December 31, 2004

I'm Sure That I Could Be A Movie Star

Auspicious night, tonight, this "new years eve"? No, probably not. Drunken, though.

NOSTALGIA

This day, six years ago, I went for a haircut and put on my best little black number in order to snare the attractive young man whom I knew to be attending the same party as me. Today, he is sitting in his pyjamas in my house not ten feet away from me, my ring upon his finger, probably plotting another way to make me happy. Sweet.

I WIN.

K just shouted: "WHAT'S THIS? IT'S KEVIN, HAVING A SHOWER, WHERE KEVIN WILL PLAY THE STARRING ROLE!" (grabs a towel and addresses it) "YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED TO PARTICPATE IN THE KEVIN SHOWER!" (runs into the bathroom)

...Well, world, why have I neglected you? Blame Sligo. My parents' computer was so riddled with exciting and clever viruses (virii?) that a simple journal entry became as complicated and hapless as a Crystal Maze challenge. As you may or may not be aware, I'm not into doing things that are difficult. Effort is so 1930s America.

ACCIDENT

The car had an accident. It shat itself. No. It hit a curb in the rain, mashing the wheel. That was bad. It happened while K was collecting some friends for a session at our place. They had to get out and walk. K wasn't in the mood for doing his De Valera impression or reading us a Dylan Thomas poem then. Several beers and help from a friend's father later, he was back on form, and even read us his favourite Martin Luther King speech. Nomi donned some kind of scarf thing around her head and recited for us very amusing half-Irish/half-English poetry about innocent young men named Michael who had never sinned, if you know what I mean. We sang a lot of songs from every genre and Adrian treated us to some rich and delicious "special brownies" and his very own fabulous Beatnik poems, which we faithfully applauded -- *click click click*. Andy, our in house genius guitarist, kept singing songs about testicles (mortifying Ange's father who came to help us with the wheel) so I felt it might be appropriate the recite the following poem for him, by one of my favourite poets, Rita Ann Higgins.

NO BALLS AT ALL

The cats in Castle Park
are shameless,
they talk dirty all night long;
but not our Fluffy.

Our cat has been de-railed,
(that's Czechoslovakian for neutered)
but he doesn't know it.

He gets flashbacks
from his desire-filled past;
often along our back wall
he tiptoes tamely chasing pussy;

when he gets back to the point of no return
he gets a blackout,
he well knows with his acute cat sense
that the next bit is the best bit,
but he just can't remember
what he is supposed to do.

He was an alley-cat-and-a-half once,
but felines complained,
not softly but oftenly
about his over-zealous nature;
so we took him to the vet
where his desire was taken;
snapped at, whipped off, wiped out
by a man in a white coat.

It was sad, really,
de-railed in body but not fully in mind;
would he ever get over it,
our cat with some desire and no equipment?

Days now
he just sits
inside our white lace curtain
envying his promiscuous alley-cat friends.

Other times,
he plays with a ball of blue wool
or a grey rubber mouse
throwing him in the air
letting on to be tough.

Still, he would have his memories,
they would come and visit him
teasing him back
to the tumbling times of testicle-hood;

but sadly for the de-railed alley-cat
there is no second coming;
we came to accept it, and so did our Fluffy.

Good old Rita Ann.

Car mashing aside, a successful night. We have decided to make our story-telling/poetry/singing nights a semi-regular occurrence but I am worried about location: my livingroom heaves with tired fullness when there are twenty of us in there. Note: must purchase larger house.

PRESENTS

I have more Burberry scent (thanks Daddy) than you could wave a beige tartan scarf or bag at. Actually this was one of the best gift years ever. I am officially a spoilt brat.

NEW YEARS EVE CELEBRATIONS

There are many. First stop, Anonymous's house, for he departs for the large usually green crunchy fruit tomorrow, New York. Second, off to our pastor's house, for several hours of old-fogey partying (which I confess, I am very much looking forward to), followed by a sprint in our newly-repaired car to Clontarf to the house of De, for youthful debauchery and the much-awaited countdown.

TRIBUTES

I dedicate this entry, and hell, the whole site, to my darling childhood (and adulthood) best friend, Lydia, who turned twenty two yesterday. I love you girl. Allow to me salute you with verse:

La la la la, Lydia
Nothing rhymes with that
La la la la, Lydia
You have never owned a cat

La la la la, Lydia
Your sister-in-law is pregnant
La la la la, Lydia
You'll make a sassy Aunt

That will have to do, as I need to get some breakfast before my stomach reaches up and boxes me in the oesaphagus. Happy new year, scumbags.

neuro-praxis -- looking for a lunatic

Posted by neuro-praxis on December 31, 2004 01:31 PM, in the category Children, Pets, Guests