We Need New Memories

Lazarus Shock!

Bethany Man No Longer "World's Most Famous Resurrected Corpse"  -- Fianna Fáil triumphant.

That's right, it's official.  26% of Irish people have forgotten why they are standing knee-deep in shite.  

The recent  Irish Times/Ipsos MRBI poll shows that the Soldiers of Destiny, even without Beyonce,  have managed to win back our hearts. Performance figures show a resurgence with the Working Poor, which is now pretty much everyone.  

And furthermore, the poll puts Sinn Fein at 18%  or, to quote Gerry Adams, "Eighteen, with a bullet".

Social amnesia has been studied in mice.  Their ability to connect with each other is based on a sense of smell.   Their brain produces a protein called oxytocin, and mice without this protein are unable to recognize familiar mice or situations.  They ramble endlessly in the maze, incapable of finding an exit.  When they meet another rodent, say a Fianna Fail TD rodent, they are instantly deceived into believing that this well-fed creature has a better sense of direction.  So they follow.  And it's a very dangerous thing, the inability to smell a rat.

Saddle Steak

The author, with food group

                              

I’ve always been a big horse eater.  I think it goes back to when I was a child and my mother used to point at me proudly and say, “look at that boy, he’d eat a horse”  -  It got me thinking; I could do that. 

By the time I was fourteen years of age, I was taking holidays in Normandy, the horse eating capital of Europe, if not the world.  I tucked my bib in some of the very best horse restaurants between Evreux and Cherbourg, including Le Cheval Savoureux and Mon Petit Poney, both of which have the unusual distinction of being mentioned in the Michelin Guide, and the Paris Racing Gazette.  By the time I was a young adult, I was a regular at chef Edouard Lombardier’s famous equine eatery, Monsieur Ed’s, where the tables are actually located around the horse pens and you get to choose your own filly (see above).  It’s a bit like picking out a lobster, except it’s done with a stun gun and a lasso.

Here’s the thing, It used to be a point of distinction, when I boasted about having eaten a considerable amount of horse, but now that assertion seems trite and commonplace.  These days anybody who tosses a frozen burger under the grill can pretty much say the same thing.  It’s disturbing, but I refuse to be part of the common herd, so to speak.

Next month, in what I can only describe as a new beginning in my culinary lifestyle, I will head to the mountains of Western Sichuan province for a feast unlike anything I have ever had before.  I will taste an animal that never appears on European menus and is very unlikely to turn up in the shrink-wrapped frozen offerings produced by Monaghan meat packers.  The restaurant is called 大混乱, which loosely translates as Panda-monium. 

Smart Phones & Dumb People

The American phone company, T-Mobile, commissioned a survey and discovered that 59% of people would roll up their sleeves and retrieve their smartphone from the toilet.

Of course, the intriguing aspect of that statistic is this: Four out of ten people would walk away and leave it there, twinkling like a sovereign in the Trevi fountain. A quarter of the respondents in the survey said they would fight a thief to get their phone back and 17% admitted they would run blindly, like Wile E. Coyote, into a dark train tunnel for the same purpose. Clearly, some phones are smarter than their owners.

In the 1970's, when you wanted to bring your phone to the pub, it involved a thousand yards of cable, two hundred traffic cones, A JCB and a man with a red flag. If you were going on a pub crawl, you could quadruple that. The plus side of this early technology was that the average telephone was too big to fit down a toilet. In fact, if five or six friends were sitting around a pub table, once they got their phones out, there was hardly ever enough room for the drink. And what about the telephone directories? We had to haul them around as well. Suitcases full of them.

"Jim, did you bring the 045 book with you?"

"No, begod, I picked up the 051 by mistake".

"You're a gobshite. Who do we know in Waterford?"

"Keep calling me names and you can walk home."

"I'll get a taxi".

"HaHa! You will not. I'm the one with the Golden Pages. Who's the gobshite now?"

The old big black phone was also a handy defensive weapon; many the head was cracked with a three kilo handset. There was a wicked irony in the fact that the implement used to assault you, was sometimes used to call the ambulance.

And what about dating? You'd ask a woman for her number and then you'd have to walk around all night remembering it. You wouldn't be able to do anything else. People would try to engage you in conversation.

"Stop!" You'd say, "I have a girl in my head and I don't want her to escape."

Your mates would be having great fun and you'd just be standing there, your lips continuously moving in a numeric mumble. Of course, you'd invariably get the number all jumbled and when you'd phone the next day, you'd get the wrong woman and before you knew what was happening, the two of you were married with children.

They were simpler times, if you don't consider the thousand yards of cable that had to be rolled up every night; the traffic cones that had to be collected, the wages for the JCB driver and the man with the red flag...

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The Devil's Music

The sign on the road outside Kilkenny mentions a “solemn novena”.

One can only assume the people involved are highlighting the “solemn” aspect because they don't want to attract the rowdy novena crowd - A dangerous bunch by all accounts. Some of our older readers will no doubt remember the Rosary Riots of ’72 when the town of Thurles was ransacked, over nine solid nights, by marauding bands of Novenistas, armed and well-orchestrated.

Over the past decade, Kilkenny city has become a major novena destination. Friday night in the railway station and you will see them arriving en masse. Mostly young females from Dublin, weekend bags, discreet at first, but by Saturday night many of them will be wearing halos and angel wings, kneeling on John Street, calling out the name of The Lord. Some of these young women are so quickly filled with the Holy Spirit, they practically choke on the lemon wedges, and, come four in the morning, the scenes on hotel staircases are reminiscent of tough times on Croagh Patrick: pilgrims ascending unsteadily, high-heeled shoes in hand, a veritable rapture of rumpled miniskirts and torn tights.

The history of the modern novena goes all the way back to the late 1960's. Seamus Kennedy, from Carlow town, is often credited with leading the first public display. Seamus, a graduate of Maynooth College, found himself a young deacon in Sullivan County, upstate New York in the Summer of 1969. Rumours started circulating about an impending celebration of peace and spirituality so, on the third weekend in August, Seamus packed his sandwiches and rosary beads and headed off for the Woodstock festival.

Shock. Seamus suffered serious shock: A teeming mass of humanity and not a single priest in sight; things were bound to get out of hand. Long hair, music and a strange herbal smell all around. Women doing awkward dances, hands pawing the air like spiders trapped in their own webs. Men with thick beards and bodies coated in mud calling him "man", as if the matter of his gender needed to be reinforced by constant repetition. Somebody offered him a ’drag’ on a hand rolled cigarette; another person suggested he swallow a sugar cube. Disoriented and confused, he accepted both.

The music grew louder. Shapes became colours. Unusual sensations filled his entire body. He was a long, long way from the seminary. He edged towards the front of the crowd, pushing past a cluster of dangerous looking men, their satanic origins stencilled on the backs of their black leather jackets: “Hell’s Angels”. One of them turned and gave him a hard stare.

“Be cool, man”. Seamus said, not quite certain where his dialogue was coming from.

On the stage, a black man wrestled with a wailing guitar. The instrument became a twisting serpent; the serpent devoured the speeding fingers in an electric fury of quavering pulsations that turned into heavy liquid and dripped from the speakers like golden treacle.

Seamus was overwhelmed. He dropped to the ground and made the sign of the cross. Upon seeing this, others around him did likewise and it was not long before half the crowd gathered on Max Yasgur’s farm was down on blended knee.

“Hail Mary full of grace...” Seamus called out.

“The Lord is with thee...” The crowd responded, and the words drifted on the hot summer breeze.

On stage, Jimi Hendrix, surprised by this vocal activity, seemed to lose musical focus. His rendition of The Star Spangled Banner turned into a confused mess of ruptured chords. He shook his guitar and twisted the tremolo arm completely out of shape. He amped up the volume but to no avail. What was meant as a jolt of political irony, at the height of the Vietnam War, was drowned out by a Carlow man and three hundred thousand hippies chanting, “Blessed art thou amongst women...”

For a lot of people, Seamus Kennedy’s soulful prayer was the high point of their Woodstock experience, and even Jimi Hendrix was moved to write his own tribute to Seamus, a song that rock devotees will know as ’The Wind Cries Mary’.

There have been reports that Seamus might show up at the Kilkenny novena sometime over the next nine days; his Volkswagen camper van was spotted around town, pungent smoke billowing from the open window. A man answering his description was seen in a local nightspot just a few hours ago, making peace signs and telling everybody to "Be cool". Surrounded by girls from the Dublin train, some of them wearing halos and some of them wearing horns, he was teaching them how to dance like a spider trapped in a web.

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Back In The Auld Sod Again

Breakfast bar, Terminal 2, Dublin airport

Dublin airport at five in the morning...

One immigration official to check one hundred foreign passports. The man in front of me remarks that all the empty security booths remind him of a derelict racecourse, except there is no one to say, "and they're off". Because, of course, we aren't off. We just stand around on the pasture of polished terrazzo, snorting and stamping to keep the circulation moving.
 
In the airport cafe you can get five breakfast items for €7.50, but a couple from Texas wonder aloud if two slices of toast constitute one item. "Yes", says the foreign national behind the counter, clearly in tune with Irish logic, "two is one".


I get a copy of the Irish Times and notice that Garda stations are to close because crime is down. Maybe it's time we opened up a few white collar crime Garda stations. Places where they take the laces from your Gucci shoes and smack you around with a rolled-up copy of your dodgy portfolio until you recant your duff financial philosophy, where "one is actually two."

I turn to page ten and see the obituary for composer Marvin Hamlisch (The Way We Were, A Chorus Line) and I remember being brought up to his estate in Dutchess County to price some re-construction work. I found a house that had all the traits of an Indian village. In other words, it had been completely destroyed by cowboys: bad plastering and faulty wiring. I passed on the opportunity to be blamed for past misdeeds and went to work instead for Art Garfunkel and then Charles Strouse (composer of Annie). I tell Mr. Strouse I once worked as a stagehand on 'Annie' in Dublin's Gaiety Theatre. I say it's good to meet the man behind the music. He shakes my hand warmly and says "it's nice to meet the man behind the scenery."

The sun is coming up on Terminal 2. The taxis are pulling up in their droves. The girl at the breakfast counter has decided to try a new approach with a couple of English tourists who want scrambled egg on toast. She puts two slices side by side on the plate and cheerily announces "one-and-one is one".

It's good to be home.

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Black & White City

Clockwise from top left:


-Union Square
-42nd Street
-The High-Line
-Midtown

 

 

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The other 'Boss' from New Jersey

What could possibly entice a couple of hundred people to spend a Sunday morning lining-up, in intense heat and humidity, on a New Jersey sidewalk?

You guessed - The opportunity to pick up a box of chocolate eclairs and watch them melt in the car.


'Cake Boss' Buddy Valastro is a star of reality television. Each week, two million people tune in to watch him decorate wedding cakes and fold the almonds into the biscotti mix. The truly dedicated make the pilgrimage to Hoboken to snap pictures of the store and possibly have a 'consultation' with the great man himself. Pilgrims may also get the chance to clap eyes on wife, Lisa; right-hand man Mauro Castano; head baker Joey Faugno; bakery sculptor 'Ralphie Boy' Attanasia and intern Marissa Lopez. Less likely to be squeezing the icing bag on the premises is brother-in-law Remy Gonzalez, now embarking on a nine year stretch for aggravated sexual assault.


Anyway, if you are one of the two million people watching "Cake Boss", have I got happy news for you. My construction-themed shows will soon be coming to a network near you. And talk about choice. "Hammer Boss": Are you excited by the sight of nails slowly being pounded into wood?. "Paint Boss": Nine inch rollers and six inch brushes; varnish, stain, gloss, eggshell. And the icing on the cake (if I may borrow a line from Buddy), the cherry on top (one more line from Buddy) - You actually get the opportunity to watch the paint dry. You want reality? We got gallons of it.


Now excuse me, I have to go get a muffin, and there's a seven hour wait.
 

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Suir Noir

 

The movie starts like this...

A man, Mr. 'M', wakes up in Waterford city, on a bench opposite a showroom filled with glittering crystal. He has no idea who he is or how he got here. He has a mobile phone in his pocket, but he's not sure how to use it. He has no wallet, no driver's licence, no means of identification.


He walks around the town, hoping to see something that triggers a memory. He comes to an old book shop with a sign that says 'Sticky Back Power - Antique Books'. He looks at his face in the window; he hasn't shaved, his suit looks crumpled and worn. A young woman working in the bookshop waves at him. He steps inside and she greets him as if they have met before. She tells him that she has had his book valued; it is authentic and she has been authorised by the owner, Mr. Power, to offer him three hundred Euro, not a penny more. He has no idea what she is talking about, but he accepts. The young woman goes to an old style safe behind the counter, dials in a combination, and then takes out the book. It doesn't look that special, but she handles it carefully. She opens it at the fly leaf and gives him a pen.
"Mr. Power would very much like if you signed it."
He looks at her blankly.
"Just say 'from Philip'."
He writes in the book, and then casually flips to the first page, which reads:


A man, Mr. 'M', wakes up in Waterford city, on a bench opposite a showroom filled with glittering crystal. He has no idea who he is or how he got here. He has a mobile phone in his pocket, but he's not sure how to use it. He has no wallet, no driver's licence, no means of identification...


The young woman takes the book and hastily locks it in the safe. He wants to say something, but his phone rings. He tries to operate it, but fails. The young woman takes it and flicks a button.
"Hello," she says, and then she listens for a moment. A man's voice can be heard barking at the other end of the line. She hands back the phone.
"It's a Mr. Laird. He says he's your employer."
Mr. M. takes the phone and listens. The agitated voice at the other end of the line goes soft and hopeful.
"Mr. Marlowe, have you found my daughter yet?"
 

 

 

Raymond Chandler spent some of his childhood years in Waterford. They weren't particularly happy times, but he always thought fondly of the city. In fact, he wanted to set a novel there, on the quays, once bustling with ships and sailors. - An antique bookshop called Sticky-backs and a private eye called Philip Marlowe, transported from Los Angeles. - You have to make up the rest yourself...
 

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A furry thing happened...

 

Published, Aug 7th, 2012
 

One Of A Kind

My mother bought a “strange” full-length fur coat at a tag sale in Hacketstown in March. It has proven to be very controversial.

Of course, she loves creating a bit of a stir. Twenty-five years ago she fell off a balcony at a U2 concert, dressed as Lieut Uhura from Star Trek. (Bono gamely tried to catch her. For his trouble he ended up with three broken ribs and a Phaser wedged so far up the wazoo he had to write a song about it: I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.)

People are pointing in the street. The local newspaper has received countless letters of complaint. The coat has driven some to fury, and others to tears, but mother is not in the least upset; in fact, she seems to relish the scorn and the enmity.

My sister, Carolina Moon, confronted her on the matter. She asked her, straight up: “Why are you wearing that thing?”

“You don’t like it?”

“Nobody in town likes it.”

My mother nuzzled the coat and laid on her best Zsa Zsa Gabor accent. “Well, I think it’s rather fabulous, dahrlink. What do you not like? Is it the shape?”

“It’s not the shape.”

“The buttons?”

“The buttons are fine.”

Mother flounced in front of the mirror and narrowed her eyes, so that she might see a younger reflection. “Does it make me look fat?”

“No. That was the children and the chocolate.”

Mother seemed genuinely baffled. “I’m confused. So it must be the colour?”

“The colour is part of the problem.”

“Which one bothers you the most? Is it the black or the white?”

At this point, Carolina Moon could take no more; she exploded in rage. “Mother,” she screamed, “Don’t you understand? The coat, it’s panda! PANDA!! P-A-N-D-A!!!

“Yes,” replied mother, stroking a sleeve, “and probably virgin too. You know what they’re like. It’s definitely not a reproduction.”

Carolina Moon collapsed in a tearful heap on the floor. Mother, whether out of honest hunger or sheer badness (the truth may never be known), went to the local Chinese restaurant, dressed in her best, and, in full view of the horrified locals, ordered a triple portion of bamboo shoots.

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Scorpio Rising

 

This morning I rode up to the 44th floor, accompanied by the elevator operator and a woman with a dog.

 
The dog, it's struck me, was extremely well-behavedt; it sat primly on the floor and stared straight ahead at the slight gap between the metal doors. Floors whizzed past, blips of light flickered, but the dog didn't blink. We stopped at the 33rd floor. The doors opened and the woman stepped out. She patted her thigh and said, "Here Scorpio. Come." It took a moment for the dog to process the command. Balefully, he looked up at the elevator operator, then me, and then slowly he stepped out to follow his mistress.

After the doors closed I looked at the elevator operator and said, "strange dog."
"That ain't the half of it, that dog is on Prozac"
I expressed a mild disbelief. The elevator operator almost seemed hurt.
"I'm not kidding, buddy. She told me herself. About six months ago she gets in here and she goes, 'Scorpio is so depressed. He whines all day long. He barks, he whimpers.'"
The elevator operator paused long enough for me to take in the image.
"But all the time I'm thinking, he's a fuckin' dog. This is what fuckin' dogs do. Am I right?"
I told him he was right. He went back to imitating the dog owner.
"Scorpio is vexed. He is vexed all the time. He takes out his anger on the furniture. He eats cushions. He pulls up threads in the carpet. He chews the blinds. He shreds newspapers. He shuns the sand box in the kitchen and urinates everywhere else."
The elevator operator stopped the car at the 44th floor, but did not open the doors.
"All the time I'm thinking..."
"He's a fuckin' dog?" I suggested.
"You're right," said the elevator operator, as if the whole fuckin' dog thing had been my idea, "but one day she tells me she's taking him to see a vet on West End Ave. Then I don't see her for maybe a week. When I do see her again, she's got the mutt with the thousand yard stare: Forrest fucking Gump on the end of a lead. She tells me, "Scorpio is on a low dose of 'Reconcile'. Prozac for dogs. You familiar with it?"
I told him it was one of the drugs I hadn't tried.
"It's like a little doggy treat. Poor bastard doesn't even know he's being doped."
"Maybe he's happier," I said.
"Hah! I got a dog. I want to cheer him up, I take him out to the park and get him laid". He laughed like a maniac, and then we agreed that sex in a public place was probably the best medicine. He opened the doors and told me to buzz him when I was leaving, but I was already calculating the health benefits of walking down forty-four flights of stairs.

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