neuro's:blog

Yes, I Been Black, But...

Well, the links are back, and it's all thanks to Dave who generously gave his time to trawling through my disgusting html, and is great, even if he only updates his blog once every four years. He did it in spite of his hacking COUGH OF DEATH, which I had the privilege of having spewed over me on Tuesday night, courtesy of Chestal Region Infections Inc., with whom Dave is a client. He saw their range of lung bacteria and thought to himself, "I'll have some of that," which he then dutifully shared out. We are now all ill...but then again it could just be a repeat of that time that our friend Emer had cancer and we all starting developing cancerous symptoms in sympathy. (Boy were our faces red! She's dead now.) But truly, I have become infected. (I can tell because my fingernails ache.) In the words of the great Adrian Mee, "My bones are practically dust, mon cherie."

And so here I sit, languishing at my desk, Victorian style, wearing some kind of hideous whalebone corset or whatever, inhaling arsenic from the dye in the wallpaper, coughing up blood onto my spotless starched bedsheets...this fantasy got out of control fast.

I am thinking about eating beans on toast. I have a little can of baked beans in my handbag, as every lady does. But I have no toast. I have no toast because I went to the shop this morning and the ATM was out of service, and all I had was 2 cents in my wallet. When I write 2 cents, everything in me wants to write 2p, because 2p is so much more what I am used to. My mother just gives right in to that desire, incidentally; as far as she is concerned we are still using pounds and pence. Her new blouse cost thirty pounds, wasn't that a bargain? Yes mother, but in what COUNTRY?

But back to the beans. I feel certain that the ATM will be feeling better now, as its repair was taking place as I stood there sadly in the shop with only 2 cents to my name. But I would have to walk there now to get the money and the bread, and then walk back to my building and up the three flights of stairs to the canteen, and then, you know, toast the bread, and butter it too, and put it on a plate. By the time I got all that done it'd be close of business and they'd be booting me out of the building, surely.

But the hole in my stomach compels me. Like the power of Christ compelled the demon out of that chick in that movie! Yeah, my life is one long horror scene. (I use baked beans to fake the guts.)

neuro-praxis -- She Beans Walking Around All Night

At The Very Least, This Blog Is In A Coma

...so stop mailing me! I need to rest, man.

I Had To Rest My Lucky Hat

In headline news, my friend's two year old child pulled down the curtain, along with the curtain rail and all its fittings, dragged the hollow tube of a curtain rail into the toilet and had himself a fine big drink through it. Mmm-mmm! That is the kind of story that makes me wanna be a mama. That will suffice for your greeting.

In less shocking developments, I handed in my notice at work today. I've given two months, which I think is reasonably fair. By handed in, I mean tearfully confessed to my lovely boss how much I hate my job. If I quit she will have to close down. That's how obscurely skilled I am. Neither of us has two years to train somebody else in the field, and the handful of people in this country who can do what we do are currently employed. Why do I have to be so mysterious? Because, quite simply, it's more interesting than admitting what we do. Also she should not have to be connected to this dubious website which contains dirty words such as SHITE and BOLLOX.

So what now you ask? I haven't a smelly notion. I do have a smelly child (soccer) though - I put him in the shower. He is not my child I hasten to add, I am babysitting him, as I am wont to do of a Thursday, but I do proudly claim guardianship if it means a cheaper ticket to anything.

But back to careers. There are options, the first one being the dole. I am awaiting inevitable rejection from a much-sought-after Masters degree. I will hear in one month. As for money, most of my neighbours leave their doors unlocked. I'll think of something. Plus I can order any provisions I may need on the internet and charge it to my company credit card. I am currently in dire need of a third dvd player.

So in order to celebrate losing my smidgen of financial security, I went to Liffey Valley and bought myself two pairs of jeans. I feel it was appropriate as I recently ripped a large hole near the crotchal area in my one and only pair of denims. I have found myself feeling vulnerable without a pair of jeans in my wardrobe. Now that I have a staple to wear again, I will try patching up the old jeans. Tattered and worn and stinking they may be, but they are the only ones who will get close to me and not leave screaming. No, they just implode.

And so we are hurtled forward to the present. I am preparing myself (spiritually speaking) for a weekend in Cork. I ain't never been to the Cork before. I hear it has bad roads and a defensive population. "We do have theatres in Cork." "Cork has cinemas too, you know." "We've got plenty of paedophiles without Dublin's help, thank you." And so on. Luckily we are visiting people who did not originate in that filthy village, although why they moved there is beyond me. Black pudding? You can get that meaty rubbish in any newsagents. Probably next to the bleach and pegs. Why they relocated to Cork shall join the warehouse of things that are beyond me, mostly due to my very, very short stature. For practical purposes I carry a small stool with me everywhere I go. (A poo?) So, it's a FIVE hour journey. That's, like, practically a whole day. Five hours, four people and a souring poo, stuffed into an old Ford Escort that sounds like a spaceship taking off. I'm going to bring a lot of music and a big bag of apples and possibly, if I can get them, some Sam Spudz crisps. Those were the car food of my childhood, that is to say, when we had a car. Mostly we ran around shouting "Vroom vroom!" Yes, my father too.

Is anybody reading this anymore? Our survey says: Doubtful..

neuro-praxis -- Not Your Average Golf Club (pricier)

Of A Delicate Disposition

A thought just occurred to me. I will not assume that it is an original thought, but as this is my blog, it seems the appropriate place to type this single thought. At least this is what other bloggers have teached me.

Thought is this:

Do children read blogs? I don't know, I don't have any children. I can only assume that they don't.

neuro-praxis -- Catching Rays Of Sunlight Up Her Backside

PS SANTA DOESN'T EXIST OR MAYBE HE'S DEAD

It Is Well, It Is Well, With My Soul

Well here we all are again, on the internet, reading things I've written. Or am currently writing. What a goggle. What a goggle, INDEED.

Despite the rumours (perpetrated by myself by the statement of raw facts in previous entries) I am not returning to university at the end of this month. Why? Because that precious -2% off of a 1.1 in my degree has cost me. COST ME BIG TIME. I have not been granted any academic funding. Yes, that's right. I have been REJECTED. Because of this REJECTION, my life has been thrown into WILD CHAOS. My future is positively now a potential cacophony of hilariously disastrous events. So we shall just have to see, dear faithful readers, what will unfold. Will it be a napkin? Will it be a bedsheet? Will it be a tshirt? Or will it be some form of "career"? Only time, that old chatterbox, will tell.

My original plan, to return to university in 2006, is being reverted to, only now I am open to being perverted from that course in life. I am considering, in a lazy way, taking some time to be "creative" and whatnot. I am asking myself WHO AM I? and WHAT DO I REALLY WANT? and WHERE AM I GOING?

The answers are usually

1. neuro-praxis
2. a toasted sandwich
3. to the toilet.

Sometimes though, I ponder on writing, properly writing, or getting into radio (those little boxes are more resilient than they look!), or being some form of "counsellor" who advises induhviduals on life improvements. Unhappy? neuro-praxis suggests: PRETEND TO BE SOMEONE ELSE. Angry? neuro-praxis suggests: CUT YOURSELF. Depressed? neuro-praxis suggests: DRINK THOSE BLUES AWAY!

In one week I will have been married a year. How absolutely and completely ridiculous. Sure I'm only a child, for goodness' sake. The year has flown by, and we have melded into adults with salaries and a whole house to ourselves, and a car, and hobbies, and it's all been a blur. And yet I still ponder on quiet Sunday nights about what I want to be when I grow up. K is still as fabulous as ever, tottering about aimlessly in his bunny slippers, waving his shotgun at the neighbours. I tell you cynical anti-marriage types something: you do not know how very good and fun it is to do this marriage thing. It is an agreeable place to be. I would like to recommend this CRUMBLING SOCIAL INSTITUTION to one and all. Yes, I may get a bit bored when I'm forty seven and still polishing his shotgun, but hotdamn, it's sweet round at the praxis/tard household. I recommend you all select a suitably willing companion and have a sip of this cup. How bad can it really be, hanging out with your favourite person til you croak it? Or til you grind up a wineglass and put it in his morning coffee?

I'm done for now. There is more in me but it's too late and we haven't had any dinner, because we're just MAD like that. Ask anyone. I'm off to make toasted sandwiches and sing along to my Aimee Mann cd. I might also play my drums because the neighbours are on holiday and I got a pair of nifty wire brushes today, which are both SHIPSHAPE and SPANKING. And a bit TIP-TOP.

neuro-praxis -- We Feel Our Best When We're Looking Down

More Filth

One of these delightful fellows, at least one inch in length, accompanied me on my bus journey to visit my brother today. In acts of disgusting fly-gymnastics, it spent a full hour ridding itself of whatever putrefaction it had been picking up in the local toilet or garbage dump. It sat there, three inches from my arm, scraping and scratching the dirt from its legs and wings kich-kich-kich-kich-kich. I watched this large bastard fly with fascination and revulsion for the entire journey, not even glancing at my book of cultural theory according to Adorno (AREN'T I THE INTELLECT? ACTUALLY NO, SEEING'S HOW I'D RATHER WATCH FLIES). The most amazing thing that it did was reach its back legs up onto its wings and scratch them, bending them right in half. I don't even know how to describe it. Every so often I would become aware of how demented I must have looked to the other passengers, who could not see the monster. Once every six or seven minutes, I would note my grimace and pull my face back into normal, peaceful mode. After two or three seconds more of watching fly gymnastics, however, the look of disgust would slowly creep up my neck and strangle my face once more.

Thoughts of this nauseating creature have haunted me all day.

SECOND WORRY

Would you let your baby be breast fed by some chick who wasn't its mother? Nannies who do this are called wet nurses. I forced K to engage me in a debate on why we are revulsed by this prospect. WELL? ANSWER ME, YOU CONDITIONED INDOCTRINATED BUFFOONS. Buffoons! What a fabulous word. Now go get some milk from a nice lady.

WORRY NUMERO THREE-O

Are you there God? It's me, neuro-praxis. SORRY KID, I'M HAVING A PEDICURE.

...There are no real worries. Used Christmas crackers for those of you who got the Judy reference! Today was a day for BREAKING YOUR SPECTACLES WHILE REMOVING THEM FROM YOUR FACE. Ok there neuro. Let's try taking things a little easier from now on. Today was a day for angry Australian ladies who shout and smoke profusely and live with your brother. And lastly, but not leastly, today was a day for catching in the rye.

WELL. The good news is that the word on the grapevine is that I got a first in my English thesis, boys and girls.

neuro-praxis -- She So Fly

My Ideas For A Drama, Based On Last Night's Events

Time: Winter, night
Location: Wood Quay, Dublin, at neuro's parking space by the wall over the River Liffey
Characters: neuro-praxis, delightful housemate Mags, Debo, Some Random Bitch
Written by: Fate
Directed by: neuro-praxis

Scene opens to show the young women leaning over the wall, gazing into the glorious expanse of the murky waters of the Liffey

Debo:(Scrunching up face) What's that thing?

Mags: (Looking) What thing?

Debo: (Pointing) That big square thing floating there.

Mags: (Squinting) A cardboard box?

neuro-praxis: Maybe Spongebob Squarepants finally topped himself.

(Shocked silence)

Mags: Spongy bastard.

(Grunts of agreement. Suddenly, a woman who is pulling out from her parking space right by neuro's car, wallops the Ford Escort's bumper. neuro-praxis runs over, enraged.)

neuro-praxis: Hey! You just hit my car!

(The woman shrugs and drives off. Debo shouts out her registration number and Mags pads it into her mobile phone.)

THE END

I think the plot needs a little work, but overall I'm bery happy with it. Bery, bery happy. Happier than I've ever been. SHROOMS?

neuro-praxis -- Robot In Disguise

Ode To The Creme Egg

Ode To The Creme Egg

by neuro-praxis

Your skin glows like the Malteser,
blossoms delicious as the Riesen in the purest hope of spring.
My heart follows your chocolate-flute voice
and leaps like a chicken at the whisper of your name.
The evening floats in on a great hen wing.
I am comforted by your gown that I carry into the twilight
of cadbury's creme eggbeams and hold next to my torso.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of fondant.
As my arm falls from my silk pyjamas,
it reminds me of your chocolate.
In the quiet, I listen for the last swish of the day.
My heated hand leaps to my glove.
I wait in the moonlight for your secret
creaminess so that we may eat as one,
hand to hand, in search of the magnificient
brown and mystical confectionary of love.

*click click click*

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.

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

The Day That neuro Fell Down The Stairs

It was today.

I can't remember exactly what happened. I had just woken up and was running for the phone and then it was all whoooosh bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-BANG. As soon as I hit the bottom of the stairs, the phone stopped ringing. That was the really sickening bit.

I went swimming for a couple of hours in an effort to ease the pain. That helped, but getting out of the water was a bloody punishment from hell. Even now, I sit in agony, wondering whether I have shattered some part of my spine or not. If this pain doesn't lessen in the next few days, I'll go straight to A and E for an x-ray.

It turned out later that the person on the phone was ringing from the CAR INSURANCE COMPANY. My rage at this discovery was large.

My friend CK, who is old and knows diddly squat about 'puters and techo mumbo jumbo, asked today how much he could get for his "computer" (a nine year old banger with a monitor that flickers like a cheap candle in a church grotto in Inchicore), which is more similar to a solar-powered calculator than to my laptop. Judging by state of it, I reckoned he could probably get two euros for it off of a handicapped teenager working for McD, but it probably wouldn't be ethical.

On the hot topic of pornography (which I heard today referred to as "just lovemaking made public"):

Zap: You're the only woman who ever loved me.

Leila: I never loved you.

Zap: I mean physically.

I had a very successful presentation in college today. This consoled me. Before it began I made a warning announcement that I was liable to fall over, say something stupid or possibly puke due to the concussion. To my surprise, everyone was automatically on my side from that point onwards.

Moyna (tutor) took me aside and thanked me for the "energy" I bring to the class. (Is she implying I have ADHD?) Either way, I'll be pumping myself full of drugs tonight. You know, whatever I can find hanging around the house.

Remember: a Pet's Not Just For Christmas, It's For Possibly a Month or Two After That, Too, Til You Abandon It On The Roadside.

Today to my horror I discovered that last night in my frenzy of typing, aprés Macra, I forgot to mention a FANTASTIC FACT. This is, that as we were enjoying our pork chops in D's dining room, I noticed a large black, furry thing on the curtain.

I tried to be casual about it.

"So...what's the black furry thing on the curtain there?"

A blushing D explained, to my absolute delight and incredulity, that it was, in fact, a bat. A BAT! I nearly choked on my cabbage. What scandal! Not only have I never seen a bat before in my life (if I am truthful, at times I have even doubted their existence), I have certainly never seen a large furry one quietly crawl its way up a dining room curtain. I am absolutely tickled by this. Nobody is bothered by the bats in the house. Brilliant eh?

I got to get me some bat action, stat.

I have begun growing my finger nails. Since I no longer have a guitar, I think that this is an appropriate time to start turning into a chick. It may look as though I am doing it to be feminine, but in truth, it's simply to have something close at hand with which I may easily scratch the faces of my enemies.

K has still not returned from his business trip. [Insert languid sigh here.] It will be Sunday night. [Insert small whimper.] When will the waiting end? WHEN? When?!?

Oh yes...on Sunday.

Well, get off my back. Can't a girl pine for her husband without accusations of being "pathetic," "odd smelling" and "bat obsessed"? You and your accusing eyes, READING EVERY WORD I WRITE.

Like some class of a PERVERT STALKER.

I hope you are ashamed.

There's Something About Wednesday

No, there's not, actually. Although... the weekend is looming, which is always nice.

However, we're re-thinking our camping plan, as the weather has taken a nasty turn. We may have come up with another cheap way to entertain ourselves.

I had lunch with F today. It was the worst baked potato I have ever had, dry, tasteless, dry. Luckily F paid for it. In fact, today has been one potato disaster after another. Tonight I cooked a very rare meal for our household...a roast. MMM ROASTY GOODNESS JUST LIKE MOTHER USED TO MAKE BEFORE SHE DIED OF CANCER. I usually cook things like rice dishes, bolognese, stir-fries...that kind of thing. But tonight I went the whole hog...roast turkey joint, basted with honey and wholegrain mustard, with roasted and mashed spuds and carrots and broccoli. And gravy. OH YES.

And so to my potato story.

I peeled and boiled a cheap packet of Tesco Value spuds, which were rather colourless and watery. When I mashed them, they were so unfloury that they went into great lumps, despite heaping amounts of butter and milk.

THEN NEURO GETS THE BRIGHT IDEA.

I put them in the blender, thinking puréed potatoes would be nice (we've all had them at carvery lunches in Irish hotels) but they turned into utter slop, which was so runny I could pour it. A type of potato sauce, if you will. Anyway, everyone enjoyed their potato sauce very much and that's the end of that.

The Avon catalogue arrived today (Avon calling!). My mother used to be an Avon lady, but that is beside the point.

What is the point, however, is that as I flicked through it, searching for yet more make up to buy which I will never use, I found a range of products called "Planet Spa".

Actually, you know what? You deserve to see these products.

These will be of particular interest to my good friend David Barrett, as he can't often find products from his home planet. (I need to add here that David refers to himself as a spa on a regular basis: this is not my personal assertion.)

Anyway, I am delighted to have discovered at last where all of the world's spas come from. At least now when I eventually kidnap them all and bundle them into Fyffes boxes, I'll have a postal address to send them to. I can think of at least one person I'd like to do this to, and luckily he's small enough to fit.

No that's cold.

LIKE MY HEART.

K just phoned me fromt he kitchen to see if I want a beer. I don't, but I do need to go to the toilet. And clean my DISGRACEFULLY UNTIDY bedroom. My mother would be rolling in her grave, if she weren't still alive and watching Eastenders as I type.