Why I opted out of going to film school.
'Excessive literalism is fatal'.
It's the one indisputable sentence in the whole thing.
Honestly, do these critics think that half of the concepts they are criticising were even intended by James Cameron?
Note to critics: One of the prerequisites of enjoying a science-fiction/action flick is leaving your brain at the door. Lighten up.
It's the one indisputable sentence in the whole thing.
Honestly, do these critics think that half of the concepts they are criticising were even intended by James Cameron?
Note to critics: One of the prerequisites of enjoying a science-fiction/action flick is leaving your brain at the door. Lighten up.
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