May 26, 2007

Like A Whirlpool; It Never Ends

It's been one of those weeks that kind of crushes you and nourishes you all at once. It's been a week of drama, and not of the election-frenzy-fulled variety. (I predictably voted Green.) But I don't have a clue how to blog anymore. It seems that the older I get, the broader the category of "Stuff That Can't Be Discussed On The Internet" widens. (Remember my heady college days? With endless accounts of the mundanities of my life, delighting generations of middle class children for half a century?) It's been an exhausting week: it involved the tasty combination of shocks, tears, laughs and live music, creating a confusing pie on which I feasted with weary jaws. Ah ha ha ha! I love my own mixed metaphors. That's cheered me up nicely now. This morning, after a goodbye forever at the airport and a breakfast with old friends by the sea, I retired to bed and the television today to bask in the unusual sweetness of a Saturday without obligations.

Clearly exhausted

SAFE TOPICS

This week I enjoyed the spectacular talents of the Dave Matthews Band (in the Point - boo hiss) and Duke Special and his team of clever music monkeys (in Vicar Street - calloo callay etc.). Aside from the soul-enriching delights of being in the same room as mighty musicians and thousand of their fans was the pleasurable knowledge that I didn't buy any of the tickets - they were gifts. Thanks to Mullen and Wylie for the love. :) Duke Special even came down into the crowd and taught us a sailor song. I was so close I could have pulled his dreadlocks, and it may or may not be true that I did in fact give his dreadlocks a little tug when the security guard wasn't looking. I might also have cupped a Nordie buttock. You can't prove it was me though.

This week I also had my first experience of wandering Dublin's strange but oddly pleasing IFSC quarter, where I encountered these handsome fellows and ate in a really cheap Italian restaurant where the pizza sauce tasted like ketchup. I was forced to pelt the ridiculously beautiful Italian waitress with my ketchupy meal but I think it worked out ok because we left before the police arrived. Nifty: that's me.

So today, the husband unit and I have been watching the 2006 smash hit (ha ha ha!) Alien Autopsy which has given me the chance to relive my childhood crush on the delectable Declan Donnelly. By-ah Grove, anyone?

Gwan - give us a quick round of the theme tune. I believe it went a little like this:

Oh yeah. That's what it's all about baby. I enjoyed Alien Autopsy though, in spite ot the hideous reputation that preceded it. It's a genuinely fun recounting of a mysterious tale. If we were together in person I'd make a spooky noise and wave my hands about a bit here. As it is you'll have to just imagine me doing it. Sorry.

I'm glad that the June bank holiday weekend is approaching, as I am feeling the need for festival and in its absence, bank holiday is the next best thing. I know I am in need of a bit of fun when I find myself planning what I'll buy my mother for Christmas or what I'll dress up as for Hallowe'en. (I have to admit that even where our office might go for our Christmas party has crossed my mind.) I am planning an end-of-term party for my colleagues that won't involve a Wild West or Hawaiian theme, but might involve a lot of food and the unending amusement of watching stiff academics turn into floppy gossips with mouths full of tapas and plonk. I'm the sober one with the camera collecting the taxi fares. So we're thinking of trekking down to a magical house in the secluded woodland of Leitrim for a lot of beer and barbeques and perhaps we'll catch the musical wonders of Liam McDermott who is in some kind of inexplicable song competition in the nether regions of Drumshanbo. Not exactly the mardis gras but distinctively Irish and I'm all about reclaiming the heritage and all that crap.

We also watched a great documentary on the discovery of lithium as a use for bipolar disorder in the forties. Maybe you saw it too? It got me thinking what I could discover simply by injecting a lot of urine into the abdomen of various domestic animals: cats for example. I don't have a cat as the husband unit is allergic to them (nerd) and I'd love to have one and apart from the urine injections I swear it'd all be cat-treats and belly-rubs. What else could you inject into a cat - brown sauce? This might help cure AIDS. Might as well give it a bash. Don't think I don't love animals though - I went to Dublin zoo on Sunday and fed cheesy puffs to all the animals and birds I could reach.

neuro-praxis -- It's Tuesday, It's Fat, And That's Quite Enough of That

May 15, 2007

In Honour of Betamaxnomates

Betamaxnomates is LEAVING ME. Well, not just me: everyone. He is going to Japan: the land of such terrible movies as Lost in Translation (BILE) and Gin Gwai (The Eye) (actually quite good, that wan). Betamaxnomates, because I love you, I have compiled facts for you because as mother never says, fore-warned is fore-armed. And your forearms are quite long.

All of the below is not not not not untrue.

Did you know...?

Most rural Japanese villages have no proper ground to walk on – the marshy substance on which they must tread resembles the floor of a cheap funfair Spook-House. To help them traverse, Japanese farmers wear multiple lacrosse racquets sellotaped to their bare feet. This tradition has not been completely lost, and in large cities it is not uncommon to see people with similar attire navigating their way through the crowds – particularly amongst people who work in the coffee-pot development industry, which was born out of farming. Although the ground in major cities has been solidified, these people (usually children of farmers) continue to wear the lacrosse racquets to honour their mother and father. To not do this would be punishable by death.

The Japanese have very poor eyesight. This is useful for when you want to trick them: for example offering what appears to be money to homeless Japanese people from a slight distance, which upon examination turns out to be Koka noodle wrappers. You can tell that their eyesight is bad because of how their face is set in a permanent squint. (Unknown statistic: almost 85% of all Japanese people are homeless.)

No Japanese person can read text unless it is written in the speech bubble of a Manga cartoon character. This is why there are no libraries in Japan – only comic book stores. Also there are no universities in Japan. The Japanese think that learning "attracts evil spirits". If you want a deaf person to understand you in Japan, you have to draw cartoons of both of you with your verbal statements coming from speech bubbles of the cartoon of yourself. If you are bad at art consequently no deaf Japanese person will engage you in conversation. The deaf population in Japan (approximately 25% of all people) are among the finest artists in the world, with paintings done using only soy sauce in all major national museums dating back almost ten thousand years.

The Japanese will not place any two round objects close together – two oranges for example – because of the similarity in shape to a pair of breasts. Breasts are considered offensive in Japanese culture and as such none of the women have any. They use their mind power to stop them growing during puberty. Similarly the carrot is considered offensive, but men do not eliminate their penises with mind-power as they are unable to.

You will need to bring a plentiful supply of underwear to Japan as it is impossible to buy new underwear in any of the shops – only soiled underwear is for sale. And don't try to get around this – if you employ a seamstress to make you some new pants, she will insist on using soiled fabric, or may give you a pair of her own (being caught wearing completely new pants in Japan results in imprisonment and a fine up to 81661550 Yen which is approximately half a million Euros; also the seamstress's implication in the crime would mean she gets her face surgically removed – symbolic of having stuck her nose into a foul situation).

All Japanese people have two stomachs – one for processing soba noodles, one for tofu. Some of the poorest Japanese people only have one stomach, rice farmers for example, but Amnesty International is fighting for their rights in this regard. Any food that is not noodles or tofu is digested not in the stomachs but in the throat region where the nutrients are immediately absorbed into the bloodstream.

Dental surgery is strictly outlawed in Japan because appointments with the dentist cut into the working day. A dental appointment will only be allowed if it is on Christmas day (although the vast majority of Japanese people are secular, with some Buddhism, Christmas day is their only national holiday) and if you have worked an average of 140 hours per week in the preceding year. This one-minute appointment is likely to cost within the region of 1660000 Yen (around 10,000 Euros). As a result of this strict rule, only 1% of the population receive any form of dental care so most Japanese people have very blackened and rotten mouths (toothpaste, dental floss and mouthwash are also outlawed for the same time-wasting reasons).

There will be more: oh yes. There will be more.

neuro-praxis -- racist today, gone tomorrow

May 10, 2007

Going Deeper With PBL

This blog is becoming all about work. Too bad. I was thinking I could write a comedy docudrama about it all. Maybe call it something sparse and arty like, “The Office”. It could be a real success, despite what you shower of nay-sayers may think.

TODAY'S MOST SUCCESSFUL PHONE CONVERSATION:

Phone: Ring ring
(at 2.15pm) Me: Good morning, department one speaking.
Person on phone: Er, sorry?
Me: Um, I mean neuro speaking. And good afternoon. And this is department one, also.

TODAY'S SECOND MOST SUCCESSFUL PHONE CONVERSATON:

Person on phone: I am ringing about Margaret Burke’s appointment with Dr. Whatserface. Blah blah blah, moan moan moan. When can I expect <extra-special service that I am unwilling to pay for, or perhaps even turn up for> to happen? I would like everything yesterday please.
Me: Let me just get Margaret’s file here. I see she has special needs. Are you her mother?
Person on phone: No, I’m her husband.
Me: Oh dear. Ha ha ha. Excuse me.

That’ll do.

neuro-praxis – Could Have Done More But Didn’t Want To

May 08, 2007

Have You Any Idea Where This Poor Creature Is?

Almost on a daily basis now I enjoy strange little occurrences in my life and I note to myself (loudly), "Must blog that." Sadly I am too lazy or forgetful or both to make it a reality. But that's no good for you now, is it? I'll save you some bother: the answer to that little rhetorical question is no.

So I've been doing a little temping in another department in my building. Their unwillingness to do any work has left them with a frighteningly vast backlog. My first day was somewhat of a shock. Compared to my department, this office is what you might call a dungeon: dark, dusty and full of instruments of torture and old bones. My keyboard is full of fingernail clippings and food: my boss looks like she's nigh on ninety and straight out of Tales From The Crypt. Her reputation as a nasty piece of work preceded her but I must say she has been rather nice, if a little odd.

I am known round my office for being well-organised: I have good systems for managing gazillions of duties (gazillions being the technical term, you understand) and occasionally in this super-ordered pursuit I use paper-clips. You know. For clipping one document to another. Firm, but without the messiness of Sellotape or the potential finger scratching of a staple. Amidst the dirt and chaos on my temporary desk I could find none. I had a root in the stationary cupboard but still: no joy. I was weeping for the lost paper-clips when my temping boss tottered alongside.

Me: Hi, old woman. Where can I find a box of paper-clips?

OW: Paperclips? <narrows eyes> What do you want paper-clips for?

Me: To clip some documents together.

OW: We don't use paper-clips down here.

And that was the end of my silly notion that I could use paper-clips in the dungeon. Now I use elastic bands and Sellotape like all the others. It's really great.

So, anyway, with my naive enthusiasm fresh from my clean and airy office filled with sunlight and modern art, cool spring water and smiling faces, not to mention the streams of paper-clips to swim in, I lashed into the dungeon's backlog of work, only to be told at the end of the first day that I was "going too fast". I was urged in a conspirational whisper to "go slower". WELL HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. What am I here for if not to help you bash down that almighty pile of work you've gathered while you were taking fifteen coffee breaks a day (not to mention the fags)? Mark my words: they'll all be dead of lung cancer in a month. Lucky I've got a killer pair of black stilettos for the funerals.

So in other work-related news: I've applied for another job internally for which I interview on Friday, which if I get it, will bring my current number of jobs in the same building up to three. I'm impressed even with myself there. Of course I don't yet know if I'll get the job but between you and me and the internet I'd say I have as much of a chance as the other applicants, except for the ones with more experience, you know what I'm saying? I'm pessimistically hopeful. Presumably if I flash a bit of leg at the interviewer it'll do me some good. However, I do happen to know the interviewer and she's female and straight, got engaged last week and has the sense on humour of a plastic hammer. So maybe I should just brush up on my lying, like always.

I am sick for the fourth time in 2007. I took my sorry ass to the doctor this time and he gave me some Pinaclav (which tastes and smells like vanilla) and a sick note, of which I am availing while I convalesce. I might as well: I feel like a soaked and squeezed machine knitted pullover, trun on a dirty bathroom floor, probably owned by dirty students (trun being the Dublin word for thrown); noisy pretentious students whom I HATE. I have had no sleep at all - I've been far too busy hacking up yellow loogies into strips of toilet roll while my husband tosses and turns next to me. It has been a fabulous bank holiday weekend - one to remember for sure. However it has given me the chance to read a super novel - The Testament of Gideon Mack; a fabulous tale about an atheistic Presbyterian minister who falls in a river and meets with the devil. My co-worker saw it on a bookshelf and immediately thought of me. I don't know why: perhaps my Presbyterianism comes across as contrived? Maybe it's simply the devilish glint in my eye? Whatever the reason, she purchased it for me with great kindness and I lurched upon it like a literature fiend who has been forced to read Mills & Boon novels for a number of years and devoured it in a couple of days. You ought to do the same, and quick. I hear the world will be ending sharpish and as we all know, the afterlife is nothing but sitting chubby and naked on a cloud: no time for novels about satan then.

neuro-praxis -- Part Wallace, Part Rabbit