Saturday, May 12, 2018
Well, this really isn't 'Us' - it's the people who came after us. Or maybe it's the people who came after them.
You invite your mates around for a drink on a Friday night and you say, "oh yeah, and don't forget to tell Orla to bring the cello.
The fucking CELLO!! And she brings it and of course, if you've dragged that thing across town, you're gonna do more than play the intro to Eleanor Rigby.
You get that big fiddle on the number 7 bus and haul it all the way from Mountjoy Square to Ballsbridge - You're doing Bach. Two hours. Solid.
Of course, there is a possibility that this gal is not really a cellist (I'm basing this on the fact that the endpin is adjusted too long and her posture is a bit on the slouchy side).
Maybe one of the fifteen people you don't see in the shot just handed her the kit and said, "okay, let's see if this works."
Maybe they already tried a clarinet, a trombone and a Lambeg drum with King Billy painted on the side.
Twenty-five years ago, I owned a penthouse in Dublin 4 and I never had a musical evening that looked like this. It was all bottles of Cuban rum and the Clash on the stereo. Straight to hell, boys. Straight to hell.
"An antique mirror splashback, offset by the Pietra marble worktop and Macassar ebony cabinet doors of this dark palette choice, sets the tone in the luxuriously appointed, custom-built kitchens where it is the small but telling details such as dove-tailed drawers that make all the difference."
Jesus Christ, I remember when a splashback was something you got when you stood too close to the urinal and, if I may put on my carpenter's hat for a moment, a dovetail (no hyphen required) joint is not that big a deal.
at May 12, 2018
Wednesday, May 9, 2018
Stephen's Green is the soft porn version of Central Park.
No hardcore junkies, skateboarders, synchronized rollerbladers in matching silver spandex. No foragers, elderly men in bikinis, horse-drawn assholes in from Iowa. No Jersey girls adding to the sidewalk chewing gum splodges. No skunk weed and beer for sale out of ice-filled garbage sacks.
Every time I walk through this manicured nice-place-to-drink-a-Fanta-and-eat-a-limp-sandwich, I miss the fuck out of Central Park.
I miss the weird and the wired. I'm not interested in ducks. Mallards? Same story. Don't get me started on herons.
We need to rough-up Stephen's Green. Let a few pit bulls loose. Tie some hammocks between the trees and tell the crazies they can sleep there at night.
We need CNN's Richard Quest to get caught doing something strange beside the lily pond, just like he did in CP. - Where he was arrested one night with meth in his pocket, a sex toy in his boot and a length of rope connecting his neck to his privates.
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-behaved; 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. He looked up at the elevator operator, then me, and then 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. 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 sandbox 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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