Just posted my review/thoughts on Jim Corr's speech at the Ashling Hotel on another page. Owing to my new work committments (I have a job!!) I've been unable to get to another left wing discussion dealing with the recession. Anyway, here's some more Jim for you http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ing8xH3Qj-k&feature=player_embedded#! . Kindly supplied by En Avant En Hausse.
Cheers!
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Review of "Toys4BigBoys"
As a concept a programme like "Goals on Sunday" should be a winner. The bovine simplicity of its mixture of goals from the previous day's football, gentle banter between besweatered former pros, and its well appointed set imitating someone's living room should work effectively as easygoing fodder for hangover sufferers. And yet for some reason it doesn't. The goals are never that good as most of the big matches are now played on Sunday, the imitated living room isn't one where I'd feel comfortable and, crucially, the pros are usually just that little bit too eager to be chummy, seemingly in the belief that hearty friendliness is what the viewing public craves.
The Toys4Big Boys exhibition at the RDS (opened yesterday) suffers from a similar gap between expectation and reality. Now in its ninth year, it bills itself as a broad based entertainment event primarily aimed at men seeking a good day out. As it happens this translates, predictably enough, into a curious mixture of gadgets, girls, motors, nostalgia and noise as the assembled exhibitors try and develop some hook with which to lure individuals from amongst the milling herds. Massage chairs, bean bags, yachts, helicopter rides, motor cycle apparel and accessories, paint treatments for cars, back treatments for backs, psychics, and genuine little kids' toys all vie for your attention. Sad to relate though: all these products were rather non-descript. I couldn't tell you what differentiated those on display from others available elsewhere and their pitches didn't particularly make me want to find ou
That's not to say that there weren't noteworthy displays though. The yachts for sale and helicopters and luxury cars on show were undoubtedly impressive, the Vader Maul stand selling Star Wars memorabilia had me coming over all Seymour Skinner on Diorama day and the Greenaer.ie exhibit selling motorised pushbikes was interesting and unusually straightforward in comparison to many others. Another personal highlight was the magnetic jewelry stand whose promotional flyer unconvincingly explains: "your blood is magnetic, as 4% of it is iron...When you apply a magnet, it produces a whirlpool effect in your blood. This improves the circulation of highly oxygenated blood and helps dislodge toxins and clear out your arteries" and the exhibitor who cheerfully replied "knackers and gurriers" when asked who his target market was.
This points out the problem of the exhibition in general: these merchants all offered something slightly different from the competition regardless of whether it was a big shiny machine, some vague hint of the esoteric or just good old fashioned candor. Like those areas where "Goals on Sunday" fails the uninteresting exhibitors here all adhered to a rigid formula centred on the notion of the ideal male lifestyle: whereas the former revolves around well appointed, clean furnishings, goals and "banter" the latter were preoccupied by the familiar formula of gadgets, girls, motors, nostalgia and noise.This would be fine for someone with a particular interest in these things and who recognised Toys4BigBoys as the trade fair that it is rather than the broad based entertainment event it is advertised as being.
In short, if you've a bit of money to spend and are interested in lifestyle purchases then this is the hot ticket for you. Alas, as is the case with "Goals on Sunday", this isn't the demographic I fall into.
The Toys4Big Boys exhibition at the RDS (opened yesterday) suffers from a similar gap between expectation and reality. Now in its ninth year, it bills itself as a broad based entertainment event primarily aimed at men seeking a good day out. As it happens this translates, predictably enough, into a curious mixture of gadgets, girls, motors, nostalgia and noise as the assembled exhibitors try and develop some hook with which to lure individuals from amongst the milling herds. Massage chairs, bean bags, yachts, helicopter rides, motor cycle apparel and accessories, paint treatments for cars, back treatments for backs, psychics, and genuine little kids' toys all vie for your attention. Sad to relate though: all these products were rather non-descript. I couldn't tell you what differentiated those on display from others available elsewhere and their pitches didn't particularly make me want to find ou
That's not to say that there weren't noteworthy displays though. The yachts for sale and helicopters and luxury cars on show were undoubtedly impressive, the Vader Maul stand selling Star Wars memorabilia had me coming over all Seymour Skinner on Diorama day and the Greenaer.ie exhibit selling motorised pushbikes was interesting and unusually straightforward in comparison to many others. Another personal highlight was the magnetic jewelry stand whose promotional flyer unconvincingly explains: "your blood is magnetic, as 4% of it is iron...When you apply a magnet, it produces a whirlpool effect in your blood. This improves the circulation of highly oxygenated blood and helps dislodge toxins and clear out your arteries" and the exhibitor who cheerfully replied "knackers and gurriers" when asked who his target market was.
This points out the problem of the exhibition in general: these merchants all offered something slightly different from the competition regardless of whether it was a big shiny machine, some vague hint of the esoteric or just good old fashioned candor. Like those areas where "Goals on Sunday" fails the uninteresting exhibitors here all adhered to a rigid formula centred on the notion of the ideal male lifestyle: whereas the former revolves around well appointed, clean furnishings, goals and "banter" the latter were preoccupied by the familiar formula of gadgets, girls, motors, nostalgia and noise.This would be fine for someone with a particular interest in these things and who recognised Toys4BigBoys as the trade fair that it is rather than the broad based entertainment event it is advertised as being.
In short, if you've a bit of money to spend and are interested in lifestyle purchases then this is the hot ticket for you. Alas, as is the case with "Goals on Sunday", this isn't the demographic I fall into.
Friday, November 12, 2010
there's a doins a-transpirin!
Afternoon folks!
Just to let you know what I've been up to: was at the Toys4Big|Boys exhibition yesterday and then was off channeling my inner John Ronson at the Jim Corr chat at the Ashling Hotel on the financial crisis. Will post a review of the Toys4BigBoys exhibition soon but I'm seeking another left wing public meeting addressing the financial crisis before I begin writing on that one. If you've any suggestions then don't hesitate to let me know.
Much obliged,
Alan
Just to let you know what I've been up to: was at the Toys4Big|Boys exhibition yesterday and then was off channeling my inner John Ronson at the Jim Corr chat at the Ashling Hotel on the financial crisis. Will post a review of the Toys4BigBoys exhibition soon but I'm seeking another left wing public meeting addressing the financial crisis before I begin writing on that one. If you've any suggestions then don't hesitate to let me know.
Much obliged,
Alan
Sunday, November 7, 2010
simple pleasures and small mercies
So I arrived back in Dublin on Wednesday night. The weather was atrocious. The wind seemed to be in some sort of competition with the rain to determine who could make a greater contribution to the sum of human misery that was being shared amongst those of us waiting for lifts at the departures set down area of Dublin airport. By my reckoning it was a draw. Anyway, the lift came. I was tired and grouchy and wet and minus my wallet (a pickpocket artiste had worked his magic just as I had gotten off the RER arriving at Paris airport) so I wasn't much cheer for my obliging chauffeur/brother. A cup of tea and a perfunctory hello to my family was all I managed before I went to bed. I wanted to be up the next morning so as to beat the queues at the dole office.
Waking early, and still feeling fairly guilty about my air of wet dejection in the face of my family's warm greeting the night before, I busied myself with the task of going to Tallaght's social welfare office. After waiting in line for five minutes I presented myself at reception, took a number, and waited again amidst a sea of bored and confused faces. A few moments before my number was called a late middle aged woman with thin hair and poorly fitting clothes who had previously been milling around the queue for reception collapsed two metres in front of one of the interview booths and began fitting. Immediatley two members of staff came out to help her but there was little reaction from the banks of plastic seated postulants. My number flashed on the little digital monitor and I got up from my chair. As I did so a well spoken, well dressed woman droned into her phone about what had just happened and how disgraceful it was that none of us had budged. I had to fight the temptation to delicately point out to her that she too had done absolutely nothing to help. I went to the booth and the advisor listened patiently to my story: there was an illness in the family and I wanted to return home from France to help out, I thought I had a job but this had fallen through, I just wanted to get the application papers in case, as I expected, I couldn't get a job. She explained I should speak with someone to explain this in more detail and gave me an appointment for a few weeks hence. I thanked her and left as the woman on the floor, now attended by two ambulance personnel, continued to writhe involuntarily.
I returned home and watched TV for a bit, studiously avoiding the news and talk of four year plans and swingeing cuts, before meeting my father for lunch at the local pub. We sat in the nearly empty lounge and ate sandwhiches as some old man drinking Beamish alone at the bar intermittently interrupted our conversation to make a mess of cracking a joke (Him: How many legs are on a pool table? Me: Why would a pool table have legs on it? Him: None! Sure aren't the legs under the pool table! Ahahahahahah [wheezes] hahahaha!). Every now and again though as he trailed off laughing he would go off into a solitary spoken revery following one of his jokes. On one of these occassions though I'm fairly sure I heard him grumble to himself repeatedly "Die young... die young... It's better to die young, it is alright... die young... Cabra... seagulls... die young... die young... Mick![the barman]" I looked across the table at my father as he raised his eyebrows and noted sagely that the local wasn't the sort of spot you'd bring your girlfriend if you wanted to impress her.
So my father and I went our seperate ways and I returned home slightly overwhelmed by the day so far; my own mood, the poor woman, and the gnostic alcoholic at the bar. I struggled to make sense of it as my mother pottered about the house and the wind and the rain continued their work, discouraging me from taking the dog for a walk as I had planned. With nothing doing on the making sense of things front though I eventually buckled and grabbed my mp3 player and the dog's lead. Outside in the dark she strained against the lead and I followed. Walking into the wind and the rain underneath the orange street lights I switched on my mp3 and put it into shuffle mode. This came on. Suddenly life didn't seem so bad even if the wind did seem to be trying to saw me in two. I rounded the top of my estate and gave myself up to the music and its invocation of love and the natural order and all that is good in the world. As the song came to an end I waited for the next tune and wondered if this was going to be one of those moments when fate smiles radiantly upon me. This came on. Yes it was. Walking the dog home I smiled to myself as the title for this post swirled in my head, dancing with the music. Reaching my house I put the key in the door and the dog went in in front of me. My mother was cooking something and its sweet smell assailed me from the porch door. The fire in the sitting room was lit and a few logs and briquettes burned, distributing their largesse of light and heat to all corners of the room. I unhooked the dog from her lead, hung my coat up and sat down on the couch near the fire. I smiled again to myself and thought. I may be unemployed and know rhat suffering and misery aren't just confined to bad weather but I am capable of enjoying the simple things and appreciating the small gestures of kindness other people make for me. Understanding this may be but a small consolation. For me though, I feel that this is one realisation that will make all the difference over the coming months.
Waking early, and still feeling fairly guilty about my air of wet dejection in the face of my family's warm greeting the night before, I busied myself with the task of going to Tallaght's social welfare office. After waiting in line for five minutes I presented myself at reception, took a number, and waited again amidst a sea of bored and confused faces. A few moments before my number was called a late middle aged woman with thin hair and poorly fitting clothes who had previously been milling around the queue for reception collapsed two metres in front of one of the interview booths and began fitting. Immediatley two members of staff came out to help her but there was little reaction from the banks of plastic seated postulants. My number flashed on the little digital monitor and I got up from my chair. As I did so a well spoken, well dressed woman droned into her phone about what had just happened and how disgraceful it was that none of us had budged. I had to fight the temptation to delicately point out to her that she too had done absolutely nothing to help. I went to the booth and the advisor listened patiently to my story: there was an illness in the family and I wanted to return home from France to help out, I thought I had a job but this had fallen through, I just wanted to get the application papers in case, as I expected, I couldn't get a job. She explained I should speak with someone to explain this in more detail and gave me an appointment for a few weeks hence. I thanked her and left as the woman on the floor, now attended by two ambulance personnel, continued to writhe involuntarily.
I returned home and watched TV for a bit, studiously avoiding the news and talk of four year plans and swingeing cuts, before meeting my father for lunch at the local pub. We sat in the nearly empty lounge and ate sandwhiches as some old man drinking Beamish alone at the bar intermittently interrupted our conversation to make a mess of cracking a joke (Him: How many legs are on a pool table? Me: Why would a pool table have legs on it? Him: None! Sure aren't the legs under the pool table! Ahahahahahah [wheezes] hahahaha!). Every now and again though as he trailed off laughing he would go off into a solitary spoken revery following one of his jokes. On one of these occassions though I'm fairly sure I heard him grumble to himself repeatedly "Die young... die young... It's better to die young, it is alright... die young... Cabra... seagulls... die young... die young... Mick![the barman]" I looked across the table at my father as he raised his eyebrows and noted sagely that the local wasn't the sort of spot you'd bring your girlfriend if you wanted to impress her.
So my father and I went our seperate ways and I returned home slightly overwhelmed by the day so far; my own mood, the poor woman, and the gnostic alcoholic at the bar. I struggled to make sense of it as my mother pottered about the house and the wind and the rain continued their work, discouraging me from taking the dog for a walk as I had planned. With nothing doing on the making sense of things front though I eventually buckled and grabbed my mp3 player and the dog's lead. Outside in the dark she strained against the lead and I followed. Walking into the wind and the rain underneath the orange street lights I switched on my mp3 and put it into shuffle mode. This came on. Suddenly life didn't seem so bad even if the wind did seem to be trying to saw me in two. I rounded the top of my estate and gave myself up to the music and its invocation of love and the natural order and all that is good in the world. As the song came to an end I waited for the next tune and wondered if this was going to be one of those moments when fate smiles radiantly upon me. This came on. Yes it was. Walking the dog home I smiled to myself as the title for this post swirled in my head, dancing with the music. Reaching my house I put the key in the door and the dog went in in front of me. My mother was cooking something and its sweet smell assailed me from the porch door. The fire in the sitting room was lit and a few logs and briquettes burned, distributing their largesse of light and heat to all corners of the room. I unhooked the dog from her lead, hung my coat up and sat down on the couch near the fire. I smiled again to myself and thought. I may be unemployed and know rhat suffering and misery aren't just confined to bad weather but I am capable of enjoying the simple things and appreciating the small gestures of kindness other people make for me. Understanding this may be but a small consolation. For me though, I feel that this is one realisation that will make all the difference over the coming months.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
So it goes. The months drift by and the blog lies dormant, becoming more and more settled in its virtual oubliette. The absentee proprietor occassionaly spares a thought for it as he goes about his daily routine but he goes no further than this; entertaining idle speculation about giving the blog a firm identity is the limit of his ambition. The more distant ambition of establishing a career in journalism hinges upon his endeavours with the blog and since nothing happens there... well, that career will always linger on the horizon. Until... one day an e-mail arrives in his inbox that wrecks all his most poorly laid plans and tenuous hopes.
A delicate family situation has arisen in Dublin. He feels uneasy about being away from home so our hero plots his return. Favours are sought in the pursuit of employment and, as the situation is understood, apparently granted. Tickets home are purchased and notice is given to current employers and landlords. An e-mail seeking clarification about the job is sent and... the reply given sends our hero scurrying back to his forgotten blog.
So it went. We come full circle and now I, your non-descript hero, sit in front of my laptop searching furiously through my inbox for a link to my blog. This is done in the hope that a new posting will represent some kind of statement of intent regarding a future that, up until this morning, had seemed fairly well defined despite the fact that it was never really seriously considered. Work, earn wages, save significant proportion of same, repeat formula five or six times, travel, then repeat process again in another country. Such was my future up until this morning when I was fairly sure that the whole "work, earn money, save" part of the equation was a comforting, known invariable. Algebra never was my strong point however.
This afternoon that has all changed. I'm stil rubbish at algebra but I'm going to make a serious effort with this blog and the journalism. As such, before I leave Paris you can look forward to at least one review of an exhibtion that has recently opened. Currently I'm leaning towards posting on the new "Lenin, Stalin, & Music" exposition at the Cite de la Musique although the Basquiat exhibition is something of a dark horse in this regard.
Anyway, thanks for your indulgence,
Alan
A delicate family situation has arisen in Dublin. He feels uneasy about being away from home so our hero plots his return. Favours are sought in the pursuit of employment and, as the situation is understood, apparently granted. Tickets home are purchased and notice is given to current employers and landlords. An e-mail seeking clarification about the job is sent and... the reply given sends our hero scurrying back to his forgotten blog.
So it went. We come full circle and now I, your non-descript hero, sit in front of my laptop searching furiously through my inbox for a link to my blog. This is done in the hope that a new posting will represent some kind of statement of intent regarding a future that, up until this morning, had seemed fairly well defined despite the fact that it was never really seriously considered. Work, earn wages, save significant proportion of same, repeat formula five or six times, travel, then repeat process again in another country. Such was my future up until this morning when I was fairly sure that the whole "work, earn money, save" part of the equation was a comforting, known invariable. Algebra never was my strong point however.
This afternoon that has all changed. I'm stil rubbish at algebra but I'm going to make a serious effort with this blog and the journalism. As such, before I leave Paris you can look forward to at least one review of an exhibtion that has recently opened. Currently I'm leaning towards posting on the new "Lenin, Stalin, & Music" exposition at the Cite de la Musique although the Basquiat exhibition is something of a dark horse in this regard.
Anyway, thanks for your indulgence,
Alan
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
"So what do you hope to do? Are you just going to work here for a while?"
"I don't know; I've applied for teaching training in England for September but eh... I don't know about that."
"Hmm, working conditions for teachers are appaling these days so I wouldn't recommend it. What are you passionate about?"
"I loved philosophy when I did it in university but there's no jobs there."
"Yeah, you're right... What can you typically use philosophy for though?"
"Eh... not much. Maybe journalism. But there's no jobs in that one either"
"I don't know now, if you're good at it you can do well. You just have to be aggresive...committed about it."
I leaned against the barfront with both hands and thought about this for a moment.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This was a fragment from the conversation I had with a customer last night at the Irish bar where I work in Paris. It's a dingy, dirty sort of spot mostly frequented by French office staff who work nearby so naturally enough, it being a quiet early Monday evening and all, it didn't take long for myself and the newly come fellow Irishman to begin speaking of Paris, the homeland and points in between. A lecturer in culinary arts for a regional I.T. in the west of Ireland, he had spent time in London and Paris working as a chef and spoke highly of his experiences there. It wasn't the usual middle class lament over how difficult it can sometimes be being middle class in Ireland however. In what he said he seemed too concerned with ideas like passion and ambition and education to be bothered by Ireland's climate, poor public transport network, or even it's lack of true high-end contemporary art galleries and clothing stores. He seemed to be neither overly ashamed nor proud of Ireland's up-until-recent-times sustained history of poverty but did seem like he'd travelled enough to know the difference between the good and bad parts of what could be described as the Irish psyche. In short, he struck me as being a warm hearted, well travelled, discerning individual.
As you will no doubt have picked up from all this he was, to my eyes at least, a most sympathetic character and for some reason I don't fully understand my conversation with him has made me think more seriously than ever before about becoming a journalist/professional writer. In a way I suppose meeting him and hearing him freely throwing bold abstract nouns like passion, commitment and ambition about has somehow awakened my own previosily dormant ambitions. With that inspiration in mind and in that spirit I thus begin this blog/public diary; a repository for updates on what I've been up to, philosophical musings and pretty much anything in between.
Let me know what you think either about the writing (could it be clearer? did you understand it all? did you enjoy it or was it hopelessly self-indulgent? etc?) or about my career options as a writer hoping to earn some money. In fact, even if you just want to say hello in the comments section for the pleasure of seeing your name in digitally encoded type then, by all means, go nuts.
Thanks for your time,
FAO
"I don't know; I've applied for teaching training in England for September but eh... I don't know about that."
"Hmm, working conditions for teachers are appaling these days so I wouldn't recommend it. What are you passionate about?"
"I loved philosophy when I did it in university but there's no jobs there."
"Yeah, you're right... What can you typically use philosophy for though?"
"Eh... not much. Maybe journalism. But there's no jobs in that one either"
"I don't know now, if you're good at it you can do well. You just have to be aggresive...committed about it."
I leaned against the barfront with both hands and thought about this for a moment.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This was a fragment from the conversation I had with a customer last night at the Irish bar where I work in Paris. It's a dingy, dirty sort of spot mostly frequented by French office staff who work nearby so naturally enough, it being a quiet early Monday evening and all, it didn't take long for myself and the newly come fellow Irishman to begin speaking of Paris, the homeland and points in between. A lecturer in culinary arts for a regional I.T. in the west of Ireland, he had spent time in London and Paris working as a chef and spoke highly of his experiences there. It wasn't the usual middle class lament over how difficult it can sometimes be being middle class in Ireland however. In what he said he seemed too concerned with ideas like passion and ambition and education to be bothered by Ireland's climate, poor public transport network, or even it's lack of true high-end contemporary art galleries and clothing stores. He seemed to be neither overly ashamed nor proud of Ireland's up-until-recent-times sustained history of poverty but did seem like he'd travelled enough to know the difference between the good and bad parts of what could be described as the Irish psyche. In short, he struck me as being a warm hearted, well travelled, discerning individual.
As you will no doubt have picked up from all this he was, to my eyes at least, a most sympathetic character and for some reason I don't fully understand my conversation with him has made me think more seriously than ever before about becoming a journalist/professional writer. In a way I suppose meeting him and hearing him freely throwing bold abstract nouns like passion, commitment and ambition about has somehow awakened my own previosily dormant ambitions. With that inspiration in mind and in that spirit I thus begin this blog/public diary; a repository for updates on what I've been up to, philosophical musings and pretty much anything in between.
Let me know what you think either about the writing (could it be clearer? did you understand it all? did you enjoy it or was it hopelessly self-indulgent? etc?) or about my career options as a writer hoping to earn some money. In fact, even if you just want to say hello in the comments section for the pleasure of seeing your name in digitally encoded type then, by all means, go nuts.
Thanks for your time,
FAO
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