The brochure billed it as ‘an awesome, three night, club hopping frenzy as 31 clubs showcase over 400 of the best new artists from Canada, the USA and around the world’. The brochure neglected to mention that it would take place in a Toronto heatwave, which resulted in sweat dripping off the walls, the artists, the audiences, and even the people out smoking on the streets.
The journey is the important part of going anywhere they say. I think this saying was invented before air travel. Which is boring and uncomfortable unless you’re rich. But this time I sort of lucked out. Air Canada flight AC 857 I love you! Why? Because you gave me seat 31C. First time ever. The nice seat beside the emergency exit on the aisle. Got the screwy African bloke who demanded whiskey and shouted at the stewardesses as well. Mixed blessings. But iPods are great, you can just stare into space and pretend you can’t hear anything.
Managed to sleeo on the plane and also finally read A Wild Sheep Chase, by Haruki Murakami, which is an amazing meditation on power and its impact on the soul. I think. It’s so hard to know with Murakami. He did a little bit of sitting in the deep black well this time as well, a recurring motif with him.
Got the bags back, the wheel on the big one is bust, which is a big problem. Shared a taxi downtown with some nasty business man going to the Hilton, but got ten dollars off from the Sikh taxi man for rolling my eyes at the other guy’s rudeness.
A quick check-in to the hostel and then over to the Holiday Inn to start my first shift working on NXNE. I was put doing the goodie bags. Everyone was a bit stand offish at the beginning, but when we broke for pizza and coke, the ice broke as well. It is truly true that everyone feels uncomfortable at a party, and that should make you feel comfortable. Then I produced the bottle of whiskey for MC and suddenly I was in. Whisked off to the pre-festival party, which was held in an old chapel a few blocks from the hotel. Ryan and Max were deputised to look after me. Ryan is a long-haired indie kid who looks like a character in an offbeat, quirky indie movie. Predictably enough he turned out to be an actor. Max is a tall, quiet guy who runs his own internet advertising company and spent the evening trying to get me to drink shots of some weird German cough medicine. Because I’m Irish and I should, apparently. Ended up standing in the garden smoking. Same same wherever you go. Only difference is it’s much warmer over here.
The Irish band Sundogs turned up. Plastered. They were very funny. They’re in the same hostel as me.
The hostel is hot, hot, hot. No air-conditioning and really noisy fans all night so it’s very difficult to sleep. I’m sharing with five other women. The room is tiny, with six bunkbeds and oceans of bags, clothes, shoes, make up, toiletries, towels and Rough Guides strewn across the floor. There is a chair that keeps getting in the way, so someone puts it up against my bunk every night. Then I arrive in at four am and fall over it and wake everyone up. The tension is building slowly.
Artist Registration – where do they get their names from?
Working on the festival conference for three days meant access to the air-conditioned luxury of the Holiday Inn on King St. West. The other festival taking place there at the time was a Fame and Beauty conference, populated by buff, tanned, blonde, spectacularly muscular body builders. And their totebag and waterbottle-laden boyfriends. An interesting juxtaposition to the rag tag band of rappers, rockers, hip hoppers, songsters and industry heads that milled in and out of the conference panels and celebrity interviews.
I was put on Artist Registration, partnered with a chick called Bree. No resemblance personalitywise to the Housewife. She was more of a Lynette. Before she got married and had the kids. All ideas, ambition and a good sense of humour. Lots of Brees around though. Too many leaders and not enough troops. Always the way with volunteerism of course. Thruppence looking down on tuppence ha’penny as we would say in Springtown.
We opened at twelve pm and I was really surprised to see a huge queue forming which went on all day. What happened to the rock and roll lifestyle? To partying all night and sleeping all day? Is that why the rest of us get no sleep anymore. (Queenie’s had less than five hours sleep for ten nights on the trot now and she’s getting a little cranky. She left her camera on the bus today and just deleted this entire article and is writing it again.)
Anyways, the artists were mostly very polite and nice and some were just downright excited to be in Toronto. The heatwave was only gearing up at that stage. Only one or two tossers. We had a lot of fun with the names. Bands names have always mystified me anyway – where do they get them from? But in this context, where we had to ask them their band name and then find a manilla envelope containing their badges, in a pile of similarly strangely titled envelopes, the names became slightly ludicrous. I began to wonder what on earth were Tacoma Hellfarm Tragedy, or Slave to the Squareware, or Millions of Cats that turned on their Masters thinking of when they chose the above. My personal favourite was Grassy Knoll and the Magic Bullet, who weren’t even from Texas. I promised I’d go to the gig if I ever stopped laughing. They took it quite well really.
Queenie’s first meander through Canadian music: From death country to anarchist hip hop
My music festival kicked off with Elliot Brood in the Legendary Horseshoe Tavern on Queen St. West. Elliot Brood, from Toronto, call their music Death Country. If you got Jared Leto, put him in charge of the Rolling Stones, and sent them on a tour of Kentucky weddings, you’d get Elliot Brood. Kick ass they were and we all bopped like crazy even though it was only nine o’clock on a Thursday night.
Afterwards I walked up to Bloor St. to Lee’s Palace to see The Novaks. One of the other volunteers had recommended them. Up is the correct word, as Toronto inclines gently away from Lake Ontario. You can feel it in the back of your legs as you hoof up Chinatown and what I suspect might be Irishtown (judging from the number of accents I recognised) in thirty degrees with humidity. The Novaks turned out to be dreadful. Hailing from that well known metropolis of cool, Newfoundland, they played sub-sub-Bryan Adams-inspired, parka-riddled soft rock. Queenie says, get back to The Rock where you belong, lads and listen to some Radiohead. The other volunteer thought they were cute. She had seen them before. I suspected I had been lured to the venue as some kind of chatting up sidekick/ exotic Irish conversation starter so I hoofed it back down to the Shoe to see Christine Fellows.
This Manitoba woman and her band are the Canadian version of Badly Drawn Boy. Those of you who know me know my feelings on BDB. He is to be tolerated rather than adored, although he is a talented little sod. I felt the same about Christine, although her obvious nerves did appeal to my better nature. I also bestow her the quote of the festival award:
“We’ve left our two love songs ‘till last. I hope you like them. This first one’s called Roadkill.”
Classy bird.
I was wandering down Queen, trying to decide between Marah and The Telepathic Butterflies, when I met MC Caldwell, who had hired me, and her posse heading down to Funhaus to see C’mon. C’mon are a very loud guitar band who have not much going for them except for the second coolest woman in rock as their lead guitarist. I want to be a lead guitarist. It was good fun though. We ended up the night getting pizza for the coolest woman in rock (MC) from the gourmet pizza takeaway place next to the Bovine Sex Club, before heading down to Healys to see Dope Poet Society.
Healy’s is cool. All leopard skin booths and pool tables and quirky side rooms. Dope Poet Society were political. Very political. Did you know that George Bush is the real terrorist? No? Have you been living in a box for the last five years? Yes? I was hoping for a little more sophistication, but you can’t do much in a twenty minute set, I suppose. Anyways, worth checking out for the longest dreadlocks I’ve ever seen – down to his knees they were.
My first night ended with me finding various members of Sundogs asleep in the bar of the hostel at about 3am. It had been a long, gentle downward musical slope from the heights of Elliot Brood. And my calves hurt, so I went to bed.
Friday - Sundogs melt in El Mocambo’s heat and Queenie meets Bullmoose in the Black Bull
I met various members of Sundogs (who are all very nice) in the hostel during the day and they told me they were playing El Mocambo that night (their second gig) so I promised I would go as I had missed them the night before. They were pretty good. Their songs are good and they play very well. They should stop watching U2 videos and get some moves of their own though. Afterwards, we stayed for a while and watched The Grates from Australia. Who were trying to be The Pixies. With mixed results. They had a female lead singer who hopped up and down like Skippy the Bush Kangaroo and asked all the men in the audience to come to the front in a little baby doll voice.
And they did…………………
Not being a man, I gave up on them after twenty minutes and went to the Black Bull with Sumond and Geetha. They are volunteering as well. They’ve just moved up from Texas, and are teaching Biomedical Engineering in the university here. Sumond is a professor and he is YOUNGER THAN ME. We saw Bullmoose, a Led-inspired three piece from Montreal with a singing bassist. He had an oobit as well. I love a singing bassist myself. I just adore men who can walk and chew at the same time. Geetha made me chat him up afterwards, which was a mistake because he was a bit thick, which spoiled the whole effect for me. So we nipped back down to the ‘Shoe to see The Mark Inside, who were one of those bands where all the members look younger than Queenie’s little sister and thus make her feel very old and run down.
It was very hot. I wandered outside for a smoke and ran into Sundogs, who were melting into little puddles on the pavement. I took pity on them and brought them back up to the Black Bull, as it has a patio for sitting and drinking in the outside. I introduced them to Bullmoose as well. Lucky them. The guitarist gave me a cd when he was leaving. I don’t know if it was a present or if he thought I was useful.
One of the more interesting things I’ve learned over the years is that hanging out with bands is incredibly boring. All they do is bitch about their gig, their conditions, their flights, their support act, their instruments, the blister on their thumb, blah, blah, blah. You know guys, the alternative is to give up the music and go into banking and make shit loads of money to pay for air-conditioned rooms. This is the main reason I have never followed up on my desire to be a rock chick. I have a feeling I’d end up having to keep a nail clippers handy. In case they needed their pinkies done. And I’m not that kinda chick.
We headed down to the Drake Hotel for an after-party and I had to queue to get in. Albeit only for a minute, but I got in a right snot about it. The Drake was mobbed and full of pompous staff members and made me think of The Kitchen that was, back in the ‘days of tiger money’, so I legged it and walked home down Queen St., which was still milling with punks and hip hoppers and Goths and stoners and gay couples holding hands and every type of person you never see in Dublin no matter how diverse it’s getting. Which was great.
Saturday – Bovaries in the Bovine, Drum N Bass in the Funhaus, and MC in El Mo
Saturday I had to work another full day at the festival conference, but as it was starting to wind down administration wise it was actually quite boring and involved a lot of hanging around and chatting to my co-workers and getting the low down on all the bitching and fighting to which, being a foreigner and not looking for a job through NXNE, I was oblivious. Afterwards, I went back to the hostel for a bit of a sleep. No luck though, Jan, the weirdo Singaporean ‘entertainer’, who appeared to be living in the room while trying to get a work permit, insisted on telling me about her day. Which was very bad. I’m not quite sure why, but I think it involves her not getting a work permit and immediate wealth and fame. Or failing that, a rich boyfriend. I should get a rich boyfriend, apparently. Then I wouldn’t have to work. I tried to point out to her that there’s all kinds of work, and no such thing as a free rich boyfriend but she was having none of it.
In the absence of sleep I took another shower and headed down Queen St. in search of music. I bumped into Ryan and another volunteer and they brought me to the Bovine Sex Club to see the last song by The Clicks. Girl band. Pretty cool. I only saw one song. Then back to the gourmet pizza. I was sat outside talking to some guy they had introduced me to, called Ruksand, when I realised Ryan had disappeared. Never mind. I offered the guy a cigarette and suddenly realised he was a she. Ooops. We went over and sat in her car and had a smoke and she told me her story.
Her look gets her mistaken all the time. She was in a shop one day filling out a form and an Arab guy came in and started complaining to the shop assistant and kept calling to Sandra – Hey buddy – to get her in on the act. And then she turned round and said - Yes honey pie, yes sugar butt, yes lovekin, whaddya want pumpkin – over and over to him in a falsetto voice. The guy got such a fright he backed out of the shop in complete disarray. I don’t know how well this story translates, but I was on the floor of the car laughing as she acted it out for me. Hilarious.
Then she told me her theory on feminism, which is that it is performance. And that women have bovaries, which are a mixture of balls and ovaries. And that we are more powerful than we can imagine and just have to use our bovaries to keep men in line. I love the idea that they are bovaries, with all the connotations that brings with it.
She used to be a customs official, but she’d taken a year off to try to make it in music. She told me another performance she’d done in work, which I can't divulge.
We went back into Bovine and watched Kuma, from Seattle, which was the band of the festival for me. Why are they not signed? They’re a really good, loud five piece. The lead singer is a woman that looks like a dark-haired Debbie Harry and performed like the proud daughter of Kate Bush and Courtney Love. They looked great. They sounded great. They had a song called Matches and Gasoline. What more do you want? Check them out – http://www.kumasound.com/.
Afterwards, we floated up and down Queen St. a bit, looking for an ATM, went in the back of the Bovine to their smoking room, which is a copy of the Whelan’s room. With a roof. And air-conditioning. Finally, around one am, we headed up to Funhaus for a six hour Drum n Bass night which had a very young crowd.
It was quite evangelical. A lot of shouting about the power of you and how you are the greatest and for a while I thought I was at one of those charismatic Christian events they have in the RDS during Lent. It was strange. After a while I got bored and wandered up the strip and bumped into MC outside the Horseshoe and we went up to El Mocambo.
Everyone was there. Everyone was really drunk and they all seemed to be really upset about some row that had taken place earlier in the day. What is it about organisations? It was too hot, so I walked home again around four. Sundogs were asleep in the lounge again.
Sunday films and volunteer party
I couldn’t believe I had to get up and work on Sunday. Having said that, I whinged so much at the team leader she let me go at 2pm. So not too bad. I tried to sleep again, then headed up to El Mocambo to the volunteer party. Too hot. Grabbed my goodie bag, my free beers and my dinner and then we went and sat outside the Black Bull. Me, MC, Gwen and Paul, Geetha and Sumond, and a friend of MC’s called Karen, who spent the evening tatting her hair on the simple premise that it was better to be out, enjoying herself while tatting, than sitting at home tatting. Which is the way I view the world myself, so tatt away, girl.
I talked to Karen for most of the night. It was one of those great conversations that covered everything from women in the labour movement to politics to horoscopes to past relationships to beer. She was very interesting, although quite intense, and I couldn’t understand why until she told me she’d had a really serious brain injury a few years back and pulled herself out of a coma and survived against all the odds. I was so impressed. Apart from the intensity, which she said was due to her need to concentrate on the conversation, and which occurs in many many people who have no medical excuse for it at all, there was absolutely no sign of any difference in her manner. Human beings are miraculous creatures, aren’t they.
I was sad to say goodbye to them all, but so tired…………. Went back to the hostel of heat and fans and undiscovered Singaporean rock chicks and slept soundly, knowing I had the next day to myself.
Top festival. Will definitely do it again.
Top Acts – Kuma, Elliot Brood
Damn, I missed – The Telepathic Butterflies
Pictures should be under the title now.
Friday, June 10, 2005
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
So long, farewell, I bid you all adieu, etc., etc.
All packed now, ready to go. Just waiting on my lift from Springtown to Dublin.
Here are some things I will miss about home.
Whelan’s pub and live music venue, Wexford St., Dublin
Dreadful beer. Even worse brown plastic statue of a man standing at the bar that I still smile at sometimes in the low light. No seats. Tiny stage. However, it has the best smoking area in Dublin. Where else can you bum a smoke from a Lions captain, an internationally acclaimed bluegrass musician and Mundy all in the one night?
Nowhere else, that’s the answer.
Fayles’ Hardware shop, Main St., Springtown
I love the smell of Fayles, a mixture of potting compost, plastic kitchenware and paint. A concrete floor piled with every imaginable type of tool. Saucepan, rug, seed packet, gardening implement, mirror, bathroom fixture, knife, screw, nut bolt and shelf. A big builders’ providers out back – a cornucopia of four by twos and other types of construction material. With everything priced individually to be written up in the big book. And rung in on the old cash register. And the staff, universally grumpy but well on top of the stock and always so helpful. Able to find anything for you.
Zandra’s Ladies Fashion House, Main St., Springtown
Where else can you get fabulous, luxurious, glamorous, French labels at the cutting edge of this year’s trends, at a fraction of the price you’d pay in Dublin?
Nowhere else, that’s where.
Jabba the Cat, my garden, Springtown
I found her on the street on my way down to Smoothies’ pub a couple of winters ago. It was a typical frosty, cold Springtown night and she was a little black scrap of a thing, huddled against the wheel of a car, mewling pitifully for someone to love her. Fully grown now, she is, ensconced with the Queen Mother and Father, she is spoiled rotten and has a sleek, radiant coat, a big belly from all the feeding she gets and the most laid back attitude to life I have ever observed in a mammal. When I come back I’m going to live in a house with a porch and rock in a rocking chair with Jabba on my lap.
The Chestnut, Green St., Springtown
A fire flickering at either end. The lads supping creamy pints of Guinness and settling into a session with guitars, flute, mandolin, bodhran and harmonica. Going out for a smoke under the gas heaters in the yard. Realising that it’s only my Dublin friends who have given up smoking, and everyone I know in Springtown is out there too. DJ sessions on bank holiday weekends. Local guys playing their record collections on a wet Sunday. Discovering JJ Cale on one of those Sundays. Watching rugby matches on the small screen. Getting a crick in my neck doing it. Conor’s shots. Conor ordering me to drink them. Stephens’ Day in the afternoon. Mulled wine at Christmas. Thanks guys!
Rugby internationals, Dublin 4
The anticipation. Having a steak sandwich in Jury’s beforehand. Wedging myself into Smyth’s afterwards. Finding everyone from Springtown in Doheny and Nesbitts around ten that evening. The other fans – Welshmen singing, Scottish men drinking in kilts, Englishmen slagging us, French disdain, Italian smiles.
Gruel, Dame St., Dublin
Dinner for a tenner. Bangers and mash with the onion relish. Rocket fuel in a water glass peddled as red wine. Upstairs in the smallest restaurant in the world, or downstairs where the smell of damp would knock you out and the tables all wobble.
The coffee booth at the Ha’penny Bridge, Dublin
Sitting there after work in the sunshine, drinking a latte, watching the kids fish for the little crabs that populate the Liffey. Getting my purse nicked, chatting to tourists, being touched by some sob story. Handing over my last fiver. Watching people clatter over and back across the lovely old iron bridge.
The Cobalt Café, North Great Georges St., Dublin
Great coffee, yummy toasted sandwiches and lovely staff. You never know who will be there but there’s always someone you know. All the art for sale on the wall, the glass cases with their jewellery that you never remember to buy. At Christmas time the piles and piles of pot pourri. A bird flies in most days and dazes itself flying around the tall Georgian room, before someone gently shoos it out into the garden. Which is for smokers only.
Cobblers shoe shop, Main St., Loughrea
The smallest shoe shop in Ireland I’d say. And the best. Shoes to die for. To kill for. To dream about. To save up for. To ooh and aah over. To fight over. I got the last pair of green suede flip flops the other day – thanks Nadia for bowing out of the race so graciously.
Last post from Ireland.
Next post from Canuckstan.
See you all soon.
Queenie + Percy
Here are some things I will miss about home.
Whelan’s pub and live music venue, Wexford St., Dublin
Dreadful beer. Even worse brown plastic statue of a man standing at the bar that I still smile at sometimes in the low light. No seats. Tiny stage. However, it has the best smoking area in Dublin. Where else can you bum a smoke from a Lions captain, an internationally acclaimed bluegrass musician and Mundy all in the one night?
Nowhere else, that’s the answer.
Fayles’ Hardware shop, Main St., Springtown
I love the smell of Fayles, a mixture of potting compost, plastic kitchenware and paint. A concrete floor piled with every imaginable type of tool. Saucepan, rug, seed packet, gardening implement, mirror, bathroom fixture, knife, screw, nut bolt and shelf. A big builders’ providers out back – a cornucopia of four by twos and other types of construction material. With everything priced individually to be written up in the big book. And rung in on the old cash register. And the staff, universally grumpy but well on top of the stock and always so helpful. Able to find anything for you.
Zandra’s Ladies Fashion House, Main St., Springtown
Where else can you get fabulous, luxurious, glamorous, French labels at the cutting edge of this year’s trends, at a fraction of the price you’d pay in Dublin?
Nowhere else, that’s where.
Jabba the Cat, my garden, Springtown
I found her on the street on my way down to Smoothies’ pub a couple of winters ago. It was a typical frosty, cold Springtown night and she was a little black scrap of a thing, huddled against the wheel of a car, mewling pitifully for someone to love her. Fully grown now, she is, ensconced with the Queen Mother and Father, she is spoiled rotten and has a sleek, radiant coat, a big belly from all the feeding she gets and the most laid back attitude to life I have ever observed in a mammal. When I come back I’m going to live in a house with a porch and rock in a rocking chair with Jabba on my lap.
The Chestnut, Green St., Springtown
A fire flickering at either end. The lads supping creamy pints of Guinness and settling into a session with guitars, flute, mandolin, bodhran and harmonica. Going out for a smoke under the gas heaters in the yard. Realising that it’s only my Dublin friends who have given up smoking, and everyone I know in Springtown is out there too. DJ sessions on bank holiday weekends. Local guys playing their record collections on a wet Sunday. Discovering JJ Cale on one of those Sundays. Watching rugby matches on the small screen. Getting a crick in my neck doing it. Conor’s shots. Conor ordering me to drink them. Stephens’ Day in the afternoon. Mulled wine at Christmas. Thanks guys!
Rugby internationals, Dublin 4
The anticipation. Having a steak sandwich in Jury’s beforehand. Wedging myself into Smyth’s afterwards. Finding everyone from Springtown in Doheny and Nesbitts around ten that evening. The other fans – Welshmen singing, Scottish men drinking in kilts, Englishmen slagging us, French disdain, Italian smiles.
Gruel, Dame St., Dublin
Dinner for a tenner. Bangers and mash with the onion relish. Rocket fuel in a water glass peddled as red wine. Upstairs in the smallest restaurant in the world, or downstairs where the smell of damp would knock you out and the tables all wobble.
The coffee booth at the Ha’penny Bridge, Dublin
Sitting there after work in the sunshine, drinking a latte, watching the kids fish for the little crabs that populate the Liffey. Getting my purse nicked, chatting to tourists, being touched by some sob story. Handing over my last fiver. Watching people clatter over and back across the lovely old iron bridge.
The Cobalt Café, North Great Georges St., Dublin
Great coffee, yummy toasted sandwiches and lovely staff. You never know who will be there but there’s always someone you know. All the art for sale on the wall, the glass cases with their jewellery that you never remember to buy. At Christmas time the piles and piles of pot pourri. A bird flies in most days and dazes itself flying around the tall Georgian room, before someone gently shoos it out into the garden. Which is for smokers only.
Cobblers shoe shop, Main St., Loughrea
The smallest shoe shop in Ireland I’d say. And the best. Shoes to die for. To kill for. To dream about. To save up for. To ooh and aah over. To fight over. I got the last pair of green suede flip flops the other day – thanks Nadia for bowing out of the race so graciously.
Last post from Ireland.
Next post from Canuckstan.
See you all soon.
Queenie + Percy
Monday, May 30, 2005
Some thoughts on moving house. Again.
It really doesn't matter if you do it on your own or get some help, whether paid or voluntary. Moving house is exhausting, stressful, dirty, endless, sad. Here are some thoughts from a battle-hardened Queenie, who has two moves in less than twelve months under her belt.
Superquinn reuseable shopping bags are the greatest invention known to man. You can tip the contents of your bedside locker into one. You can tip the contents of your bathroom cabinet into another. You can tip the contents of the drawer for miscellaneous items into a third. And bingo - the most annoying part of packing is done. When you get to your new place, just tip them back in. Voila. Everything is where it should be and you still can't find it.
Having long dark hair is the most useless invention known to man. It gets EVERYWHERE. I have spent all day picking dead bits of myself off the floors, the bath, the kitchen, the bottom of my wardrobe, the underside of my couch, the mattress, in front of the mirror where I dry my hair............ no wonder I'm thin, I must use all my bioenergy replacing lost hair.
Clean is relative. I thought my apartment was clean (well I gave it the Queenie version of a good clean the other day, but I knew in my heart that I was fooling myself). That was before I met my tenant's mother yesterday. Who spent an hour telling me how clean and neat her girl was. So I had another look this morning, and I am a slattern. A filthy wench. I really am. I cannot believe I have never poisoned a house guest, or murdered a small child with germs. No wonder I'm so healthy, I am probably cultivating my own forms of 'good' bacteria.
So I had to clean the place again. The moral of the story being, try not to be a slattern. And if that's not possible, don't clean until you are actually on your way out the door.
The only way to get teabags stains off a stainless steel sink is with chemicals that give you a rash on your hands because you've already thrown out your last pair of Marigolds.
The best way to move is to engage in short frenetic bursts of activity followed by periods sitting on the sofa drinking tea and not thinking about what has to be done next. When you are rested, the next task will come to the forefront of your mind automatically. Any other methodology will render you a gibbering wreck. As I demonstrated yesterday while trying to finish it all off by seven o'clock.
Cleaning fridges is the most boring activity on the planet. At least when you're doing the oven, there's the whole 'stand back, wear goggles, don't inhale' drama of the mousse. Why don't they just make fridges in a nice rust colour, which is the colour of all the stains in mine? Sooooo much yesterday's Indian...........
The only way to figure out whether everything will fit in your car is to actually PUT the stuff in the car. No amount of lazyman measuring will sort this out for you.
Madonna is the best cleaning music. Followed by Moby.
Don't answer the phone when you're packing. It won't be an offer of help. It will be an enquiry as to how you are getting on by yourself. If you ignore this crucial piece of advice and do answer the phone, don't lose the plot with the person on the other end. They are not moving house and do not understand the strain you are under and are ringing you because they are nice. Not because they have been put on this earth to drive you insane.
Superquinn reuseable shopping bags are the greatest invention known to man. You can tip the contents of your bedside locker into one. You can tip the contents of your bathroom cabinet into another. You can tip the contents of the drawer for miscellaneous items into a third. And bingo - the most annoying part of packing is done. When you get to your new place, just tip them back in. Voila. Everything is where it should be and you still can't find it.
Having long dark hair is the most useless invention known to man. It gets EVERYWHERE. I have spent all day picking dead bits of myself off the floors, the bath, the kitchen, the bottom of my wardrobe, the underside of my couch, the mattress, in front of the mirror where I dry my hair............ no wonder I'm thin, I must use all my bioenergy replacing lost hair.
Clean is relative. I thought my apartment was clean (well I gave it the Queenie version of a good clean the other day, but I knew in my heart that I was fooling myself). That was before I met my tenant's mother yesterday. Who spent an hour telling me how clean and neat her girl was. So I had another look this morning, and I am a slattern. A filthy wench. I really am. I cannot believe I have never poisoned a house guest, or murdered a small child with germs. No wonder I'm so healthy, I am probably cultivating my own forms of 'good' bacteria.
So I had to clean the place again. The moral of the story being, try not to be a slattern. And if that's not possible, don't clean until you are actually on your way out the door.
The only way to get teabags stains off a stainless steel sink is with chemicals that give you a rash on your hands because you've already thrown out your last pair of Marigolds.
The best way to move is to engage in short frenetic bursts of activity followed by periods sitting on the sofa drinking tea and not thinking about what has to be done next. When you are rested, the next task will come to the forefront of your mind automatically. Any other methodology will render you a gibbering wreck. As I demonstrated yesterday while trying to finish it all off by seven o'clock.
Cleaning fridges is the most boring activity on the planet. At least when you're doing the oven, there's the whole 'stand back, wear goggles, don't inhale' drama of the mousse. Why don't they just make fridges in a nice rust colour, which is the colour of all the stains in mine? Sooooo much yesterday's Indian...........
The only way to figure out whether everything will fit in your car is to actually PUT the stuff in the car. No amount of lazyman measuring will sort this out for you.
Madonna is the best cleaning music. Followed by Moby.
Don't answer the phone when you're packing. It won't be an offer of help. It will be an enquiry as to how you are getting on by yourself. If you ignore this crucial piece of advice and do answer the phone, don't lose the plot with the person on the other end. They are not moving house and do not understand the strain you are under and are ringing you because they are nice. Not because they have been put on this earth to drive you insane.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
So, what's the plan Queenie?
Damned if I know, but there have been a lot of requests for some kind of briefing. If this was a work thing, the Canada plan would be the extremely argumentative point I’ve been making at staff meetings for the last four months in order to wind everyone up, to the extent that they have finally ganged up on me and asked for a paper on it.
So, because I am a good civil servant, even though I have to stop being that now, I feel I should crystallise my thinking and write it. And of course if I do, and get in ahead of everyone else and argue my point coherently, I might progress one of my ideas. Which is of course the whole point of being a policy analyst. Or so I think anyway. And I reckon my peers all agree, which is why so many of us are frustrated. Which is why I’m leaving. But that’s another story entirely.
So yes, the plan. Well, you see therein lies the problem. Because an analyst needs time to think things through. And in today’s age of high productivity, sitting around thinking is not quantifiable and is therefore unproductive. It's all about participation, yes, lots of meetings so everyone can quantify their input and fuck the outputs. But that's another story entirely.
It always amazes me the way that people expect coherent, workable solutions to extremely complex problems and at the same time don’t allow you to sit around and think about what to do. How else are you expected to come up with a solution?
Anyway, the plan. Yes. Well, currently, there are a number of plans, or ideas. And really what you should do is give me some seed funding, and let me run a pilot, so I can figure out what works. But of course, there are budgetary constraints (Why is that, by the way? We’re loaded, aren’t we? Is there something they’re not telling us?). But to give them their due, they have decided I can do a pilot, and they will graciously allow me to take time out from being a responsible adult to engage in these pilots. But only on the understanding that I pay for it myself.
And I said yes to this deal??????????????????????
I am a muppet.
No I’m not. I chucked in my job and that in itself is something everyone should do at least once in their lives. I heartily recommend it. I've done it four times. You wouldn’t believe the type of people who slide up to you and shake your hand when you do it. We are legion. Even amongst the powerclass. But that's another story entirely.
Anyway, the plan. Well, there’s a chronological plan, that involves a week in Toronto, a week in Kingston, a couple of days in Montreal, the train down to Halifax NS, a couple of weeks in Wolfville, down to Digby to see the whales and then back to Halifax to get a job for the summer. Then down to Katharine’s wedding, at which point I will consult with my team (ie my friends) as to what I should do next. I am assuming I will have some options for them to consider. As far as I’m concerned, this is an extremely workable plan, but it takes time to explain, so most people’s eyes glaze over after Montreal. So I need a sentence that describes what I’m doing.
I’ve been trying. I’ve made quite a few speeches about this in the last few weeks. But none of them have worked. I’m finding it quite difficult to explain why I’m doing this, even though I know why. I just haven’t found the formula of words to describe it. And I'm damned if I'm going to spend three months developing a model of nine interlocking characteristics, which flow into five key challenges, which illuminate another five strategic priorities, which manifest themselves into forty two key recommendations, none of which have been costed (apart from the childcare one, which the Labour party just costed at one billion, which is probably conservative, except for it is not a cost, just a transfer of wealth, which of course we CAN'T have in this country. But that's another story entirely.)
So here are some sentences:
I am going to Canada because it is unusual to do it at my age, and I like doing unusual things.
I am going to Canada because they gave me a work permit.
I am going to Canada because it has a beautiful wilderness that I need to see.
I am going to Canada because I have this idea in my head that I might be able to write if I can switch off all the distractions, and I think that I might be able to do it there, if I go up the right cul de sac.
I am going to Canada because they are the world experts on partnership and I might find some idea over there that I can bring back to Ireland and persuade my colleagues about.
I am going to Canada because I cannot work for the public service in Ireland until after the next election. Because nothing is going to get done for the next two years. And I will go mad if I have to do another report.
I am going to Canada because I don’t know anyone there and I can reinvent myself if I want to, although I don’t think I will, because I like my current manifestation.
I am going to Canada because it is closer to the real centre of power in the world, and I am tired of operating in a small backwater, run by male pissheads. Who listen to me because I'm pretty, not because I am a serious operator.
I am going to Canada because it sounds like a place where you can have no money and still be dignified. Unlike Ireland, where choosing a low income lifestyle means you are a loser.
Which is bollocks by the way.
I am going to Canada because I might be able to find a business idea to take home and make work.
I am going to Canada because it is an easy exit strategy, and once I’m there, I don’t have to worry about coming home if I don’t want to.
That's all I can think of at the moment.
So there you go. There’s the plan at present.
If this was a work context, I would present this myriad of options to a committee, which wouldn’t have time to read any of them, and so would agree to let me choose one. Which it would then disagree with. But then, that’s what all groups of people do.
So I will choose one. At some point. The interesting part of this pilot is that there is no deadline, so I can do whatever I want. The only benefit of self-funded pilots. But not insubstantial (Damian - this sentence is for you by the way)
Which, if I remain true to my nature, will result in me imposing a deadline on myself. I will try not to do this this time, because the real reason I am going to Canada is to see whether it is possible to break the old routines and work on your strengths/ weaknesses so you can start using them to achieve different things.
Anyways, I’ll see you all in Vermont in September. Or in Canada at some point.
So, because I am a good civil servant, even though I have to stop being that now, I feel I should crystallise my thinking and write it. And of course if I do, and get in ahead of everyone else and argue my point coherently, I might progress one of my ideas. Which is of course the whole point of being a policy analyst. Or so I think anyway. And I reckon my peers all agree, which is why so many of us are frustrated. Which is why I’m leaving. But that’s another story entirely.
So yes, the plan. Well, you see therein lies the problem. Because an analyst needs time to think things through. And in today’s age of high productivity, sitting around thinking is not quantifiable and is therefore unproductive. It's all about participation, yes, lots of meetings so everyone can quantify their input and fuck the outputs. But that's another story entirely.
It always amazes me the way that people expect coherent, workable solutions to extremely complex problems and at the same time don’t allow you to sit around and think about what to do. How else are you expected to come up with a solution?
Anyway, the plan. Yes. Well, currently, there are a number of plans, or ideas. And really what you should do is give me some seed funding, and let me run a pilot, so I can figure out what works. But of course, there are budgetary constraints (Why is that, by the way? We’re loaded, aren’t we? Is there something they’re not telling us?). But to give them their due, they have decided I can do a pilot, and they will graciously allow me to take time out from being a responsible adult to engage in these pilots. But only on the understanding that I pay for it myself.
And I said yes to this deal??????????????????????
I am a muppet.
No I’m not. I chucked in my job and that in itself is something everyone should do at least once in their lives. I heartily recommend it. I've done it four times. You wouldn’t believe the type of people who slide up to you and shake your hand when you do it. We are legion. Even amongst the powerclass. But that's another story entirely.
Anyway, the plan. Well, there’s a chronological plan, that involves a week in Toronto, a week in Kingston, a couple of days in Montreal, the train down to Halifax NS, a couple of weeks in Wolfville, down to Digby to see the whales and then back to Halifax to get a job for the summer. Then down to Katharine’s wedding, at which point I will consult with my team (ie my friends) as to what I should do next. I am assuming I will have some options for them to consider. As far as I’m concerned, this is an extremely workable plan, but it takes time to explain, so most people’s eyes glaze over after Montreal. So I need a sentence that describes what I’m doing.
I’ve been trying. I’ve made quite a few speeches about this in the last few weeks. But none of them have worked. I’m finding it quite difficult to explain why I’m doing this, even though I know why. I just haven’t found the formula of words to describe it. And I'm damned if I'm going to spend three months developing a model of nine interlocking characteristics, which flow into five key challenges, which illuminate another five strategic priorities, which manifest themselves into forty two key recommendations, none of which have been costed (apart from the childcare one, which the Labour party just costed at one billion, which is probably conservative, except for it is not a cost, just a transfer of wealth, which of course we CAN'T have in this country. But that's another story entirely.)
So here are some sentences:
I am going to Canada because it is unusual to do it at my age, and I like doing unusual things.
I am going to Canada because they gave me a work permit.
I am going to Canada because it has a beautiful wilderness that I need to see.
I am going to Canada because I have this idea in my head that I might be able to write if I can switch off all the distractions, and I think that I might be able to do it there, if I go up the right cul de sac.
I am going to Canada because they are the world experts on partnership and I might find some idea over there that I can bring back to Ireland and persuade my colleagues about.
I am going to Canada because I cannot work for the public service in Ireland until after the next election. Because nothing is going to get done for the next two years. And I will go mad if I have to do another report.
I am going to Canada because I don’t know anyone there and I can reinvent myself if I want to, although I don’t think I will, because I like my current manifestation.
I am going to Canada because it is closer to the real centre of power in the world, and I am tired of operating in a small backwater, run by male pissheads. Who listen to me because I'm pretty, not because I am a serious operator.
I am going to Canada because it sounds like a place where you can have no money and still be dignified. Unlike Ireland, where choosing a low income lifestyle means you are a loser.
Which is bollocks by the way.
I am going to Canada because I might be able to find a business idea to take home and make work.
I am going to Canada because it is an easy exit strategy, and once I’m there, I don’t have to worry about coming home if I don’t want to.
That's all I can think of at the moment.
So there you go. There’s the plan at present.
If this was a work context, I would present this myriad of options to a committee, which wouldn’t have time to read any of them, and so would agree to let me choose one. Which it would then disagree with. But then, that’s what all groups of people do.
So I will choose one. At some point. The interesting part of this pilot is that there is no deadline, so I can do whatever I want. The only benefit of self-funded pilots. But not insubstantial (Damian - this sentence is for you by the way)
Which, if I remain true to my nature, will result in me imposing a deadline on myself. I will try not to do this this time, because the real reason I am going to Canada is to see whether it is possible to break the old routines and work on your strengths/ weaknesses so you can start using them to achieve different things.
Anyways, I’ll see you all in Vermont in September. Or in Canada at some point.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Enough with the bloke stuff already
Okay boys and girls, Queenie has had enough!
She knows you all mean well, she knows she probably brought it on herself by writing a blogpost about dating, but she has one nerve left and you are all getting on it.
So before you say "Ah sure, you'll meet some bloke over there and get married", or "Are you off to get yourself a Mountie", or heckle her about going to get a man when she's trying to say goodbye at a party, or make jokes about lumberjacks, or send her pictures of Canadian men, or whatever, consider the following:
Qeenie is snowed under an avalanche of these comments. Your comment, while obviously meant to be a JOKE, does on one level imply that Queenie is in some way incomplete without a man. Your comment implies that Queenie is in some way lonely or unhappy without a man. Or should be, anyway. Your comment implies that Queenie's life is less satisfying or interesting than it could be with a man. Your comment implies that Queenie feels this in some way, and is tearing up all her roots and tracking halfway across the world purely to get a man.
Queenie doesn't know why she's going to Canada, but at the moment, she feels it might be to get away from the sympathetic comments about her single status.
Maybe Queenie is getting up on her high horse here, but she feels incredibly undermined by these feelings. All these years of being financially and emotionally independent, of being able to live successfully on her own, which Queenie considers to be the greatest achievement of her life to date, appears to be "despite being single", in other words a failure, in the eyes of almost everyone she knows.
Is she mad to be thinking this?
The fact that she is intermittently mad is beside the point.
The second last nerve snapped recently, when she had to endure a lecture on her lack of flirting ability (and how she should work on it in Canada) from a married man who would run away with her tomorrow if she gave him the nod. Which she won't. Ever. Comprendez? She's not that kind of girl. Well, not anymore anyways!
Queenie knows how to flirt, no better woman actually, but she doesn't engage in the sport anymore because it gets her into all kinds of trouble. Man trouble mostly.
Although some of the happiest times of Queenie's life have been spent in the company, of one kind or another, of a man, ALL of the loneliest, the scariest, the unhappiest, the angriest, the most boring, the most unfulfilled, the most depressing, the most violent, the most abusive, the most confusing, the most disappointing, the most frustrating, or the all-round most empty-inside times of Queenie's life have been the result of her having a relationship, of one kind or another, with a man.
Having said that, lest you all think she's an embittered old hag, Queenie would like to point out that she loves men. Anyone who knows her knows that. And she knows that mostly these times were caused by her brain dribbling out her ear and down her low-cut top and the poor decision-making that consequently took place. And she doesn't hold any grudges against men. Far from it! And any trust issues she might have are mostly concerned with her own judgement in these matters!
Queenie is a very high maintenance Alpha chick. There have been a few men who have taken her on and she will always be glad that they did. No matter how it ended. And maybe there will be some more some time. Who knows? Who cares? Queenie had a party last weekend and that's it. You're not getting another day out, no matter what.
So come on, guys, with all the love in her heart for you that she has, Queenie would like to say "gimme a break".
Plus, Percy's getting a little agitated by the whole thing. Thinking is he not man enough for her.
Percy dude, you're all the man I need - Queenie
So many hostages to fortune, Queenie, so many. I can hear the whirr of printers all over the cyberworld - Percy
She knows you all mean well, she knows she probably brought it on herself by writing a blogpost about dating, but she has one nerve left and you are all getting on it.
So before you say "Ah sure, you'll meet some bloke over there and get married", or "Are you off to get yourself a Mountie", or heckle her about going to get a man when she's trying to say goodbye at a party, or make jokes about lumberjacks, or send her pictures of Canadian men, or whatever, consider the following:
Qeenie is snowed under an avalanche of these comments. Your comment, while obviously meant to be a JOKE, does on one level imply that Queenie is in some way incomplete without a man. Your comment implies that Queenie is in some way lonely or unhappy without a man. Or should be, anyway. Your comment implies that Queenie's life is less satisfying or interesting than it could be with a man. Your comment implies that Queenie feels this in some way, and is tearing up all her roots and tracking halfway across the world purely to get a man.
Queenie doesn't know why she's going to Canada, but at the moment, she feels it might be to get away from the sympathetic comments about her single status.
Maybe Queenie is getting up on her high horse here, but she feels incredibly undermined by these feelings. All these years of being financially and emotionally independent, of being able to live successfully on her own, which Queenie considers to be the greatest achievement of her life to date, appears to be "despite being single", in other words a failure, in the eyes of almost everyone she knows.
Is she mad to be thinking this?
The fact that she is intermittently mad is beside the point.
The second last nerve snapped recently, when she had to endure a lecture on her lack of flirting ability (and how she should work on it in Canada) from a married man who would run away with her tomorrow if she gave him the nod. Which she won't. Ever. Comprendez? She's not that kind of girl. Well, not anymore anyways!
Queenie knows how to flirt, no better woman actually, but she doesn't engage in the sport anymore because it gets her into all kinds of trouble. Man trouble mostly.
Although some of the happiest times of Queenie's life have been spent in the company, of one kind or another, of a man, ALL of the loneliest, the scariest, the unhappiest, the angriest, the most boring, the most unfulfilled, the most depressing, the most violent, the most abusive, the most confusing, the most disappointing, the most frustrating, or the all-round most empty-inside times of Queenie's life have been the result of her having a relationship, of one kind or another, with a man.
Having said that, lest you all think she's an embittered old hag, Queenie would like to point out that she loves men. Anyone who knows her knows that. And she knows that mostly these times were caused by her brain dribbling out her ear and down her low-cut top and the poor decision-making that consequently took place. And she doesn't hold any grudges against men. Far from it! And any trust issues she might have are mostly concerned with her own judgement in these matters!
Queenie is a very high maintenance Alpha chick. There have been a few men who have taken her on and she will always be glad that they did. No matter how it ended. And maybe there will be some more some time. Who knows? Who cares? Queenie had a party last weekend and that's it. You're not getting another day out, no matter what.
So come on, guys, with all the love in her heart for you that she has, Queenie would like to say "gimme a break".
Plus, Percy's getting a little agitated by the whole thing. Thinking is he not man enough for her.
Percy dude, you're all the man I need - Queenie
So many hostages to fortune, Queenie, so many. I can hear the whirr of printers all over the cyberworld - Percy
Friday, May 20, 2005
After Theo Van Gogh's Death
http://www.guardian.co.uk/g2/story/0,,1485350,00.html
Here's an article about Hirsi Ali, the Somalian woman who co-produced Submission, the short film about Muslim women that resulted in Theo VanGogh getting murdered in the Netherlands last year.
Ali is preparing to make Submission 2
Here's an article about Hirsi Ali, the Somalian woman who co-produced Submission, the short film about Muslim women that resulted in Theo VanGogh getting murdered in the Netherlands last year.
Ali is preparing to make Submission 2
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Today's Question
Is suing someone for hurt they caused you in the past a form of capital appropriation? Is it an appropriate method for transferring capital between the classes? And is litigation a class-based issue generally?
Or is Queenie talking through her butt? She was thinking about this last night when she was supposed to be writing Percy's blog.
Or is Queenie talking through her butt? She was thinking about this last night when she was supposed to be writing Percy's blog.
Monday, May 16, 2005
SONNET 96
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are loved of more and less;
Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort.
As on the finger of a throned queen
The basest jewel will be well esteem'd,
So are those errors that in thee are seen
To truths translated and for true things deem'd.
How many lambs might the stem wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are loved of more and less;
Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort.
As on the finger of a throned queen
The basest jewel will be well esteem'd,
So are those errors that in thee are seen
To truths translated and for true things deem'd.
How many lambs might the stem wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Tears, yes, and some violins, but mostly dancing!
Queenie decided to make a playlist for herself and burn it for the laydeez coming to lunch on Saturday. Jeez, it’s hard work. First you gotta find the right toons, then you gotta put them in the right order, then you gotta delete one, because you’ve gone over the 70MB, then you gotta go out and buy the cd roms, then you gotta write out all the little cards and burn all the discs….. she reckons the music industry has nothing to worry about. Nobody has the time for this, surely.
Anyways, she’s burning and listening now so she thought she’d tell you why she likes these songs.
She also CANNOT do the third person for another second, so the rest of this is in the first person. I’m at home. I scored really low on Finisher in the Belbin, okay. Just leave me alone.
1. Smog: Hit the Ground Running
Well, you’ve got to start with your tongue in your cheek, don’t you.
I had to le-e-e-eave the country! Although there were some nice folks there.
I like Smog, even though he’s a humourless bastard. He gives it to you straight, with none of that ideological rubbish Billy Bragg goes on with. Gosh I am sick to death of being lectured at by political junkies.
But you is one - Percy.
Not any more, dude.
A bitter man rots from within – how true!
And I love the children’s choir in this, so deadpan. Reminds me of that awful choir I was in when I was young, the Choirmaster was THE choirmaster, if you know what I mean!!
2. Bloc Party: Positive Tension
This is from one of only two good albums (new albums) I spent my hard-earned on this year. The other one being Push the Button. Although Bloc Party's Irish gig in Whelans recently was deemed disappointing by my mainstream music guru. As opposed to my obscure music gurus. Who are legion.
This is my favourite song on the album. Great energy. Really camp without being too much.
Something glorious is about to happen! Damn right it is.
3. Badly Drawn Boy: Another Devil Dies
I had to think about this song for a long time. And I moved it around a lot. I don’t really like BDB, he’s a bit twee for me. But this is not twee. It is such a bitchy song. And really insightful. And I know the laydeez like him. So this is for them.
It seems like we’ve weathered the storm. Without having the privilege of calm.
I can relate to that. Can you?
4. Jefferson Airplane: Coming back to me
From the kooky Surrealistic Pillow album, which I only discovered recently. Via a film I love. It’s called The Indian Runner, directed by Sean Penn, which is based on a Bruce Springsteen song that I also really love, called Highway Patrolman. It’s on Nebraska. It’s about a man who lost his farm and had to be a cop, and his relationship with his brother who is a bad un. One memorable night in Springtown a couple of Christmasses ago, I was at a party and two of my friends played the Springsteen song. Out of the blue.
So every time I hear this song, I think of The Indian Runner, then I think of Bruce Springsteen, then I think of that party. Not quite what the airplane had in mind when they wrote it. Never mind, it’s my song now.
5. Alicia Keys: Butterflyz
I wasn’t expecting to have something like this on the playlist. I rarely listen to R n B. But whenever I do, I really like it. It must be my secret shame, like Wattser and musicals….. what is that about?
I love songs that say Baaaaaaby that way. I’d love to be able to do that, but it’s too rich for my blood. This is a great song.
This is for Polly. Because she could sing it if she wanted to.
6. Basement Jaxx: Being with you
This song interrupts the last one in a very annoying way, which I didn’t know how to fix.
I love BJ, I have all their albums. I saw them when I went to Glastonbury and they always remind me of that weekend. More of that anon.
But I chose this song, which is not really their style, because it reminds me of a Kool and the Gang moment I had when I was sixteen. And I don’t have any KATG.
I was on some summer cultural trip like a Gaeltacht, only with sunshine, in a little village in the North of France and I met two Dutch blokes who invited me back to their tent for a cup of tea. So I went. I was only sixteen. Well, we sat there and made a little fire. And they made me a cup of tea. And played me KATG. And then they drove me back to my hostel. And the guy who was in charge of the trip was waiting for me outside the hostel with two gendarmes.
I still fail to see what was so terrible about the situation. I’m an excellent judge of character.
7. Kevin Shields: City Girl
Kevin used to keep chihuahas. Did you know that? This is for Elmo. And Elmo’s mammy. And her mammy. Who is also my mammy.
8. David Gray: Please forgive me
Please indulge me. I’m a hopeless romantic. And he played on every stage in Glastonbury that weekend. Bless him. He must have hated this song by the end of it. I wonder what he’s doing now. Falling like a stone into someone’s eyes, no doubt.
I love a bit of mystery. All women do. Unfortunately, it’s all in our head. Never mind. We can just make it up.
9. The Waterboys: Glastonbury Song
Aaah, the lads!
That was a stormer of a gig I went to in the Olympia last year. The best gig I was at for a long time. It was a night back in Galway again.
Galway…………..! Do you remember all those weekends…. Hitching down from Maynooth, with all the dodgy guys in beamers? Occasionally you’d get a lorry driver. And he’d feed you. Bliss! And it was always pissing rain when you got into Eyre Square. And you had to walk miles to some manky pub with a load of NA Travellers and their smelly dogs. And then to Supermacs. And onto the Warwick, or the Oasis. And getting off with a cadet! Or a rugby player. And then trying to get rid of them the next morning. And we only ever had a tenner!
Why can’t it be like that again?
10. Bob Dylan: Forever Young
This song always, always, always reduces me to tears.
11. Mary Gauthier: Our Lady of the Shooting Stars
I only found this the other day in a Party Shuffle. It’s incredible. The guitar is great – I wonder is she playing. I presume she is.
I’ll hate it in a month.
Btw, it’s pronounced goshay. But you knew that, didn’t you.
Did I tell you I won a music pub quiz the other night? Well, I had a bit of help.
12. Everything but the Girl: Missing
Nearly as annoying as Badly Drawn Boy. Sentence bands. For fuck’s sake. We know you’re clever. You didn’t get where you are today with a tit job, now did you.
I really like the way they worked this up into a dance tune though. The original is torturous. I should know. I have all their albums.
But I needed a link song. You’ll understand in a minute.
13. Mercury Rev: Black Forest (Lorelei)
See? I think it works. Black Forest didn’t link into the Gauthier well enough. I had to ditch Solas though. I was really annoyed about that. I had What’s up with Win, which is a riotous sortie through the traditional Irish oeuvre. Which is what you want in a trad band. None of this introspective Clare fiddle crap that Martin Hayes has going on. Where you have to sit quietly at a gig.
Life’s too short not to talk at gigs. And to my shame, I told a young fella to shut up at the Rev gig. I’m mortified. But I got my comeuppance the other night. I was talking my way through a gig at Whelans, as I normally do, when a completely nutty guy standing two people away glared at me and told me to stay quiet. So I did. And it was so difficult. I know I talk a lot. I’m sorry. I’ll shut up now.
You can't go around the black forest, boys and girls, you have to go through. How true!
This is for Nadia.
14. God is an Astronaut: Route 666
I got this from Stevo. He gives me albums. In order for me to listen to them, which I’m very bad at. Which is why the party shuffle is really good, because I hear a song and then I go over to check out who it is. Real smart. I wonder who decided that had to be a feature. Probably someone with the attention span of a flea.
I went to see GIAA with Stevo and Eileen and it was a great gig. They had visuals of George Bush. It was very serious. Very early Floyd. I really enjoyed it. I love going to gigs with Eileen and Stevo. This is for them.
The album is called The End of the Beginning. Of course.
15. Orbital: One Perfect Sunrise
I’ve had so many. I’m really lucky. Going to have a few more shortly.
Sunrise at Macchu Piccu.
Sunrise in Los Llanos. On Lake Maracaibo.
Sunrise in Goa.
Sunrise in Connemara
Sunrise in Dun Laoghaire
Sunrise in Glasnevin
Sunrise in Springtown
Blue Album is my favourite album. I was going to put on Transient, but it's too sad.
I also managed to burn two CDs while that was on, due to it being so long.
16. Miracles
I don’t know the artist. Maybe someone can help me with it. I got it from a cd Mark gave me, which is entitled Firstborn – when it hits you can’t feel it. Which is intriguing.
I just love the guy’s enthusiasm. It’s infectious.
Mark says the name of the band is Firstborn and I should learn how to read my cd covers properly. So there you go, Miracles, by Firstborn, from the album When it Hits you You can't feel it.
17. Viggo Mortensen: To Sleep
To sleep. Perchance to dream.
What with the forthcoming change in time zone, I’ll be up when you’re all asleep. So I’ll be thinking of you all. Dreaming.
And he says it in this little poem so much better than I ever could.
Don’t you think?
Anyways, she’s burning and listening now so she thought she’d tell you why she likes these songs.
She also CANNOT do the third person for another second, so the rest of this is in the first person. I’m at home. I scored really low on Finisher in the Belbin, okay. Just leave me alone.
1. Smog: Hit the Ground Running
Well, you’ve got to start with your tongue in your cheek, don’t you.
I had to le-e-e-eave the country! Although there were some nice folks there.
I like Smog, even though he’s a humourless bastard. He gives it to you straight, with none of that ideological rubbish Billy Bragg goes on with. Gosh I am sick to death of being lectured at by political junkies.
But you is one - Percy.
Not any more, dude.
A bitter man rots from within – how true!
And I love the children’s choir in this, so deadpan. Reminds me of that awful choir I was in when I was young, the Choirmaster was THE choirmaster, if you know what I mean!!
2. Bloc Party: Positive Tension
This is from one of only two good albums (new albums) I spent my hard-earned on this year. The other one being Push the Button. Although Bloc Party's Irish gig in Whelans recently was deemed disappointing by my mainstream music guru. As opposed to my obscure music gurus. Who are legion.
This is my favourite song on the album. Great energy. Really camp without being too much.
Something glorious is about to happen! Damn right it is.
3. Badly Drawn Boy: Another Devil Dies
I had to think about this song for a long time. And I moved it around a lot. I don’t really like BDB, he’s a bit twee for me. But this is not twee. It is such a bitchy song. And really insightful. And I know the laydeez like him. So this is for them.
It seems like we’ve weathered the storm. Without having the privilege of calm.
I can relate to that. Can you?
4. Jefferson Airplane: Coming back to me
From the kooky Surrealistic Pillow album, which I only discovered recently. Via a film I love. It’s called The Indian Runner, directed by Sean Penn, which is based on a Bruce Springsteen song that I also really love, called Highway Patrolman. It’s on Nebraska. It’s about a man who lost his farm and had to be a cop, and his relationship with his brother who is a bad un. One memorable night in Springtown a couple of Christmasses ago, I was at a party and two of my friends played the Springsteen song. Out of the blue.
So every time I hear this song, I think of The Indian Runner, then I think of Bruce Springsteen, then I think of that party. Not quite what the airplane had in mind when they wrote it. Never mind, it’s my song now.
5. Alicia Keys: Butterflyz
I wasn’t expecting to have something like this on the playlist. I rarely listen to R n B. But whenever I do, I really like it. It must be my secret shame, like Wattser and musicals….. what is that about?
I love songs that say Baaaaaaby that way. I’d love to be able to do that, but it’s too rich for my blood. This is a great song.
This is for Polly. Because she could sing it if she wanted to.
6. Basement Jaxx: Being with you
This song interrupts the last one in a very annoying way, which I didn’t know how to fix.
I love BJ, I have all their albums. I saw them when I went to Glastonbury and they always remind me of that weekend. More of that anon.
But I chose this song, which is not really their style, because it reminds me of a Kool and the Gang moment I had when I was sixteen. And I don’t have any KATG.
I was on some summer cultural trip like a Gaeltacht, only with sunshine, in a little village in the North of France and I met two Dutch blokes who invited me back to their tent for a cup of tea. So I went. I was only sixteen. Well, we sat there and made a little fire. And they made me a cup of tea. And played me KATG. And then they drove me back to my hostel. And the guy who was in charge of the trip was waiting for me outside the hostel with two gendarmes.
I still fail to see what was so terrible about the situation. I’m an excellent judge of character.
7. Kevin Shields: City Girl
Kevin used to keep chihuahas. Did you know that? This is for Elmo. And Elmo’s mammy. And her mammy. Who is also my mammy.
8. David Gray: Please forgive me
Please indulge me. I’m a hopeless romantic. And he played on every stage in Glastonbury that weekend. Bless him. He must have hated this song by the end of it. I wonder what he’s doing now. Falling like a stone into someone’s eyes, no doubt.
I love a bit of mystery. All women do. Unfortunately, it’s all in our head. Never mind. We can just make it up.
9. The Waterboys: Glastonbury Song
Aaah, the lads!
That was a stormer of a gig I went to in the Olympia last year. The best gig I was at for a long time. It was a night back in Galway again.
Galway…………..! Do you remember all those weekends…. Hitching down from Maynooth, with all the dodgy guys in beamers? Occasionally you’d get a lorry driver. And he’d feed you. Bliss! And it was always pissing rain when you got into Eyre Square. And you had to walk miles to some manky pub with a load of NA Travellers and their smelly dogs. And then to Supermacs. And onto the Warwick, or the Oasis. And getting off with a cadet! Or a rugby player. And then trying to get rid of them the next morning. And we only ever had a tenner!
Why can’t it be like that again?
10. Bob Dylan: Forever Young
This song always, always, always reduces me to tears.
11. Mary Gauthier: Our Lady of the Shooting Stars
I only found this the other day in a Party Shuffle. It’s incredible. The guitar is great – I wonder is she playing. I presume she is.
I’ll hate it in a month.
Btw, it’s pronounced goshay. But you knew that, didn’t you.
Did I tell you I won a music pub quiz the other night? Well, I had a bit of help.
12. Everything but the Girl: Missing
Nearly as annoying as Badly Drawn Boy. Sentence bands. For fuck’s sake. We know you’re clever. You didn’t get where you are today with a tit job, now did you.
I really like the way they worked this up into a dance tune though. The original is torturous. I should know. I have all their albums.
But I needed a link song. You’ll understand in a minute.
13. Mercury Rev: Black Forest (Lorelei)
See? I think it works. Black Forest didn’t link into the Gauthier well enough. I had to ditch Solas though. I was really annoyed about that. I had What’s up with Win, which is a riotous sortie through the traditional Irish oeuvre. Which is what you want in a trad band. None of this introspective Clare fiddle crap that Martin Hayes has going on. Where you have to sit quietly at a gig.
Life’s too short not to talk at gigs. And to my shame, I told a young fella to shut up at the Rev gig. I’m mortified. But I got my comeuppance the other night. I was talking my way through a gig at Whelans, as I normally do, when a completely nutty guy standing two people away glared at me and told me to stay quiet. So I did. And it was so difficult. I know I talk a lot. I’m sorry. I’ll shut up now.
You can't go around the black forest, boys and girls, you have to go through. How true!
This is for Nadia.
14. God is an Astronaut: Route 666
I got this from Stevo. He gives me albums. In order for me to listen to them, which I’m very bad at. Which is why the party shuffle is really good, because I hear a song and then I go over to check out who it is. Real smart. I wonder who decided that had to be a feature. Probably someone with the attention span of a flea.
I went to see GIAA with Stevo and Eileen and it was a great gig. They had visuals of George Bush. It was very serious. Very early Floyd. I really enjoyed it. I love going to gigs with Eileen and Stevo. This is for them.
The album is called The End of the Beginning. Of course.
15. Orbital: One Perfect Sunrise
I’ve had so many. I’m really lucky. Going to have a few more shortly.
Sunrise at Macchu Piccu.
Sunrise in Los Llanos. On Lake Maracaibo.
Sunrise in Goa.
Sunrise in Connemara
Sunrise in Dun Laoghaire
Sunrise in Glasnevin
Sunrise in Springtown
Blue Album is my favourite album. I was going to put on Transient, but it's too sad.
I also managed to burn two CDs while that was on, due to it being so long.
16. Miracles
I don’t know the artist. Maybe someone can help me with it. I got it from a cd Mark gave me, which is entitled Firstborn – when it hits you can’t feel it. Which is intriguing.
I just love the guy’s enthusiasm. It’s infectious.
Mark says the name of the band is Firstborn and I should learn how to read my cd covers properly. So there you go, Miracles, by Firstborn, from the album When it Hits you You can't feel it.
17. Viggo Mortensen: To Sleep
To sleep. Perchance to dream.
What with the forthcoming change in time zone, I’ll be up when you’re all asleep. So I’ll be thinking of you all. Dreaming.
And he says it in this little poem so much better than I ever could.
Don’t you think?
Portentious news, or maybe just pretentious
Percy's new friend Paul (whom he met through Queenie, she'd like to point out) recently introduced him to Electrelane, who as you can see from the photo, are a band of minstrels very close to Percy's heart.
And now, comes the news that they are playing The Horse Shoe Tavern in Toronto the night Percy and Queenie arrive in Canada.
It must be a portent! Better consult Campbell, Percy!!
And now, comes the news that they are playing The Horse Shoe Tavern in Toronto the night Percy and Queenie arrive in Canada.
It must be a portent! Better consult Campbell, Percy!!
Nano-celebrity and all things mattressy. All Tomorrow’s Parties, April 2005: Part Five, Sunday
Sunday morning is the worst moment of ATP for this girl. Waking up after two nights of mayhem with a manky chalet and a whole 24 hours left to go. Uggghhh. The major clean up after party got going in fits and starts. Poor Dr. Aileen was finally succumbing to her chest infection. But it was a beautiful day, so Clare and Queenie hauled the divan mattress out onto the grass in the square and sat on it for the day.
Well, Queenie did. Krossie and Clare went swimming, went to the record sale, signed up for the pub quiz and did various activities that only made Queenie feel even more tired. She tried to write in her journal but having to listen to Luke singing along to the Bangles Eternal Flame, playing on an mp3 player, proved a little distracting. More squawking than Jabba getting molested by the local Capo cat.
Finally made it upstairs to see Jayne County. As she walked upstairs, a man in front of her was making a video of his walk into the room. Very New York. Jayne, who used to be Wayne, was great – lots of ranting about rightwingers and finished off with a version of California Uber Alles a la Arnold Schwarzeneggar. Thank God somebody else is interested in having a pop at right wing Americans this weekend.
Then we went downstairs to see Ted Curson. The biggest man at ATP. Elderly too, his bursts of energy had to be followed by regular little sit downs, but he had a great backing band supporting him and a super double bass player. He oozed love for his great friend, Vincent.
What is it about him? Vincent Gallo seems to be a right a prick, but we are all drawn to him anyway. Why is that? Is it because he seems to need us? That’s why people perform isn’t it – to reveal something about themselves in order to get our attention? Attention-seeking is something that everyone engages in, particularly at ATP. It’s a weekend where you can be a celebrity for a nanosecond, acccording to one of Queenie's room-mates.
Some people use their moment in the spotlight to say wise/ important things, but in some way, Queenie reckons they’re almost worse than mememememe pure attention seekers, because she’s never quite sure to what extent they believe their own agenda. Or whether it just works for them.
And why are we drawn to performers, anyway? Is it their vulnerability? People aren’t drawn to vulnerability in the people around them, they are drawn to strength. So why are we drawn to vulnerability in the famous?
Too many big questions… the point is, we’re all nano-celebrities this weekend.
The rest of the day was spent upstairs. Queenie rocked out to James Chance and the Contortions with the dance troupe from the chalet across the square. They seemed to be the oldest rockers in town. Apart from The Zombies, who followed them with pride. A quick look at their line up provided an explanation for the oobit outbreak – Zombie fan basic equipment maybe.
The live acts for ATP 2005 ended with Yoko Ono, who was supported by Vincent Gallo and her son Sean Lennon. As we waited for the gig, a woman handed out Onochord torches and a poem. The poem gave us instructions as to how to click out I-Love-You on the Onochord torch.
Photoflashes were banned, but Queenie got three off before she was politely asked to stop. Sorry Yoko. Politely asked to stop is so much nicer than getting hauled out of the venue by her hair, which is what would probably have happened Queenie if she had risked it in Ireland. Yet another reason why ATP is the nicest little festival in the world.
Yoko said: “I’m so tired, a twelve hour flight and then two more hours to get here”. Yeah well, so are we, Yoko. Three days of music and beer and lord knows what else.
Clare and Queenie ended up in the bar with the Pauls and some randoms and danced the night away, until it all faded to black around 4.30am.
Great weekend. Thanks for the memories guys!
And thank you Mr. Gallo………………… for having loads of great female artists and three female headline acts. The ladies rock!!
Well, Queenie did. Krossie and Clare went swimming, went to the record sale, signed up for the pub quiz and did various activities that only made Queenie feel even more tired. She tried to write in her journal but having to listen to Luke singing along to the Bangles Eternal Flame, playing on an mp3 player, proved a little distracting. More squawking than Jabba getting molested by the local Capo cat.
Finally made it upstairs to see Jayne County. As she walked upstairs, a man in front of her was making a video of his walk into the room. Very New York. Jayne, who used to be Wayne, was great – lots of ranting about rightwingers and finished off with a version of California Uber Alles a la Arnold Schwarzeneggar. Thank God somebody else is interested in having a pop at right wing Americans this weekend.
Then we went downstairs to see Ted Curson. The biggest man at ATP. Elderly too, his bursts of energy had to be followed by regular little sit downs, but he had a great backing band supporting him and a super double bass player. He oozed love for his great friend, Vincent.
What is it about him? Vincent Gallo seems to be a right a prick, but we are all drawn to him anyway. Why is that? Is it because he seems to need us? That’s why people perform isn’t it – to reveal something about themselves in order to get our attention? Attention-seeking is something that everyone engages in, particularly at ATP. It’s a weekend where you can be a celebrity for a nanosecond, acccording to one of Queenie's room-mates.
Some people use their moment in the spotlight to say wise/ important things, but in some way, Queenie reckons they’re almost worse than mememememe pure attention seekers, because she’s never quite sure to what extent they believe their own agenda. Or whether it just works for them.
And why are we drawn to performers, anyway? Is it their vulnerability? People aren’t drawn to vulnerability in the people around them, they are drawn to strength. So why are we drawn to vulnerability in the famous?
Too many big questions… the point is, we’re all nano-celebrities this weekend.
The rest of the day was spent upstairs. Queenie rocked out to James Chance and the Contortions with the dance troupe from the chalet across the square. They seemed to be the oldest rockers in town. Apart from The Zombies, who followed them with pride. A quick look at their line up provided an explanation for the oobit outbreak – Zombie fan basic equipment maybe.
The live acts for ATP 2005 ended with Yoko Ono, who was supported by Vincent Gallo and her son Sean Lennon. As we waited for the gig, a woman handed out Onochord torches and a poem. The poem gave us instructions as to how to click out I-Love-You on the Onochord torch.
Photoflashes were banned, but Queenie got three off before she was politely asked to stop. Sorry Yoko. Politely asked to stop is so much nicer than getting hauled out of the venue by her hair, which is what would probably have happened Queenie if she had risked it in Ireland. Yet another reason why ATP is the nicest little festival in the world.
Yoko said: “I’m so tired, a twelve hour flight and then two more hours to get here”. Yeah well, so are we, Yoko. Three days of music and beer and lord knows what else.
Clare and Queenie ended up in the bar with the Pauls and some randoms and danced the night away, until it all faded to black around 4.30am.
Great weekend. Thanks for the memories guys!
And thank you Mr. Gallo………………… for having loads of great female artists and three female headline acts. The ladies rock!!
Monday, May 09, 2005
Very Fin de Siecle: All Tomorrow’s Parties, April 2005: Part Four, Saturday gigs
Our chalet was kitted out with a vast array of lights, candles, streamers, screamers, pineapple chunks on sticks, cheezy wotzits and girlies in black cocktail dresses when we arrived back from Autolux. Go the party organisers! Tom and Luke got kitted out in formal fin de siecle gear as well. Queenie sat on a chair outside the chalet and vetted the guests. Krossie and the doctor sneaked off to Buck 65. Who is Canadian, from Nova Scotia!
The people in the chalet across the way were also having a party, but they were cheating by having a free bar. There were three of them – they used to be members of some famous dancing troupe that Queenie hadn’t ever heard of. They did one of their routines on the lawn for their guests and got a big round of applause. It was hilarious – one of them looked like a character from The Incredibles and dressed in a spin off superman outfit – all blue and red with strange pointy boots. They were very nice, even though they won the ‘the most party guests’ competition by bribing people. We directed our guests over to partake too – no point not sharing the love around.
As a consequence of being mannerly enough to attend her own chalet party, Queenie missed Buck 65, which she shouldn’t have done, as he was very good. But she got to hear the cd on the way back to Gatwick and he’s playing the Village soon, so maybe she’ll get another chance.
Much later, after all the cheezy wotsits and chocolate cake had been trodden into the floor, and mixed with the tinsel that was going to have to be removed the next day, the kids went onwards and upwards into the madness and the frenetic buzz that is Saturday night at ATP. We went downstairs (on the left, beside the bar) to see Sean Lennon with Vincent Gallo. And sat on the manky carpet and waited. And sat through a thirty eight minute sound check. After which nothing happened. Queenie suddenly realised the sound check had been the gig. Oh, right. Maybe Sunday night gig would be better.
Seriously, though, guys, very disappointing.
Queenie noticed that a serious percentage of this year's crowd had a John Holmes 1970s oobit look going on. She wasn’t sure if this was a trend, but someone told her it was the same in ATP 2004. If it is a trend, it is a very scary one, as it might mean that the chief occupant of Queenie’s mancupboard might not shave off the oobit he grew for his current film. Which will of course result in him getting flung out of said cupboard.
Pirate scarf and leather jacket she can handle. Oobit – only if it's absolutely integral to the plot and it must be gone the day after the wrap party.
Queenie met up with a group of English blokes who looked as if they’d strayed off the set of Wonderland and proceeded to the second part of ATP Saturday, which is the bit of the weekend where she normally gets chatted up. This is one of her favourite bits of ATP. The blokes are usually from Halifax, or Wigan, or Glasgow and really nice. (Although ATP was very Londoner-oriented this year). They chat to you about stuff. They don’t slag you off. They don’t assume you want to sleep with/ marry/ go psycho on/ manipulate them. They do assume you are here to see the music and have some fun.
Due to the high oobit factor, Queenie spent her time convincing them they should go into the porn business. They bought the drinks and she pitched plots to them. Then she got bored and they parted company. Probably not such a good idea. Queenie stayed on downstairs for John Frusciante and during the gig got shouted at for being a fucking paddy by some random English bloke. She can’t remember why. The Pauls think it might be her overwhelming sense of Irish superiority getting her into trouble again. Probably. Whatever.
By the time it was time to go upstairs to listen to Polly Jean, it was time to calm down, sit against the wall and listen quietly to the gig. The queen of wail didn’t disappoint, even though it was her first solo gig in many years.
PJ thanked VG profusely for believing in her and convincing her to do a solo gig. In fact, loads of acts thanked him profusely. So either he’s really nice and helpful and kind and the racist, sexist, homophobic ranting on his website is just some terribly clever NYC pisstake that us lesser mortals don’t get. Or he has them all bribed/ drugged/ brainwashed into thinking he’s great.
Either way, he got what he wanted as everyone at ATP spent all weekend talking about him.
Queenie had to crash around eleventy three and went for a nap during Brown Bunny (in my bed in the chalet), then got up at 3am and went to DJ Ellen Allien for a while.
Why?
Because she is an eejit. That's why.
And here's some Machado.......
Has my heart gone to sleep?
Antonio Machado
Has my heart gone to sleep?
Have the beehives of my dreams
stopped working, the waterwheel
of the mind run dry,
scoops turning empty,
only shadow inside?
No, my heart is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
Not asleep, not dreaming—
its eyes are opened wide
watching distant signals, listening
on the rim of vast silence.
Last night as I was sleeping
Antonio Machado
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart
Antonio Machado
Has my heart gone to sleep?
Have the beehives of my dreams
stopped working, the waterwheel
of the mind run dry,
scoops turning empty,
only shadow inside?
No, my heart is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
Not asleep, not dreaming—
its eyes are opened wide
watching distant signals, listening
on the rim of vast silence.
Last night as I was sleeping
Antonio Machado
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart
Gifts for a girl who's travelling light
Queenie loves presents. She's got a lovely windchime and a little dragon statuette that she got as presents, that are going in the bag with Percy. And she got a wonderful gift recently that won't be going to Canada, but is an important part of the preparations.
And here's another one she got by email this morning. Thank you, Oisin!
Radio Waves
for Antonio Machado
by Raymond Carver
This rain has stopped, and the moon has come out.
I don't understand the first thing about radio
waves. But I think they travel better just after
a rain, when the air is damp. Anyway, I can reach out
now and pick up Ottawa, if I want to, or Toronto.
Lately, at night, I've found myself
becoming slightly interested in Canadian politics
and domestic affairs. It's true. But mostly it was their
music stations I was after. I could sit here in the chair
and listen, without having to do anything, or think.
I don't have a TV, and I'd quit reading
the papers. At night I turned on the radio.
When I came out here I was trying to get away
from everything. Especially literature.
What that entails, and what comes after.
There is in the soul a desire for not thinking.
For being still. Coupled with this
a desire to be strict, yes, and rigorous.
But the soul is also a smooth son of a bitch,
not always trustworthy. And I forgot that.
I listened when it said, Better to sing that which is gone
and will not return than that which is still
with us and will be with us tomorrow. Or not.
And if not, that's all right too.
It didn't much matter, it said, if a man sang at all.
That's the voice I listened to.
Can you imagine somebody thinking like this?
That it's really all one and the same?
What nonsense!
But I'd think these stupid thoughts at night
as I sat in the chair and listened to my radio.
Then, Machado, your poetry!
It was a little like a middle-aged man falling
in love again. A remarkable thing to witness,
and embarrassing, too.
Silly things like putting your picture up.
And I took your book to bed with me
and slept with it near at hand. A train went by
in my dreams one night and woke me up.
And the first thing I thought, heart racing
there in the dark bedroom, was this -
It's all right, Machado is here.
Then I could fall back to sleep again.
Today I took your book with me when I went
for my walk. "Pay attention!" you said,
when anyone asked what to do with their lives.
So I looked around and made note of everything.
Then sat down with it in the sun, in my place
beside the river where I could see the mountains.
And I closed my eyes and listened to the sound
of the water. Then I opened them and began to read
"Abel Martin's Last Lamentations."
This morning I thought about you hard, Machado.
And I hope, even in the face of what I know about death,
that you got the message I intended.
But it's okay even if you didn't. Sleep well. Rest.
Sooner or later I hope we'll meet.
And then I can tell you these things myself.
And here's another one she got by email this morning. Thank you, Oisin!
Radio Waves
for Antonio Machado
by Raymond Carver
This rain has stopped, and the moon has come out.
I don't understand the first thing about radio
waves. But I think they travel better just after
a rain, when the air is damp. Anyway, I can reach out
now and pick up Ottawa, if I want to, or Toronto.
Lately, at night, I've found myself
becoming slightly interested in Canadian politics
and domestic affairs. It's true. But mostly it was their
music stations I was after. I could sit here in the chair
and listen, without having to do anything, or think.
I don't have a TV, and I'd quit reading
the papers. At night I turned on the radio.
When I came out here I was trying to get away
from everything. Especially literature.
What that entails, and what comes after.
There is in the soul a desire for not thinking.
For being still. Coupled with this
a desire to be strict, yes, and rigorous.
But the soul is also a smooth son of a bitch,
not always trustworthy. And I forgot that.
I listened when it said, Better to sing that which is gone
and will not return than that which is still
with us and will be with us tomorrow. Or not.
And if not, that's all right too.
It didn't much matter, it said, if a man sang at all.
That's the voice I listened to.
Can you imagine somebody thinking like this?
That it's really all one and the same?
What nonsense!
But I'd think these stupid thoughts at night
as I sat in the chair and listened to my radio.
Then, Machado, your poetry!
It was a little like a middle-aged man falling
in love again. A remarkable thing to witness,
and embarrassing, too.
Silly things like putting your picture up.
And I took your book to bed with me
and slept with it near at hand. A train went by
in my dreams one night and woke me up.
And the first thing I thought, heart racing
there in the dark bedroom, was this -
It's all right, Machado is here.
Then I could fall back to sleep again.
Today I took your book with me when I went
for my walk. "Pay attention!" you said,
when anyone asked what to do with their lives.
So I looked around and made note of everything.
Then sat down with it in the sun, in my place
beside the river where I could see the mountains.
And I closed my eyes and listened to the sound
of the water. Then I opened them and began to read
"Abel Martin's Last Lamentations."
This morning I thought about you hard, Machado.
And I hope, even in the face of what I know about death,
that you got the message I intended.
But it's okay even if you didn't. Sleep well. Rest.
Sooner or later I hope we'll meet.
And then I can tell you these things myself.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
A year's worth of reading
Queenie had a very mixed weekend. She packed up most, but not all, of her possessions, loaded them into her dad’s jeep, and brought them down to Springtown. Now, they line the shelves of the old drugstore. Waiting for her to come home and reclaim them. It was a struggle.
Queenie sat in the garden watching Jabba the Cat mince around the puddles, trying to find a dry patch to sit in, and finally realised that she would not see her moggy for at least one year. Or her family. Or her friends. Or have a pint in Smoothies. The next few weeks will be very precious.
Packing up her books was strange too. They never really got unpacked when she moved last year. Piled up in the store room they were inaccessible, so boxing them was an hello as well as a goodbye (Queenie gets real emotional about books). She had to decide which ones to bring to Canada, so that was fun. Here’s the final cut:
The Power of Myth, by Joseph Campbell
Anyone who is going on a Quest should have a copy of this extended interview with Campbell, as it is an easy reference guide to finding tremendous import in the smallest things. Clues and such like. So Percy insisted on it. And as Myles said once, Hero with a Thousand Faces is a book that has some really kooky bits (Queenie is paraphrasing here) Plus it’s too heavy for the bag.
The Emigrants, by WG Sebald
Queenie discovered Sebald a few years ago and he blew her mind with the same intensity that Bruce Chatwin did a decade earlier when she discovered his work. Then Sebald died in a car crash in England, tragically young, as Chatwin did. Such a waste of such talent. It was a toss up between this book and The Songlines. But this won out, for a number of reasons. One, the title; as Queenie and Percy will be emigrants, it was deemed more suitable. Two, reading about the heat of central Australia in the middle of a Canuck winter will probably be depressing. Three, Queenie’s dad owns the Chatwin collection, so she shouldn’t steal it.
On a sidenote, Queenie was very excited when she found out her intellectual mentor had discovered Sebald recently. For a very petty reason. Queenie discovered him first, nyah, nyah. So she's not as stoopid slash ignorant as she generally feels when in Mentor's orbit.
The Berlin Wall Café, by Paul Durcan
Queenie’s second favourite book of poetry ever. The first being Daddy, Daddy, which has gone to live in the States with Mags and Mike. Hopefully, the two books will soon be reunited somewhere around the Great Lakes. Queenie cannot wait for that weekend! Queenie’s uncle bought this book for her in 1985 and saved her from death by the Intermediate Certificate English poetry curriculum. The book opens with The Haulier’s Wife meets Jesus on the Road near Moone, which is a wry and compassionate descriptions of loneliness, and its intersection with hope, in the life of an ordinary woman. Durcan’s feel for the inner life of women is spot on.
A Wild Sheep Chase, by Haruki Murakami
The Independent on Sunday review of this book was ‘weak-kneed with admiration’ and Queenie concurs with this when thinking about Murakami generally. In her humble opinion, Murakami is probably the best writer alive today. His Wind Up Bird Chronicle, as well as being a stonking great read, gave Queenie the tools she needed to fight off the black dog that happens along every once in a while. Now, if he appears, which thankfully he doesn’t so much anymore, she just imagines herself sitting at the bottom of that well until the thought makes her laugh. And once the facial muscles are arranged in a smile, it is impossible to take herself too seriously.
Norwegian Wood is the most beautiful love story she’s ever read. 2004 was the year in which Queenie couldn’t read any books, no idea why, something to do with work she suspects, and she started this and then left it to one side. So this one is going on the plane.
Introduction to Mythology, by Lewis Spence
Queenie bought this ten years ago in one of her irregular fits of intellectualism and then never read it. Sooooo many books found their way onto her shelves in this way!! So this will accompany the Campbell and maybe teach her a few things. On another flick through it, it looks very DIFFICULT and LEARNED. So no, Queenie is not taking bets on whether she will read it this year or not. But it’ll be a long winter, so maybe.
Station Island, by Seamus Heaney
The Queen Mother bought her this a few years ago, so that’s mainly why it’s going in the bag. But also, it’s about time that Queenie faced up to her responsibility as an Irish person and had an INFORMED opinion about Famous Seamus' oeuvre. Particularly when her family's expertise on Heaney is well known. This will be well thumbed and annotated by year end, hopefully.
Chronicles Volume One, by Bob Dylan
This is a great book! Queenie was really surprised when she read it. And then realised there was no need to be. The beauty of Dylan’s lyrics point to his talent as a writer and this book has many fine, lyrical passages. And a lot of whingeing and bitching about people who weren’t nice to Bob. A great dipper.
Where I’m calling from, by Raymond Carver, the selected stories
What can Queenie say! Down on your face girl and pay homage to the master! Every time Queenie takes a notion that she’d like to be a writer, she unconsciously scuppers herself by taking out this book to study his style. And then realises that, unless she can write like this, she doesn’t want to write. And of course she never will, so that’s grand, no need to try. Clever girl. NOT GOING TO WORK THIS TIME. Or will it? She’s deliberately not bringing any Steinbeck for the same reason. But a year without Raymond Carver is impossible to imagine.
Danube, by Claudio Magris
Okay, okay, yes, this is Queenie’s dad’s book and she’s nicking it. But she nicked it years ago and he didn’t seem to mind, so it’s not as bad as actually filching the Chatwin from the shelf. In any case, it’s Europe in 400 pages and she’s going to need some Europe to shield herself from the Americanness of the next few months. Plus, she’s never managed to read it straight through, so it’ll be good for some horrendous bus journey across Manitoba or something. And it will make up for only having one Sebald.
The Black Book, by Orhan Pamuk
This Turkish writer evokes his country so beautifully, it is as if Queenie is back there again. Her two trips to Turkey were fantastic – it really is a spectacular country – and she wishes that Turkey could be part of the EU. But there is the small matter of its human rights record to be sorted out first. However, Galip’s bungling attempts to play detective will satisfy her need for convoluted plot (as will the Murakami) and she will be able to close her eyes and hear the muezzin whenever she needs to. The Book of Red nearly made it, but this was a casualty of the year of non-reading, so it's a good opportunity to renew her acquaintance with Pamuk's second colour themed novel. (Well, second published in English).
Let’s hope they all fit in the bag. It was such a difficult choice to get it down to this pile. Queenie hopes she’s not going to have to ditch any of them. She went to Argos and bought a 132 litre rucksack the other day to ensure they could all come to Canuckstan. But any views on how she’d lighten the load would be gratefully accepted.
Queenie sat in the garden watching Jabba the Cat mince around the puddles, trying to find a dry patch to sit in, and finally realised that she would not see her moggy for at least one year. Or her family. Or her friends. Or have a pint in Smoothies. The next few weeks will be very precious.
Packing up her books was strange too. They never really got unpacked when she moved last year. Piled up in the store room they were inaccessible, so boxing them was an hello as well as a goodbye (Queenie gets real emotional about books). She had to decide which ones to bring to Canada, so that was fun. Here’s the final cut:
The Power of Myth, by Joseph Campbell
Anyone who is going on a Quest should have a copy of this extended interview with Campbell, as it is an easy reference guide to finding tremendous import in the smallest things. Clues and such like. So Percy insisted on it. And as Myles said once, Hero with a Thousand Faces is a book that has some really kooky bits (Queenie is paraphrasing here) Plus it’s too heavy for the bag.
The Emigrants, by WG Sebald
Queenie discovered Sebald a few years ago and he blew her mind with the same intensity that Bruce Chatwin did a decade earlier when she discovered his work. Then Sebald died in a car crash in England, tragically young, as Chatwin did. Such a waste of such talent. It was a toss up between this book and The Songlines. But this won out, for a number of reasons. One, the title; as Queenie and Percy will be emigrants, it was deemed more suitable. Two, reading about the heat of central Australia in the middle of a Canuck winter will probably be depressing. Three, Queenie’s dad owns the Chatwin collection, so she shouldn’t steal it.
On a sidenote, Queenie was very excited when she found out her intellectual mentor had discovered Sebald recently. For a very petty reason. Queenie discovered him first, nyah, nyah. So she's not as stoopid slash ignorant as she generally feels when in Mentor's orbit.
The Berlin Wall Café, by Paul Durcan
Queenie’s second favourite book of poetry ever. The first being Daddy, Daddy, which has gone to live in the States with Mags and Mike. Hopefully, the two books will soon be reunited somewhere around the Great Lakes. Queenie cannot wait for that weekend! Queenie’s uncle bought this book for her in 1985 and saved her from death by the Intermediate Certificate English poetry curriculum. The book opens with The Haulier’s Wife meets Jesus on the Road near Moone, which is a wry and compassionate descriptions of loneliness, and its intersection with hope, in the life of an ordinary woman. Durcan’s feel for the inner life of women is spot on.
A Wild Sheep Chase, by Haruki Murakami
The Independent on Sunday review of this book was ‘weak-kneed with admiration’ and Queenie concurs with this when thinking about Murakami generally. In her humble opinion, Murakami is probably the best writer alive today. His Wind Up Bird Chronicle, as well as being a stonking great read, gave Queenie the tools she needed to fight off the black dog that happens along every once in a while. Now, if he appears, which thankfully he doesn’t so much anymore, she just imagines herself sitting at the bottom of that well until the thought makes her laugh. And once the facial muscles are arranged in a smile, it is impossible to take herself too seriously.
Norwegian Wood is the most beautiful love story she’s ever read. 2004 was the year in which Queenie couldn’t read any books, no idea why, something to do with work she suspects, and she started this and then left it to one side. So this one is going on the plane.
Introduction to Mythology, by Lewis Spence
Queenie bought this ten years ago in one of her irregular fits of intellectualism and then never read it. Sooooo many books found their way onto her shelves in this way!! So this will accompany the Campbell and maybe teach her a few things. On another flick through it, it looks very DIFFICULT and LEARNED. So no, Queenie is not taking bets on whether she will read it this year or not. But it’ll be a long winter, so maybe.
Station Island, by Seamus Heaney
The Queen Mother bought her this a few years ago, so that’s mainly why it’s going in the bag. But also, it’s about time that Queenie faced up to her responsibility as an Irish person and had an INFORMED opinion about Famous Seamus' oeuvre. Particularly when her family's expertise on Heaney is well known. This will be well thumbed and annotated by year end, hopefully.
Chronicles Volume One, by Bob Dylan
This is a great book! Queenie was really surprised when she read it. And then realised there was no need to be. The beauty of Dylan’s lyrics point to his talent as a writer and this book has many fine, lyrical passages. And a lot of whingeing and bitching about people who weren’t nice to Bob. A great dipper.
Where I’m calling from, by Raymond Carver, the selected stories
What can Queenie say! Down on your face girl and pay homage to the master! Every time Queenie takes a notion that she’d like to be a writer, she unconsciously scuppers herself by taking out this book to study his style. And then realises that, unless she can write like this, she doesn’t want to write. And of course she never will, so that’s grand, no need to try. Clever girl. NOT GOING TO WORK THIS TIME. Or will it? She’s deliberately not bringing any Steinbeck for the same reason. But a year without Raymond Carver is impossible to imagine.
Danube, by Claudio Magris
Okay, okay, yes, this is Queenie’s dad’s book and she’s nicking it. But she nicked it years ago and he didn’t seem to mind, so it’s not as bad as actually filching the Chatwin from the shelf. In any case, it’s Europe in 400 pages and she’s going to need some Europe to shield herself from the Americanness of the next few months. Plus, she’s never managed to read it straight through, so it’ll be good for some horrendous bus journey across Manitoba or something. And it will make up for only having one Sebald.
The Black Book, by Orhan Pamuk
This Turkish writer evokes his country so beautifully, it is as if Queenie is back there again. Her two trips to Turkey were fantastic – it really is a spectacular country – and she wishes that Turkey could be part of the EU. But there is the small matter of its human rights record to be sorted out first. However, Galip’s bungling attempts to play detective will satisfy her need for convoluted plot (as will the Murakami) and she will be able to close her eyes and hear the muezzin whenever she needs to. The Book of Red nearly made it, but this was a casualty of the year of non-reading, so it's a good opportunity to renew her acquaintance with Pamuk's second colour themed novel. (Well, second published in English).
Let’s hope they all fit in the bag. It was such a difficult choice to get it down to this pile. Queenie hopes she’s not going to have to ditch any of them. She went to Argos and bought a 132 litre rucksack the other day to ensure they could all come to Canuckstan. But any views on how she’d lighten the load would be gratefully accepted.
Friday, May 06, 2005
NARRATOR 7: Regarding the recent lull in postings
Queenie asked me to send you this newsflash.
She is very chuffed that people are sad when there aren't new postings on Percy's Depressed. She will do her best to keep up the copy stream. But she would like to point out that currently, it is jostling for position with a lot of things, including:
Changing her ESB, gas, phone, letting her flat, selling her car, getting a refund on her tv licence, sorting out her income tax/ SSIA/ apt. tax/ Canadian tax/ double tax/ rearranging her mortgage to maximise her tax, cleaning her house, shampooing her sofa, redirecting her mail, sorting out her will, packing her paintings, clothes, books, valuables, cds, dvds, jewellry, papers, photos, kitchen implements, selling her tv, dvd player, video recorder, stereo, organising her leaving do, archiving her work files, transferring her work files, telling work everything in her brain in two days, getting her international drivers' permit, her no claims bonus letter, storing her mobile phone number that she's had for ten years (thanks O2), cancelling her car insurance, taking out life insurance, booking her flight, booking the hostel, finding a job in canada, talking to her family if possible, and trying to meet everyone she knows before she leaves. Without missing Desperate Housewives.
Not to mention the whole Percy getting ready to go to Canada saga, which is a weekend's worth of blogging in itself and you'd think he'd do it! Nah! You'll have to wait till Queenie's had a moment to draw breath for that. It'll be worth it though, I promise.
Gotta go now for a while. Gotta help Queenie wrap her paintings in old newspapers so they'll survive the trip to Springtown tomorrow.
There are three installments of ATP weekend below. Read from the bottom up for the correct timeline, although it doesn't really matter. It is ATP after all.
Mwah!
She is very chuffed that people are sad when there aren't new postings on Percy's Depressed. She will do her best to keep up the copy stream. But she would like to point out that currently, it is jostling for position with a lot of things, including:
Changing her ESB, gas, phone, letting her flat, selling her car, getting a refund on her tv licence, sorting out her income tax/ SSIA/ apt. tax/ Canadian tax/ double tax/ rearranging her mortgage to maximise her tax, cleaning her house, shampooing her sofa, redirecting her mail, sorting out her will, packing her paintings, clothes, books, valuables, cds, dvds, jewellry, papers, photos, kitchen implements, selling her tv, dvd player, video recorder, stereo, organising her leaving do, archiving her work files, transferring her work files, telling work everything in her brain in two days, getting her international drivers' permit, her no claims bonus letter, storing her mobile phone number that she's had for ten years (thanks O2), cancelling her car insurance, taking out life insurance, booking her flight, booking the hostel, finding a job in canada, talking to her family if possible, and trying to meet everyone she knows before she leaves. Without missing Desperate Housewives.
Not to mention the whole Percy getting ready to go to Canada saga, which is a weekend's worth of blogging in itself and you'd think he'd do it! Nah! You'll have to wait till Queenie's had a moment to draw breath for that. It'll be worth it though, I promise.
Gotta go now for a while. Gotta help Queenie wrap her paintings in old newspapers so they'll survive the trip to Springtown tomorrow.
There are three installments of ATP weekend below. Read from the bottom up for the correct timeline, although it doesn't really matter. It is ATP after all.
Mwah!
We did go to the beach! All Tomorrow’s Parties, April 2005: Part Three, Pottering on Saturday
Maybe three and a half hours sleep. Not too bad. The boys went to bed at 7.30am and we woke them up at nine. Because.
Nice cup of coffee and a cigarette. Maybe Queenie should call her blog that. The anti-nice cup of tea and a sit down site. She’d make a fortune. As she was outside smoking, she used the opportunity to annoy all the johnny foreigners, ie nice British people, that were living in the square. Then she found the three incredibly poseurish French people who spent the day in bed together on a mattress outside the chalet. It’s a big metaphor for:
Oh yes, we’re French, we’re so sophis. We have three way sex and everything back home in France. You do know what sex is, you idiotic little Irish mucksavage, don’t you.
We took photos of them. They LOVED it. In that French, phuh, shruggy kinda way that’s so endearing. While at the same time irritating.
Then we met the Pauls. A whole chalet full of Pauls. From Cambridge. Doing PhDs in all kind of mad things. With camera bags. And zoom lenses. Very smart. Queenie was glad she had some Doctors in the House, she can tell you! There’s only so much intellectual thin ice a girl can tread on in one weekend, you know.
Saturday ATP daytime is for making friends with the neighbours and drinking lots of tea and doing the washing up and the shopping, and going to the beach. Nice, normal things. Aileen not feeling too well, so she held the chalet and the rest of us headed off to do LOTS OF THINGS ON THE BEACH.
Merzbow was on the beach. Pitying us. Pitilessly. Particularly Krossie and Clare, when they went swimming. Queenie took a picture of Dermot taking a picture of Luke and Tom. Who were flying a kite. She could feel Merzbow’s intellect boring into the back of her neck. She wished Merzbow was taking a picture of her, taking a picture of Dermot, taking a picture of Luke and Tom. Flying a kite. But then the pinnacle of achievement would have been reached and she would’ve had to die tragically. Alone. Bereft of motivation to go on. In a world without meaning.
Snapoutofit!
It was much easier to concentrate on things when he left.
Back then to see Autolux, who were at least as pretentious as Merzbow and were indeed excellent. Two guys and a girl. Carla, Greg and Eugene. The doctor and Queenie decided that the girl, who was the drummer when she wasn't writhing pretensiously around on the floor wailing at us, was doing both of them and playing them off against each other, in order to maximise their creative genius.
That’s the great thing about ATP, you can talk shite like this all weekend and nobody cares.
Afterwards, Queenie’s ears felt like they were bleeding. Her hearing was definitely damaged this year. It usually bounces back after a while though. A stark thought struck her as she stood there: pint in one hand, cigarette in the other, ears buzzing, at 3pm, in a smokey, grimy room watching some anally retentive feedback-frenzied guitar band prancing about on stage – Queenie’s going to be a dreadfully unhealthy fifty-something unless she cops on a bit.
Maybe next year.
We had to leave at 4pm to go back to the chalet for our party. A cocktail party no less. Fin de siecle no less.
Nice cup of coffee and a cigarette. Maybe Queenie should call her blog that. The anti-nice cup of tea and a sit down site. She’d make a fortune. As she was outside smoking, she used the opportunity to annoy all the johnny foreigners, ie nice British people, that were living in the square. Then she found the three incredibly poseurish French people who spent the day in bed together on a mattress outside the chalet. It’s a big metaphor for:
Oh yes, we’re French, we’re so sophis. We have three way sex and everything back home in France. You do know what sex is, you idiotic little Irish mucksavage, don’t you.
We took photos of them. They LOVED it. In that French, phuh, shruggy kinda way that’s so endearing. While at the same time irritating.
Then we met the Pauls. A whole chalet full of Pauls. From Cambridge. Doing PhDs in all kind of mad things. With camera bags. And zoom lenses. Very smart. Queenie was glad she had some Doctors in the House, she can tell you! There’s only so much intellectual thin ice a girl can tread on in one weekend, you know.
Saturday ATP daytime is for making friends with the neighbours and drinking lots of tea and doing the washing up and the shopping, and going to the beach. Nice, normal things. Aileen not feeling too well, so she held the chalet and the rest of us headed off to do LOTS OF THINGS ON THE BEACH.
Merzbow was on the beach. Pitying us. Pitilessly. Particularly Krossie and Clare, when they went swimming. Queenie took a picture of Dermot taking a picture of Luke and Tom. Who were flying a kite. She could feel Merzbow’s intellect boring into the back of her neck. She wished Merzbow was taking a picture of her, taking a picture of Dermot, taking a picture of Luke and Tom. Flying a kite. But then the pinnacle of achievement would have been reached and she would’ve had to die tragically. Alone. Bereft of motivation to go on. In a world without meaning.
Snapoutofit!
It was much easier to concentrate on things when he left.
Back then to see Autolux, who were at least as pretentious as Merzbow and were indeed excellent. Two guys and a girl. Carla, Greg and Eugene. The doctor and Queenie decided that the girl, who was the drummer when she wasn't writhing pretensiously around on the floor wailing at us, was doing both of them and playing them off against each other, in order to maximise their creative genius.
That’s the great thing about ATP, you can talk shite like this all weekend and nobody cares.
Afterwards, Queenie’s ears felt like they were bleeding. Her hearing was definitely damaged this year. It usually bounces back after a while though. A stark thought struck her as she stood there: pint in one hand, cigarette in the other, ears buzzing, at 3pm, in a smokey, grimy room watching some anally retentive feedback-frenzied guitar band prancing about on stage – Queenie’s going to be a dreadfully unhealthy fifty-something unless she cops on a bit.
Maybe next year.
We had to leave at 4pm to go back to the chalet for our party. A cocktail party no less. Fin de siecle no less.
Ooooh, Mr. Gallo, how brown you are! All Tomorrow’s Parties, April 2005: Part Two, Gigs, Friday
First things first, over to the leisure centre to get the keys to our chalet and the wristbands.
Lurking around the front door, waiting for Dr. Aileen to collect them when out walks a very small, very tanned, very hairy man wearing a brown leather jacket, brown teeshirt, brown trousers and brown boots. It was the Little Brown Bunny himself.
Queenie mental note No. 1 – not bad…. A bit short but. A bit of a brown overload but. But not bad.
Queenie mental note No. 2 – don’t tell the boys mental note No. 1.
Top Chalet!! Really good. One square back so it’s quiet and peaceful, but sooo near the venue. Dr. Logic works out that it’s because it’s a seven person chalet. Or maybe Queenie just heard that this year, dunno. Anyway, top!! And Queenie got a bunkbed.
Very grown up this year – brought the cafetiere. Shopping all done. Booze all bought. Didn’t have to go to Budgens, even though we had a car. Tom brought the shopping from New York. Very New York.
We clucked around a bit and then went over to see Blues Explosion.
First pint was in the upstairs bar. Damn, now there’s one end of this bar that you never get served at. Which end? Queenie can never remember. In fact, she can’t remember again now.
Anyway, the bar staff all look new, and she gave one a massive tip so she’d remember Queenie. (It worked too, got served asap all weekend!) You know you're getting old when the barstaff at ATP look younger than the young cops that freak you out about getting older. Doncha!
Clinked plastic glasses and made a pact – the year Bono comes to ATP is the last year any of us can go. Please, nice people in Flaming Lips, if you do curate next year, don’t tell him about it………please.
The first ATP gig 2005 was Blues Explosion – the link between blues and heavy metal, with a bit of Led thrown in. As Luke says, top band, you get Blues, then an explosion. And Jon Spencer, their lead singer is really charismatic.
Then Queenie saw Afirorampo – great little Japanese noise girrrls, but not as good as 00100, who blew her mind last year. Completely. Well, that’s Queenie’s story and she’s sticking to it.
Back to the chalet for an hilarious moment when three people, who really weren’t in any condition to be doing same, were writing their ATP journal instead of being at a gig. The chalet looked lovely, with fairy lights and candles and “Careful now” in the window and art on the walls. Lovely in a “utopian commune meets really messy workplace creche after fingerpainting day” kinda way.
Queenie and Dr. Aileen had a conversation about corporate social responsibility and the privatisation of society and social capital. Queenie thinks that was what it was about anyway. Typical Friday night girly chit chat, anyway!!
Back upstairs for Peaches. The line up got thin late at night this year, with only one band on after 9.30pm. As opposed to last year’s two – one upstairs and one downstairs. Queenie was worried that the gigs were going to be rammed but she needn’t have been, it was actually very quiet. Even though the chalets seemed to be full. Maybe some folks didn't arrive till Saturday. How New York.
Peaches was very annoyed. Hot and bothered. Even in a little white skimpy bikini. But she got to feelin’ better as the gig progressed and in a weird oppositional way to everyone else in the universe, she put more clothes on as the gig progressed.
Fuck the pain away, Fuck the pain away – atta girl. You do that if it makes you feel better. Queenie's off to the bar to dance with Krossie and Clare.
Lurking around the front door, waiting for Dr. Aileen to collect them when out walks a very small, very tanned, very hairy man wearing a brown leather jacket, brown teeshirt, brown trousers and brown boots. It was the Little Brown Bunny himself.
Queenie mental note No. 1 – not bad…. A bit short but. A bit of a brown overload but. But not bad.
Queenie mental note No. 2 – don’t tell the boys mental note No. 1.
Top Chalet!! Really good. One square back so it’s quiet and peaceful, but sooo near the venue. Dr. Logic works out that it’s because it’s a seven person chalet. Or maybe Queenie just heard that this year, dunno. Anyway, top!! And Queenie got a bunkbed.
Very grown up this year – brought the cafetiere. Shopping all done. Booze all bought. Didn’t have to go to Budgens, even though we had a car. Tom brought the shopping from New York. Very New York.
We clucked around a bit and then went over to see Blues Explosion.
First pint was in the upstairs bar. Damn, now there’s one end of this bar that you never get served at. Which end? Queenie can never remember. In fact, she can’t remember again now.
Anyway, the bar staff all look new, and she gave one a massive tip so she’d remember Queenie. (It worked too, got served asap all weekend!) You know you're getting old when the barstaff at ATP look younger than the young cops that freak you out about getting older. Doncha!
Clinked plastic glasses and made a pact – the year Bono comes to ATP is the last year any of us can go. Please, nice people in Flaming Lips, if you do curate next year, don’t tell him about it………please.
The first ATP gig 2005 was Blues Explosion – the link between blues and heavy metal, with a bit of Led thrown in. As Luke says, top band, you get Blues, then an explosion. And Jon Spencer, their lead singer is really charismatic.
Then Queenie saw Afirorampo – great little Japanese noise girrrls, but not as good as 00100, who blew her mind last year. Completely. Well, that’s Queenie’s story and she’s sticking to it.
Back to the chalet for an hilarious moment when three people, who really weren’t in any condition to be doing same, were writing their ATP journal instead of being at a gig. The chalet looked lovely, with fairy lights and candles and “Careful now” in the window and art on the walls. Lovely in a “utopian commune meets really messy workplace creche after fingerpainting day” kinda way.
Queenie and Dr. Aileen had a conversation about corporate social responsibility and the privatisation of society and social capital. Queenie thinks that was what it was about anyway. Typical Friday night girly chit chat, anyway!!
Back upstairs for Peaches. The line up got thin late at night this year, with only one band on after 9.30pm. As opposed to last year’s two – one upstairs and one downstairs. Queenie was worried that the gigs were going to be rammed but she needn’t have been, it was actually very quiet. Even though the chalets seemed to be full. Maybe some folks didn't arrive till Saturday. How New York.
Peaches was very annoyed. Hot and bothered. Even in a little white skimpy bikini. But she got to feelin’ better as the gig progressed and in a weird oppositional way to everyone else in the universe, she put more clothes on as the gig progressed.
Fuck the pain away, Fuck the pain away – atta girl. You do that if it makes you feel better. Queenie's off to the bar to dance with Krossie and Clare.
Careful now! All Tomorrow’s Parties, April 2005: Part One, Arrival, Friday
No matter what time Queenie gets up in the morning, it takes her ten minutes more than she has to get her act together. Why is that? If she has ten minutes, she can shower, dress, put on slap, clothes, drink coffee, eat banana, tidy flat and leave in twenty. If she has three hours, the same set of actions takes her three hours and ten minutes.
Queenie has never been good with time. Too elastic for her.
So she’s ten minutes late and driving to Blackhorse Ave. and the phone is ringing and she knows who it is, but it’s all going to be fine.
Queenie loves picking up couple friends to go on a trip and watching the whole “couple leaving the house for the weekend” vibe. It is one of life’s more hilarious set pieces, don’t you think. Queenie used to be in a couple, the other half of which was a security nut, and it used to be great fun to walk around behind him unlocking windows and doors as he locked them and then saying “You didn’t lock the kitchen window, you muppet! Jesus!”
Bad Queenie.
Over to the airport then, and straight through the Ryanair check-in and HURRAH, no queues for the x-ray machines. In preparation for the big trip next month, when a knight of the round table and all of his weaponry are going to have to be smuggled into Canada, Queenie had a trial run and smuggled her nail scissors through (this was the week of the big panic because the EU people smuggled a bomb through). Silly Aer Rianta. Coulda stabbed someone with that!!
It being ATP and therefore, important that one wears a silly hat for at least some of the weekend, Queenie slopes off to Monsoon without telling anyone to buy a hat. A green one.
She’s been explaining how she’s broke and has no money, so Dr. Groove can’t quite compute the brazenness of Queenie’s both expecting sympathy for having no money, and concurrently soliciting admiration of a new hat.
Well, Queenie’s never been good with logic either. Not elastic enough for her.
On reflection, she thinks it’s because the concept of ‘no money’ is different for girls. Or maybe it’s not a gender thing, maybe it’s a personal thing. To Queenie, no money means:
“I have no actual positive money balances anywhere on my financial horizon currently, but I have access to various lines of credit for the purposes of impulse buying. Which I shouldn’t access, but fuck it, it’s the weekend.”
That kind of no money.
Sat beside a man reading an article about the importance of having the right golf trousers. Won't mention his name. It's a friendship thing.
Met Joe on the flight, who was going over to see the Frames in London. Queenie would rather chew her left arm off than do that, but she didn’t say. It’s a friendship thing.
Then the three adventurers headed off to Hertz to pick up the electric blue Ford Focus that proves they are GROWN UPS at last.
All set. Queenie driving. Dr. Groove navigating. Dr. Aileen back seat driving. What could go wrong????
Tunbridge Wells, that’s what. Three roads in. Three roads out. Therefore, two possibilities for the exit route. Logical? That’s what they thought.
None of those roads! is the correct answer. The "off to the side small road, leading to the completely unknown road on the far side of town through the traffic" was the road. The one the navigator pointed at and went, “now, now, turn now”, because he had a feeling and an ability to read maps, happened to be the road. It's all a big Tory plot to keep us from having any fun, Queenie reckons.
The kids needed chips after Tunbridge Wells, so they pulled up at the Little Chef a ways out the road. The Little Matchgirl served them. Straight out of the picture story book that used to make Queenie cry when she was little and her mother read it to her. The smallest, thinnest, waifiest little thing they ever did see, with two wall eyes. Dr. Groove left a big tip. For the operation.
Finally got to Rye after three hours and picked up Krossie and Clare. Then onwards and upwards and suddenly, there it was – the golf club, the church, the restaurant, the path to the beach.
Dear Camber Sands. Such jolly times. With jolly good friends. Queenie’s heart lifted like that of a character in an Enid Blyton book when she saw the gaily painted railings of the little holiday camp she’d grown to love so well over the years. And look, there’s Luke and Tom. How they’ve grown!!!!!!!! Oooh, Queenie knew it was going to be a smashing festival this year. WIth kites and ginger beer and all kinds of exciting adventures.
Queenie has never been good with time. Too elastic for her.
So she’s ten minutes late and driving to Blackhorse Ave. and the phone is ringing and she knows who it is, but it’s all going to be fine.
Queenie loves picking up couple friends to go on a trip and watching the whole “couple leaving the house for the weekend” vibe. It is one of life’s more hilarious set pieces, don’t you think. Queenie used to be in a couple, the other half of which was a security nut, and it used to be great fun to walk around behind him unlocking windows and doors as he locked them and then saying “You didn’t lock the kitchen window, you muppet! Jesus!”
Bad Queenie.
Over to the airport then, and straight through the Ryanair check-in and HURRAH, no queues for the x-ray machines. In preparation for the big trip next month, when a knight of the round table and all of his weaponry are going to have to be smuggled into Canada, Queenie had a trial run and smuggled her nail scissors through (this was the week of the big panic because the EU people smuggled a bomb through). Silly Aer Rianta. Coulda stabbed someone with that!!
It being ATP and therefore, important that one wears a silly hat for at least some of the weekend, Queenie slopes off to Monsoon without telling anyone to buy a hat. A green one.
She’s been explaining how she’s broke and has no money, so Dr. Groove can’t quite compute the brazenness of Queenie’s both expecting sympathy for having no money, and concurrently soliciting admiration of a new hat.
Well, Queenie’s never been good with logic either. Not elastic enough for her.
On reflection, she thinks it’s because the concept of ‘no money’ is different for girls. Or maybe it’s not a gender thing, maybe it’s a personal thing. To Queenie, no money means:
“I have no actual positive money balances anywhere on my financial horizon currently, but I have access to various lines of credit for the purposes of impulse buying. Which I shouldn’t access, but fuck it, it’s the weekend.”
That kind of no money.
Sat beside a man reading an article about the importance of having the right golf trousers. Won't mention his name. It's a friendship thing.
Met Joe on the flight, who was going over to see the Frames in London. Queenie would rather chew her left arm off than do that, but she didn’t say. It’s a friendship thing.
Then the three adventurers headed off to Hertz to pick up the electric blue Ford Focus that proves they are GROWN UPS at last.
All set. Queenie driving. Dr. Groove navigating. Dr. Aileen back seat driving. What could go wrong????
Tunbridge Wells, that’s what. Three roads in. Three roads out. Therefore, two possibilities for the exit route. Logical? That’s what they thought.
None of those roads! is the correct answer. The "off to the side small road, leading to the completely unknown road on the far side of town through the traffic" was the road. The one the navigator pointed at and went, “now, now, turn now”, because he had a feeling and an ability to read maps, happened to be the road. It's all a big Tory plot to keep us from having any fun, Queenie reckons.
The kids needed chips after Tunbridge Wells, so they pulled up at the Little Chef a ways out the road. The Little Matchgirl served them. Straight out of the picture story book that used to make Queenie cry when she was little and her mother read it to her. The smallest, thinnest, waifiest little thing they ever did see, with two wall eyes. Dr. Groove left a big tip. For the operation.
Finally got to Rye after three hours and picked up Krossie and Clare. Then onwards and upwards and suddenly, there it was – the golf club, the church, the restaurant, the path to the beach.
Dear Camber Sands. Such jolly times. With jolly good friends. Queenie’s heart lifted like that of a character in an Enid Blyton book when she saw the gaily painted railings of the little holiday camp she’d grown to love so well over the years. And look, there’s Luke and Tom. How they’ve grown!!!!!!!! Oooh, Queenie knew it was going to be a smashing festival this year. WIth kites and ginger beer and all kinds of exciting adventures.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
A moratorium on execution of minors
The Iranians have introduced one. Maybe the USA will reciprocate. Or am I being harsh and they have already done so?
As Goethe said:
Mistrust all in whom the desire to punish is imperative.
As Goethe said:
Mistrust all in whom the desire to punish is imperative.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Very tired - All Tomorrow's Parties' Photos
Home from ATP. Very Tired. More instalments tomorrow.
The photos are under the title. I hope.
The photos are under the title. I hope.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Monday, April 18, 2005
Dancing girls of Mumbai driven underground
Raul Bedi has a fantastic piece in today's Irish Times about the dancing girls of Mumbai. Bedi is a great freelance journalist who has a good eye for the type of 'slice of India' subjects that appeal to Europeans.
The Congress Party, which is currently pretending to run Mumbai (Mumbai is actually run by a coalition of Bollywood executives, Tata company executives, the police and the four or five mega-gangs who do the wetwork for everyone else), has decided to shut down the illegal dancing club scene because it is immoral.
It's actually hilarious. Queenie went to a couple of dancing clubs when she was in Mumbai (purely for the purposes of getting a decent gin and tonic you understand) and they are very tame when compared with European lap dancing clubs.
Apart from overpriced gin and tonics, it's mostly just a lot of very silly gyrating to Bollywood film music and if you're really lucky, a wet sari night. A wet sari scene is the Bollywood equivalent of a really sizzling sex scene in a movie and all the best movies have at least one.
The girls wear saris that are very skimpy by sari standards, but which would look like Sunday Mass clothes if worn on a Saturday night in a typical Irish town. And there's no touching or placing of twenties in g-strings. The men throw the money at the women. The Indian men Queenie saw in the clubs were very nice, but they didn't seem to be able to hold their drink very well and they would get very excited at particular routines and throw LOTS of money at the girls.
However, by Indian standards it is pretty erotic. Indian women are so modest that one day, when Queenie wore a sleeveless tee-shirt in Coloba, which is the tourist area of the city, she got manhandled a lot on the street by guys who were getting very excited at the sight of a shoulder!
Poor girls - they make quite good money dancing for bored Tata executives and bankers night after night. And it sure beats the Mumbai alternatives - sorting through people's rubbish to find recyclables, selling Ganeshi in front of the Raj Hotel, washing clothes or working in Choi (thieves) Market. Or worse, begging or prostitution.
Why is it always women that suffer when the people in charge take a moral stand on things?
The Congress Party, which is currently pretending to run Mumbai (Mumbai is actually run by a coalition of Bollywood executives, Tata company executives, the police and the four or five mega-gangs who do the wetwork for everyone else), has decided to shut down the illegal dancing club scene because it is immoral.
It's actually hilarious. Queenie went to a couple of dancing clubs when she was in Mumbai (purely for the purposes of getting a decent gin and tonic you understand) and they are very tame when compared with European lap dancing clubs.
Apart from overpriced gin and tonics, it's mostly just a lot of very silly gyrating to Bollywood film music and if you're really lucky, a wet sari night. A wet sari scene is the Bollywood equivalent of a really sizzling sex scene in a movie and all the best movies have at least one.
The girls wear saris that are very skimpy by sari standards, but which would look like Sunday Mass clothes if worn on a Saturday night in a typical Irish town. And there's no touching or placing of twenties in g-strings. The men throw the money at the women. The Indian men Queenie saw in the clubs were very nice, but they didn't seem to be able to hold their drink very well and they would get very excited at particular routines and throw LOTS of money at the girls.
However, by Indian standards it is pretty erotic. Indian women are so modest that one day, when Queenie wore a sleeveless tee-shirt in Coloba, which is the tourist area of the city, she got manhandled a lot on the street by guys who were getting very excited at the sight of a shoulder!
Poor girls - they make quite good money dancing for bored Tata executives and bankers night after night. And it sure beats the Mumbai alternatives - sorting through people's rubbish to find recyclables, selling Ganeshi in front of the Raj Hotel, washing clothes or working in Choi (thieves) Market. Or worse, begging or prostitution.
Why is it always women that suffer when the people in charge take a moral stand on things?
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Today's Question
Why is it always women who are featured in reality tv shows that deal with changing appearances and cosmetic surgery?
Simple pleasures in a complex world
Queenie took a little drive down the country a couple of weekends recently, home to Springtown© to see the folks and catch up on old friends and generally enjoy the beautiful spring weather that never sits quite right in Dublin.
Now Queenie might be indulging in a bit of nostalgia now that she’s getting ready to leave Ireland, but she loves that drive. Once you get past the Mad Cow Roundabout, and those annoying traffic lights dotted along the motorway in Kildare, placed there just so Kildare people can nip across to the shop, there’s a long, smooth stretch of motorway along which the car just hums. If you have the right music, Orbital, and the right company, Polly, it’s a very pleasant hour or so, skimming along at eighty.
Off the motorway then, through Emo and Mountmellick, and up and over the Slieve Blooms. A most under-rated mountain range. Well, they’re not mountains really, just big hills. They rise gently out of that gorgeous green valley that nestles in the middle of Ireland. The little mountain road twists and bends, with no road markings along substantial stretches, so it calls for concentrated driving.
A line of little villages string along it like beads on a rosary – Cadamstown, Kinnity, Clonaslee. All home to schoolfriends, old boyfriends, teachers, farmers, and hurling heroes Queenie grew up with, all sitting in the memory vaults very comfortably. When she gets to the edge of the mountains and drives down the last ten miles into the valley, Queenie’s heart always lifts a little in anticipation of going home.
Up the last little hill and past the graveyard, with a nod to all the wonderful people she knew who are sadly gone now; sleeping peacefully under the tall pines. Then it’s round the dinky little roundabout and swing the car into Springtown.
Queenie is a very lucky girl she grew up there. It’s visually very pretty – gracious Georgian boulevards, homely Victorian town centre, the stunning castle and its demesne, the beautiful riverbank walks, the Pugin convent, the old mills. Despite the bungalow blitz of the last few years – how many town houses does a small town need - it’s still a little architectural gem.
It’s a very vibrant town, with a young population and lots of Queenie’s school friends have stayed in Springtown to rear their own families. But they still know how to party – oh yes. So Queenie always looks forward to her weekend break, her liver not so much.
Down past the old workhouse, check Nadia’s house to see if her car’s there – yes, fantastic! Over the bridge, down the mall past Lena’s house, round another dinky roundabout and through the square. Then up the hill and turn left at the church and there it is, the blue door; the steps she swept a million times every autumn, and park in Queenie’s dad’s spot, just to annoy him.
Part of the pleasure is spending time pottering in the old walled garden of her home with her parents. Nothing too strenuous, just rearranging the compost heap, or deadheading a tree, or cutting the grass. Mostly it’s about shooting the breeze with the folks. And listening to the birds sing their little hearts out. And watching the cat dragging its belly along – the Jabba the Hutt of the feline world.
The Queen Mother pruned a bush recently and left a branch sitting on the lawn next to the bird feeder. Jabba has spent her time since hiding under this branch to stake out the feeder. To Queenie’s horror, she has been pretty successful despite the branch being completely leafless, thus offering no excuse to the birds. Despite the carnage, and the half an hour spent trying to coax the poor birds out of Jabba's unco-operative jaws, there is something very peaceful and fulfilling about watching animals going about their daily business.
Then inside for a bit of dinner, shower and put the slap on, and down to Smoothies for a couple of pints with Nadia and Sam. One of life’s true pleasures. Queenie will think about all of this when she’s homesick in Canada.
© Mundy
Now Queenie might be indulging in a bit of nostalgia now that she’s getting ready to leave Ireland, but she loves that drive. Once you get past the Mad Cow Roundabout, and those annoying traffic lights dotted along the motorway in Kildare, placed there just so Kildare people can nip across to the shop, there’s a long, smooth stretch of motorway along which the car just hums. If you have the right music, Orbital, and the right company, Polly, it’s a very pleasant hour or so, skimming along at eighty.
Off the motorway then, through Emo and Mountmellick, and up and over the Slieve Blooms. A most under-rated mountain range. Well, they’re not mountains really, just big hills. They rise gently out of that gorgeous green valley that nestles in the middle of Ireland. The little mountain road twists and bends, with no road markings along substantial stretches, so it calls for concentrated driving.
A line of little villages string along it like beads on a rosary – Cadamstown, Kinnity, Clonaslee. All home to schoolfriends, old boyfriends, teachers, farmers, and hurling heroes Queenie grew up with, all sitting in the memory vaults very comfortably. When she gets to the edge of the mountains and drives down the last ten miles into the valley, Queenie’s heart always lifts a little in anticipation of going home.
Up the last little hill and past the graveyard, with a nod to all the wonderful people she knew who are sadly gone now; sleeping peacefully under the tall pines. Then it’s round the dinky little roundabout and swing the car into Springtown.
Queenie is a very lucky girl she grew up there. It’s visually very pretty – gracious Georgian boulevards, homely Victorian town centre, the stunning castle and its demesne, the beautiful riverbank walks, the Pugin convent, the old mills. Despite the bungalow blitz of the last few years – how many town houses does a small town need - it’s still a little architectural gem.
It’s a very vibrant town, with a young population and lots of Queenie’s school friends have stayed in Springtown to rear their own families. But they still know how to party – oh yes. So Queenie always looks forward to her weekend break, her liver not so much.
Down past the old workhouse, check Nadia’s house to see if her car’s there – yes, fantastic! Over the bridge, down the mall past Lena’s house, round another dinky roundabout and through the square. Then up the hill and turn left at the church and there it is, the blue door; the steps she swept a million times every autumn, and park in Queenie’s dad’s spot, just to annoy him.
Part of the pleasure is spending time pottering in the old walled garden of her home with her parents. Nothing too strenuous, just rearranging the compost heap, or deadheading a tree, or cutting the grass. Mostly it’s about shooting the breeze with the folks. And listening to the birds sing their little hearts out. And watching the cat dragging its belly along – the Jabba the Hutt of the feline world.
The Queen Mother pruned a bush recently and left a branch sitting on the lawn next to the bird feeder. Jabba has spent her time since hiding under this branch to stake out the feeder. To Queenie’s horror, she has been pretty successful despite the branch being completely leafless, thus offering no excuse to the birds. Despite the carnage, and the half an hour spent trying to coax the poor birds out of Jabba's unco-operative jaws, there is something very peaceful and fulfilling about watching animals going about their daily business.
Then inside for a bit of dinner, shower and put the slap on, and down to Smoothies for a couple of pints with Nadia and Sam. One of life’s true pleasures. Queenie will think about all of this when she’s homesick in Canada.
© Mundy
Adoro las ciudades que son viejas
ciudades de provincia
y los puentes de piedra y los de hierro
y los puentes en ruinas,
viejos puentes de piedra solitarios
invadidos de ortigas.
Pero también me cansan esas viejas
ciudades de provincia
y todo lo que un puente sobre un río
oscuro simboliza.
I adore cities that are old women
Provincial cities
and stones bridges and those of ironand bridges in ruins,
old solitary bridges of stone
invaded by nettles.
But these old women also tire me
Provincial cities
and everything that a bridge on a dark river
symbolizes.
Andrés Trapiello
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Today's Question
Why are Al-Qaaeda plots generally unearthed in Britain and the USA during election campaigns?
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Today's Question
If it's true that we are here to help others, what are the others doing here?
or
Why can I not smoke cigarettes in the pub, but skangers can smoke spliff on the 83 bus at eight o'clock in the morning?
or
Why can I not smoke cigarettes in the pub, but skangers can smoke spliff on the 83 bus at eight o'clock in the morning?
Andrea Dworkin dies
Andrea Dworkin died last night. The list of prominent American writers that have popped their clogs in recent months is quite startling really - Arthur Miller, Saul Bellow, Hunter S. Thompson, Susan Sontag, and now the feminist's feminist.
If I was mad I'd think it was some kind of Republican plot! Dammit, I'll just do a Dworkin on it and say it's so and expect everyone to believe me. Anyway, here are some of her more famous quotes:
Men have defined the parameters of every subject. All feminist arguments, however radical in intent or consequence, are with or against assertions or premises implicit in the male system, which is made credible or authentic by the power of men to name.
Men know everything - all of them - all the time - no matter how stupid or inexperienced or arrogant or ignorant they are.
The fact that we are all trained to be mothers from infancy on means that we are all trained to devote our lives to men, whether they are our sons or not; that we are all trained to force other women to exemplify the lack of qualities which characterizes the cultural construct of femininity.
and my personal favourite:
Wild intelligence abhors any narrow world; and the world of women must stay narrow, or the woman is an outlaw. No woman could be Nietzsche or Rimbaud without ending up in a whorehouse or lobotomized.
Sleep well, girl, and don't forget to tell Yahweh what you think of him and his patriarchal rubbish!!
And here's an hilarious article by Jenny Diski in the LRB that uses Andrea Dworkin to cut a man down to size - the phrase dripping with sarcasm was born to describe this article. Shove up in the bed Maureen Dowd, Jenny Diski is my new favourite, cutting female journalist.
If I was mad I'd think it was some kind of Republican plot! Dammit, I'll just do a Dworkin on it and say it's so and expect everyone to believe me. Anyway, here are some of her more famous quotes:
Men have defined the parameters of every subject. All feminist arguments, however radical in intent or consequence, are with or against assertions or premises implicit in the male system, which is made credible or authentic by the power of men to name.
Men know everything - all of them - all the time - no matter how stupid or inexperienced or arrogant or ignorant they are.
The fact that we are all trained to be mothers from infancy on means that we are all trained to devote our lives to men, whether they are our sons or not; that we are all trained to force other women to exemplify the lack of qualities which characterizes the cultural construct of femininity.
and my personal favourite:
Wild intelligence abhors any narrow world; and the world of women must stay narrow, or the woman is an outlaw. No woman could be Nietzsche or Rimbaud without ending up in a whorehouse or lobotomized.
Sleep well, girl, and don't forget to tell Yahweh what you think of him and his patriarchal rubbish!!
And here's an hilarious article by Jenny Diski in the LRB that uses Andrea Dworkin to cut a man down to size - the phrase dripping with sarcasm was born to describe this article. Shove up in the bed Maureen Dowd, Jenny Diski is my new favourite, cutting female journalist.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Queenie + Percy's Top 10 Heroes of all time - Number 8
Neil Astley, MD of Bloodaxe Books and recent attacker of elitist, male poetry critics, or Poetry High Command as he called them.
Phew! Queenie + Percy were beginning to think the world was running out of heroes, then our attention was drawn to this speech, made at a poetry festival called StAnza, which takes place in Scotland, we think, in which Mr. Astley has a right go at elitism in poetry.
Very shocking, but bleedin' obvious when you think about it.
Well done Neil! You come in at No. 8 for having balls of steel.
Phew! Queenie + Percy were beginning to think the world was running out of heroes, then our attention was drawn to this speech, made at a poetry festival called StAnza, which takes place in Scotland, we think, in which Mr. Astley has a right go at elitism in poetry.
Queenie hates snooty poetry reviewers, particularly the ones in the Irish Times Saturday review section. Particularly that twat she had to share poetry tutorials with in university. Who ruined TS Eliot for her for a good long while. Himself and the boiled goldfish. Queenie thinks she might print this speech out and send it to him, oh yesssssss.
April is the cruellest month, after all!
In general, having a right go at elitism in any artistic endeavour is a very brave and heroic thing to do, as Queenie will testify. In 1996, Queenie single-handedly destroyed her potential career in the arts by making a speech in which she had a right go at the people listening to her, namely Artistic High Command in Ireland. The wrath heaped on her head afterwards was so overwhelming that, in retrospect, she reckons she must have hit a nerve. However, it would have been better if it had been intentional, rather than the idiotic ramblings of an innocent on her first trip to the podium.
Here is are some excerpts from Mr. Astley's speech, the link to it is under the title of the blog entry.
If someone is drawn to reading poetry because of personal anxieties, or depression, or alienation, or bereavement what's wrong with that? Anyone can surely read poetry for emotional reasons as well as for intellectual stimulation, or they may want to broaden their minds or to experience the joys of an ancient cultural art form for its own sake. Once poems are written and published, they belong to the readers, not to Poetry High Command, and they can read them any way they like.
Potts (nasty elitist Guardian critic - Queenie) confuses aesthetics with ethics, his own reading being somehow morally superior to that of anyone who has not had his privileged education. Thus anyone who enjoys reading poetry without his level of intellectual discrimination is a 'casual reader' who lacks 'cultivated taste'.
Even a love poems anthology is suspect in Potts's analysis: people in love aren't reading Shakespeare's sonnets for the right reason. He conveniently forgets why and how poetry is written. The original impulse of a poem involves an emotional response, whether to love or bereavement, anxiety or alienation... or whatever human experience is evoked.
And here's a bit where he talks about one of our favourite poets, Michael Longley:
Another example of the tone deaf approach came in a high-handed mauling given to Michael Longley on Peter McDonald's Tower Poetry website (August 2004): 'Snow Water,' the anonymous Oxford reviewer declared, 'is all significance, sentimentality and self-concern... Longley is enjoying himself too much here although there is a comedy in place names - as Edwin Morgan, an altogether lesser poet, recognised long ago - which tells against the poem.' One poem is even written off as 'camp', but 'not all the poems in Snow Water are failures, and Longley half-knows he is being silly.'
The cheek of them! Here's another excerpt:
I hadn't realised quite how narrow the Guardian's coverage had been until I went through a pile of over 70 Reviews collected over a two-year period from 2003 up to last weekend. Even I found the statistics shocking. ... I counted full-length reviews of 66 other new poetry books, but only 10 of those were by women writers.
Those 66 books were reviewed by 38 different critics, but only four of those were women, and they reviewed only five books between them, including an anthology of modern Scottish women poets and two Russian titles covered by a specialist. Not a single one of the poetry books reviewed was by a non-white poet.
Very shocking, but bleedin' obvious when you think about it.
Well done Neil! You come in at No. 8 for having balls of steel.
Eleven Irish Lions
Sir Clive did the right thing today and called up eleven Irish players to the Lions Tour of New Zealand, including Queenie's personal favourite - Ireland's only acceptable mullet head, Shane Byrne.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Today's Question
Hands up everyone who knows why Queenie and Percy love the new O2 advertising campaign?
Sunday, April 03, 2005
The end of an era - death of John Paul
Fintan O'Toole is speaking at the wake that has been taking place on Irish radio since yesterday evening. Hopefully he will make a few realistic comments that will cut through the fug of typical Irish "don't speak ill of the dead" cant and the morose hagiography that is polluting the airwaves at the moment.
Yes, he's mentioned Hans Kung already! Good man, Fintan.
Queenie has nothing but hard feelings towards this pope. He came to power when Queenie was only eight years old. With his ascension to Peter's throne, all the potential emanating from Vatican II was immediately buried. His papacy was a twentieth century Counter-Reformation that resulted in profound confusion and alienation in Western world Catholics, and a grotesque failure to meet the needs of the newer churches in Latin America and particularly Africa. Being Irish, Queenie was a special figure in JPII's eyes. Ireland was one of the keepers of the flames of the faith (along with his beloved Poland) and in 1979, soon after he came to power, the Pope came to Ireland for a few days.
Queenie remembers it well. It was the first time her 'difference' struck her - Queenie is a dolly mixture, a child of a mixed Catholic-Protestant marriage. As every other family in the town made sandwiches, hung out flags, packed the car, and set off to go to Mass in the middle of the night, Queenie's parents went to a conference for the weekend. Didn't put out a flag. Didn't bring her to a Mass. Didn't make a big deal of it, btw, Mr. and Mrs. Queenie are firmly in the 'turn the other cheek' camp of religion. Just neatly sidestepped the issue, with no fuss, or bible-thumping.
It was the first time in Queenie's life that she stood outside a national hysteria and watched it unfurl. An incredibly informative and educational experience for a nine year old. Queenie remembers being incredibly proud of her parents and not feeling a bit left out or alienated. (She was also hoping that the endless trips to Mass and other services would end, but unfortunately, it took another few years for that to happen).
Later, and Queenie is using the tool of hindsight now, changes began to creep in.
The folk masses that were part of Queenie's youth, a joyful, if slightly tuneless expression of community and faith, began to disappear. Nowadays, people can only use 'approved music' in ceremonies to mark key moments of their lives. This type of orthodoxy makes Church of Ireland services seem like a picnic by the riverbank by comparison. A particularly tuneless picnic!! At the same time, the rate of ecumenical activities in Queenie's unusually mixed Irish town started to drop, or to become somewhat token gesturish.
In the mid-eighties, Queenie was made attend a week long Redemptorist retreat held in the town (surely it should have been a thing of the past) where the blustering priest seemed to be as obsessed with sex as she was at the time. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, isn't it - sure they were all at it.....................!
When Queenie's political antennae began to twitch in her late teens, she took a particular interest in Latin America. Particularly the assassination of Archbishop Oscar Romero at the altar in the early eighties. Queenie feels the Vatican should have protected him more. Particularly when he flew to Rome to beg for assistance, and was refused an audience for days on end. But liberation theology smacked of communism to the Pole, so he sacrificed a charismatic and brilliant leader for political ends.
If there is any justice in the world, then the head of the Church in Honduras will be the next pope.
Hostility to gay people, to contraception, to family planning even, and to revised moral values increased at the same time as AIDS began to become an issue. Queenie will never really understand how the Vatican could scupper the UN Population Conference held in Africa a few years ago, and then use the same anti-family planning arguments to prevent African Catholic women from practicing safe sex.
And then the shit hit the fan. Across the world, in the USA and in Europe, and in Ireland. By God, we were up there with the best of them. Kiddy fiddlers. The lot of them. And this Pole, who even though he was an autocrat and and a conservative, had fought totalitarianism and Communism and modernity and consumerism and all the beasts of the modern age, was shown up for the hypocritic leader of a shower of hypocrites that he really was.
And he did not destroy Communism. Consumerism destroyed communism.
Yes, he's mentioned Hans Kung already! Good man, Fintan.
Queenie has nothing but hard feelings towards this pope. He came to power when Queenie was only eight years old. With his ascension to Peter's throne, all the potential emanating from Vatican II was immediately buried. His papacy was a twentieth century Counter-Reformation that resulted in profound confusion and alienation in Western world Catholics, and a grotesque failure to meet the needs of the newer churches in Latin America and particularly Africa. Being Irish, Queenie was a special figure in JPII's eyes. Ireland was one of the keepers of the flames of the faith (along with his beloved Poland) and in 1979, soon after he came to power, the Pope came to Ireland for a few days.
Queenie remembers it well. It was the first time her 'difference' struck her - Queenie is a dolly mixture, a child of a mixed Catholic-Protestant marriage. As every other family in the town made sandwiches, hung out flags, packed the car, and set off to go to Mass in the middle of the night, Queenie's parents went to a conference for the weekend. Didn't put out a flag. Didn't bring her to a Mass. Didn't make a big deal of it, btw, Mr. and Mrs. Queenie are firmly in the 'turn the other cheek' camp of religion. Just neatly sidestepped the issue, with no fuss, or bible-thumping.
It was the first time in Queenie's life that she stood outside a national hysteria and watched it unfurl. An incredibly informative and educational experience for a nine year old. Queenie remembers being incredibly proud of her parents and not feeling a bit left out or alienated. (She was also hoping that the endless trips to Mass and other services would end, but unfortunately, it took another few years for that to happen).
Later, and Queenie is using the tool of hindsight now, changes began to creep in.
The folk masses that were part of Queenie's youth, a joyful, if slightly tuneless expression of community and faith, began to disappear. Nowadays, people can only use 'approved music' in ceremonies to mark key moments of their lives. This type of orthodoxy makes Church of Ireland services seem like a picnic by the riverbank by comparison. A particularly tuneless picnic!! At the same time, the rate of ecumenical activities in Queenie's unusually mixed Irish town started to drop, or to become somewhat token gesturish.
In the mid-eighties, Queenie was made attend a week long Redemptorist retreat held in the town (surely it should have been a thing of the past) where the blustering priest seemed to be as obsessed with sex as she was at the time. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, isn't it - sure they were all at it.....................!
When Queenie's political antennae began to twitch in her late teens, she took a particular interest in Latin America. Particularly the assassination of Archbishop Oscar Romero at the altar in the early eighties. Queenie feels the Vatican should have protected him more. Particularly when he flew to Rome to beg for assistance, and was refused an audience for days on end. But liberation theology smacked of communism to the Pole, so he sacrificed a charismatic and brilliant leader for political ends.
If there is any justice in the world, then the head of the Church in Honduras will be the next pope.
Hostility to gay people, to contraception, to family planning even, and to revised moral values increased at the same time as AIDS began to become an issue. Queenie will never really understand how the Vatican could scupper the UN Population Conference held in Africa a few years ago, and then use the same anti-family planning arguments to prevent African Catholic women from practicing safe sex.
And then the shit hit the fan. Across the world, in the USA and in Europe, and in Ireland. By God, we were up there with the best of them. Kiddy fiddlers. The lot of them. And this Pole, who even though he was an autocrat and and a conservative, had fought totalitarianism and Communism and modernity and consumerism and all the beasts of the modern age, was shown up for the hypocritic leader of a shower of hypocrites that he really was.
And he did not destroy Communism. Consumerism destroyed communism.
Saturday, April 02, 2005
The Incredibly Special Notebook
Queenie was thinking about notebooks today. And listening to her The Girl's got Soul playlist on iTunes. She was in the Writers’ Centre shop at lunchtime yesterday, it being through the archway from the Writers’ Centre café, where she was having lunch with Colombo, anyway, to cut an incredibly long sentence short, Queenie found herself irresistibly drawn to the notebook section. Because she has a notebook thing.
Ten things Queenie has a thing about
- Ants
- Notebooks
- Drinking tomato cup-a-soup to sober up – it works
- Lists, which probably drives the thing she has about notebooks, they being the perfect receptacle for lists that you need to carry about in your ladybag, as opposed to your head.
- Organising things so she can find them. Ref: 2 and 4. Also hours spent genrefying the unclassifiable bits of iTunes, spending three hours filing her paid bills last night instead of writing her zine, thereby missing the deadline.
- Giving up smoking. It’s just too damned cool. Queenie knows, she knows, it’s not. It’s just, if she gives up then she’ll be a grown up. And Mickey Martin will have won.
- Her body hair. Queenie swears she has the hairiest arms of any woman she knows. Unless they are all waxing and lying about it. Which is very plausible. Why did Queenie buy a Maria Tecce album? Was she drunk? She sounds like that singer on the patio of the hotel she had to go to for cocktails after dinner in Spain with her parents when she was fourteen and all she could hear was the call of the local boys above her husky lispings but Queenie couldn’t go answer the call, because nice country girls don’t do that.
- Queenie is bored with this list already. Jesus, Queenie has a Joss Stone album. For f’ssake girl, have you no shame? Oh that’s right, she bought it for her friend Polly, then reckoned she might turn her nose up at it, so she had to buy her a proper present and keep it.
- Missing deadlines. Like the Franks one Queenie just missed. Not good. Very upset, she is.
- Nice shelving. Queenie likes a bit of pale beech shelving. With objects placed artfully on them. Or her books. Organised by publisher. Well, some of them
Incredibly special
Queenie has just realised she has an incredibly anally retentive personality. Kinder people would call it an organised mind. And an ant thing. Maybe she was an ant in a previous life. She has never watched the film, but she did watch The Incredibles yesterday. It’s fab.
Queenie particularly like the whole take on ‘everyone can’t be special, because then noone is’. It’s an evil little thought that’s been lurking in the back of her head for a while now. Marvin Gaye is singing Girl you sure love to ball at Queenie now. Which is a bit rude, doncha think. A concept (specialness, not balling) that inexorably leads to reality tv shows involving talentless underdressed teenages who think they can sing because their mothers told them they were special when they were young and had cute, fessy, little blonde curls, instead of the muck brown mullet they’re now sporting.
Where was Queenie, the rambling thing is starting again. This is because Queenie's brain is overloaded. The notebook will sort that out. And her thoughts will follow a linear trajectory again, not the random hopping route they are taking these days. Oh yeah, notebooks.
Anyways, she bought a nice new one, as she had been looking for one since her moleskin filled up with lists. It has shoes on the front. Which of course, would have been no. 11 on the list of things Queenie has a thing about, if the list had gone up to no. 11.
Queenie’s random top random pairs of shoes of all time
- The incredibly pointy flat black suede shoes with luminous yellow buckles she bought in Zerep in 1985.
- The incredibly pointy, stiletto, shin high, black leather boots she bought in Roches two months ago.
- The brown wedge moccasins she paid over 300 euro for one time and didn’t eat for a month. That then stretched, so they’re a bit big for her now. Or maybe Queenie shrunk due to not eating for a month. Whatever
- The silver shantung silk covered wedding dress shoes she got in Pia Bangs for twenty quid about ten years ago that are still perfect because they are waterproof! So if anyone wants to marry Queenie, she has the shoes.
How does the iTunes ‘droid mind know intuitively the two albums she put on the playlist to pad it out, find them and constantly refer back to them on shuffle? Tis the Prince of Darkness!!
- Queenie’s Basher Boots walking boots. They rock.
- The next pair of shoes. It’s getting to that time of year. Oh yeah! She's considering those nice cheap wedges she can get in Top Shop nowadays, of course, then she'll be taller than Percy again. Why do blokes not like it when you are taller than them? It doesn't mean you can run away any faster, the exact opposite actually.
Beautiful Special
Queenie is rediscovering The Beautiful South. They used to annoy her. But now…….. dunno, they’re one of those bands Queenie tends to follow the herd on. Unfortunately, she follows a herd of almost extinct herbivorous, nocturnal, shy, foliage-dappled gazelle-type thingys, who communicate only by email and ‘zine, because they can’t organise a piss up in St. James’ Gate, according to some people, so she can’t ask them right now. Well she could, but they’re all still in bed no doubt and not reading their mail.
Here’s a thought. What must it be like for kids doing the Leaving now? When Queenie was doing the Leaving, her mother used to monitor the phone usage so she would study. Nowadays, they can mail, or mobile call, or text, do they get any study done at all?
ANYWAY, NOTEBOOKS!
Queenie wrote a list of all the things she has to do before she goes to Canada in it to try and calm down a bit. There were 27 things on the list. They are: ah no, she’s not going to do that to you all – that’s what inmyday is for.
But one of the things she had to do was book her going away party. So she went over to the Club after work this evening to talk to the Keeper of the Book of Bookings. Other staff members can pencil things into the Book. But only the Keeper can use the biro. Once he’s done the once-over.
Queenie was a bit nervous, because she forgot to pay for a pint one time and the Keeper tracked her down after about three months and made her pay him in front of about a squillion people. And she wanted the big room. Which is for charities and weddings and special people only. But not only was it available, but the Keeper got the biro straight away, and gave Queenie a discount, and LET QUEENIE WRITE IT IN THE BOOK HERSELF!!!!!
Queenie must be special. Incredibly special.
8pm on 20th May, you’re all invited, don’t be late because
you had to go home for food – there will be food there.
Brian Cowen - the Columbian connection
Queenie's favourite relation, Uncle Fredd is visiting Peru and Colombia at the moment, and has been sending hilarious dispatches, from one of which Queenie just had to share this extract with you all.
I was in Colombia for 3 weeks in 1977 and stayed in a convent which rejoiced in the name Convento Biffo ! How they knew I was from Tullamore and got the name painted up before I arrived I'll never know . I wonder if our beloved minister knows that in the city of Cartageña there is a community of nuns who worship him.
It was one of the most beautiful places I've ever been in, wonderful Spanish Colonial architecture and the old city walls completely intact. On a roundabout there was a sculpture of a giant pair of worn boots in memory of a local poet who wrote that returning to Cartageña was as comfortable as putting on an old pair of well-worn shoes.
I was taken out in his HobieCat sailing boat by one of the local CIA spooks (who had been moved there from Dar-es Salaam) and we reached an island beyond the horizon which was straight out of West Africa , where we had fried fish and lots of beer on the beach.
It will be interesting to see the reaction to an Irish passport in southern Colombia . No doubt it will be thoroughly perused . I'm sure the 3 boyos are well clear of there . One of them is married to a Venezuelan , I think , so they may have found a safe house there.
See, see, Queenie has been saying that for months!! People kept sidling up to her and saying this in Spanish to her (she thinks, her Spanish is not great), when she was in Chavezstan.
Keep on rockin' Freddie, stay away from the pisco sours, and see you soon!!
Queenie
I was in Colombia for 3 weeks in 1977 and stayed in a convent which rejoiced in the name Convento Biffo ! How they knew I was from Tullamore and got the name painted up before I arrived I'll never know . I wonder if our beloved minister knows that in the city of Cartageña there is a community of nuns who worship him.
It was one of the most beautiful places I've ever been in, wonderful Spanish Colonial architecture and the old city walls completely intact. On a roundabout there was a sculpture of a giant pair of worn boots in memory of a local poet who wrote that returning to Cartageña was as comfortable as putting on an old pair of well-worn shoes.
I was taken out in his HobieCat sailing boat by one of the local CIA spooks (who had been moved there from Dar-es Salaam) and we reached an island beyond the horizon which was straight out of West Africa , where we had fried fish and lots of beer on the beach.
It will be interesting to see the reaction to an Irish passport in southern Colombia . No doubt it will be thoroughly perused . I'm sure the 3 boyos are well clear of there . One of them is married to a Venezuelan , I think , so they may have found a safe house there.
See, see, Queenie has been saying that for months!! People kept sidling up to her and saying this in Spanish to her (she thinks, her Spanish is not great), when she was in Chavezstan.
Keep on rockin' Freddie, stay away from the pisco sours, and see you soon!!
Queenie
Friday, April 01, 2005
Today's Question
How did we all get it so wrong about Wolfie? He just wants to be a good global civil servant.
Don't we all, with those expenses.
Don't we all, with those expenses.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)