Validation

Myself and a friend were discussing how school days are not the best days of one's life, and how that phrase is probably responsible for the rise in teenage suicides in the last few years.  We also talked about how great it is to be free from homework and why no longer being a teenage male is a many splendored thing.  Yes, it is good to be a grown-up and getting on with one's life.

Except it isn't.  Being a grown-up is so fucking shitty at times I often wonder why I bother.  At least with teenage angst and melancholy there was the hope that someday, maybe when school is done with and one moves away to a different town to go to college and reinvent oneself, things will be different.  Unfortunately I can no longer kid myself that what's going here is just a phase I'll eventually grow out of, and that maybe when I hit my forties things will be different (and maybe they will: socks and sandals, being a man who wears jumpers, and the possibility of rocking a comb-over all hold a certain amount of appeal).

The worst part of being a grown-up is having grown-up conversations.  A few years back I bumped into a guy that I partied hard with back in the day.  Our conversation involved the obligatory "And what do you do?" that no grown-up conversation can do without, and eventually moved into "Where are you living?"  He was pleased to inform me that he was a renting a nice cottage just outside Claregalway, whose rent was cheaper than a boxy flat in the city centre, and, although the time and money associated with commuting every day were a bit of a pinch, having a back garden with a clothes line really makes it so much more worthwhile, because, let's face it, who wants to walk around all day in clothes that smell like a tumble dryer?  Naturally I had to respond in kind by letting him know that although I was renting a room in a shared house in Salthill, it was within walking distance of both the sea and the city centre, had shops and other amenities close by, and was on the bus route.  Walking away from that encounter made me realise that things had changed for me.  This was a few years ago, when I was in my mid to late twenties, and the worry was that I was getting older and would no longer be cool.  Thankfully, now that I'm in my early thirties, I can say with an assured confidence that I was never cool.  Ever.  For a large chunk of my teens and twenties I worked under the delusion that being uncool actually made me cool.  My grasp of the English language has improved considerably since then, and now I realise that such a statement makes as much sense as "being dead actually makes one alive".

One of the lowpoints of being a teenager is the constant need for peer validation.  I'm looking forward to when I'll actually be free of this.  Thankfully the need to laugh loudly at poorly told, unfunny (and often completely illogical) dirty jokes in order to be one of the lads has now gone (-How many blowjobs does it take to change a lightbulb? Eight!  -HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!), but in its place other little clumps of neediness have sprouted up.  About two years ago I went legit and registered myself as a sole-trader (I no longer make the soul-trader pun as too many people saw this as a reference to nefarious dealings with the devil rather than an enthusiasm for music of an African American disposition, although there are others who believe that both of these things are one and the same).  Of course everyone who bumped into me around that time had to be told this, and I even kept my certificate of tax registration in my backpack for around three months, just in case there was any doubt that I was indeed a grown-up legitimate businessman of a certain earning capacity.  After roughly one year in business it was very necessary to tell everyone that I had to see my accountant to file a tax return, as that's what us legitimate businessmen of certain earning capacities have to do.  Not that I'm telling you to prove that I am indeed a human grown-up and need your validation, you asked what was going on with me and I just told you (approve of me, approve of me, approve of me).

It's coming up to that time of year again, and so far I've only casually mentioned to this to three people.  This time it's a wee bit different.  There is still that need to try to prove that I am in fact a human grown-up, but it is coupled with "Being a grown-up with homework to do is a load of bollocks".  As I sifted through reams of receipts and bank statements I came up with the idea of asking my mother to write me a sick note to hand in to inland revenue. "Dear Department of Finance, please excuse Herringbone for not having his tax affairs in order as he had a bit of a bug.  Please find enclosed copies of the receipts for the flattened 7-up which was used to alleviate his symptoms."  Unfortunately my mother refused to go along with such a ploy, but luckily my older brother still has no qualms about forging her signature.  My accountant was having none of this, as apparently this kind of shit does not work in the adult world (further evidence that school does not prepare you for real life).  Instead, she told me to buy the latest copy of the DSM and find a plausible enough condition that I could have acquired, then find a doctor who would be willing to write me a letter confirming such (keeping all receipts as medical expenses can be written off).  I chewed on this notion for a wee while, but then decided against it.  Not on the ethical grounds of wanting to be an honest, upright, tax paying citizen.  It was really that it sounded like way too much work on my part.  Also having to spend that much time trawling through the DSM would certainly wreak havoc with my hypochondria.

Unspirational

The last two days I had the bright idea of getting up early, and heading to the pool and gym respectively, with the hope that it would give me a shot of productivity.  The other benefit of doing this, aside from the sense of well-being that comes with physical exercise, is being able to tell other people about it.  Unfortunately I don't own a smartphone, so facebook and its inhabitants couldn't see that I checked-in to the Mardyke at 6.45 on Tuesday morning.  Fortunately the pool didn't open until seven, so this gave me fifteen minutes to text a huge portion of my contacts to let them know what I was up to.  One would never be so vulgar as to blatantly say: "Hey, I'm just heading in for an early morning swim, it's the kind of thing I do, you know, seeing as I'm so much better than you."  A certain amount of tact has to be observed, so the approach was to send a bland generic text along the lines of: "Hey, what are you up to?  Any craic?"  The replies would be along the lines of: "It's not even 7 am, why the fuck are you texting me?  Is everything alright?"  Then I would casually deploy my answer: "Yeah, everything's grand, just going for a swim, might catch up with you later, yeah?"  If they replied while I was inside breast stroking and back crawling it would be: "Sorry for not replying sooner, I was just having a swim, everything's grand here, might catch up with you later, yeah?"  This lets them know that I was up bright and early exercising, and being better than them is not thrown in their face, but skilfully and smugly implied.

Unfortunately, this did not work out according to plan.  Most people did not reply, because usually when they see a neutral and benign text from me it really means that I'm after something, and that this is just the first move in some game I'm playing.  Of the few replies I received, most were along the lines "Just on my way to work, have you ever thought of getting a job?", or "Just coming home from work, working nights is a bitch, but this is how it goes", or "Just finished the morning feed, teething + breastfeeding + dreaming of sleep = ...."  As it turns out, none of these people were impressed that I had gotten up with the aid of an alarm clock at a time that most grown ups are awake and getting on with their grown up lives.  I also felt that they were giving off the vibe that finding and holding down stable employment, and/or starting a family somehow made them better than me, a 31 year old adolescent and out of work DJ.  Way to go and flaunt your life achievements in the face of the less fortunate.  This did not phase me (ok, it really really irked me, but let's pretend it didn't), as if I cannot get the admiration of the masses for kick-starting my day with porridge, scrambled egg, and good overhand technique, they would surely applaud the immense productivity which followed.

In terms of creativity, Tuesday was a black hole of nothingness and despair.  The hole was incredibly dark and black, as if its owner had been drinking shitloads of stout the night before.  I felt like a jellyfish floating around this void, with nothing to sting and no sting in my tentacles, a cytoplasmic blob of blancmange in a pointless sea of infinity.   There was an hour or so of banging away at the keyboard, but all that poured out were increasingly morose variations on the theme: "Why am I such a useless sack of shit?"  This eventually morphed into: "Why I am such a useless sack of shit."  Reading over it today, it was eloquently phrased and incredibly well-written (as one would expect), but the tone was oh so emo, and the content was far from entertaining, so it will have to be scrapped.  Yesterday I got up early, hit the gym, and again had a day that was a lot less than creative.  The kitchen was cleaned (it's not clean, just cleaner), and I replaced the battery in the smoke alarm.  Visitors always complained about its regular beep to hint that it required a new battery (which had been going on for at least two years), but to me it was like having a slightly annoying flatmate who was a source of company and companionship nonetheless.  The downside was that I didn't have a smoke alarm in the kitchen, which meant I had no way of knowing when the toast was burnt, and all the butter in the world is no match for overly burnt toast (readers of my Toast blog will be familiar with the many lengthy experiments I conducted in this field).  Today I reluctantly decided to write about the lack of inspiration and productivity of the last two days, which means that this topic can never be covered again, and there will be many more uncreative, unproductive, and uninspiring days ahead.

Sandy capped

I am a swimmer.  Tumble turns are nailed with grace at the end of every length, bilateral breathing is of utmost importance, anything less than a silicone hat is not worth your while, and good lane etiquette must be observed at all times.

I am a swimmer.  When I finished my degree, I signed on and went swimming in the sea every day for the summer.  The importance of aligning oneself with the current to achieve maximum efficiency taught me a thing or two about the mysteries of the universe and the music of the spheres, and made me wiser in ways that I still don't fully understand.  While the amateurs swam from Blackrock out to the first or second rock, I swam out to the distant buoys with the big boys.

I am a swimmer.  As a teenager, competitive swimming was the only sport I ever took on.  A few mornings a week I would train before school, getting up at ridiculous o'clock for breakfast, walking over a mile to the pool and then spending the day sitting through my classes with chlorine red eyes while residual water gurgled through my ear canals.

I am a swimmer.  Last weekend when I was getting my weekly sea swim at the Dock beach in Kinsale, there was a bit of a hairy moment.  It was then that it occurred to me that maybe it was not the wisest idea to be spending so much time out in the water on my own, as anything could happen.  Just around the corner was Sandycove where I heard there was a dedicated group who would be there every day at high tide.  For my next outing, I would head there and join them.  After all, I AM A SWIMMER.

At least, I thought I was.

Over the last few months, I kept hearing about this bunch of lunatics that swam religiously around this tiny island just around the corner from Kinsale.  Any time this came up in conversation, I felt obliged to faff on about some of the things that were mentioned in the opening paragraphs, that I am something of a swimmer myself, one that relished those stormy mornings at Salthill when the sea was angry as it presented more of a challenge, one that I would always overcome with aplomb.  At certain times, one may have heard me say that "Mother nature is a cruel mistress, but the sea is my bitch" with the pomposity and grandiosity that always precedes a pratfall.

The first eye opener was when I turned around the corner and saw the island for the first time, glistening in the early morning sunlight, and looking a lot bigger than I had originally expected.  It didn't look foreboding, threatening or treacherous, and as far as lumps of rock sitting in the sea go, it looked pretty friendly.  So this is what I would have to swim around?  Right, shouldn't be a problem, after all I am a blah-blah-blah (feel free to fill in the gaps yourself).

After parking up the van, I stripped down and fell in behind a group of four or five who were walking down the slipway.  They were a tight group and had clocked me as an outsider the moment my green hiace came around the corner.  I said it was my first time there and that I would tag along behind them, using a false modesty as I believed my swimming would then speak for itself.  Which it did, as I struggled to keep up with them.  When we got to the first corner of the island, it was explained that the next bit would take about fifteen minutes, that the sea was a bit choppy today, and that if I wanted to swim back to the slipway it was still a respectable swim.   I'll follow on, it's ok, I want to go round the island.  Alright so, just watch out for jellyfish, someone got stung by one earlier.  Just one sting, but it went the full length of his arm and into his mouth.  At which point everyone burst out laughing, while my horrified face failed to muster a grimace.

Once again, I struggled to keep up.  To be more correct, I failed to keep up at all, and two very decent souls lagged back and swam on either side of me to prevent me from swimming into the island or way off out into the Irish sea.  My sighting ability was so poor that it should be spelled with an 'sh'.  The only thing worse than having to eat humble pie is having to wash it down with numerous mouthfuls of seawater.  I managed to finish one lap of the island, but by the time I was toweling off, the rest of the group were halfway around their second lap.  Who knows, if I had hung around, I could have watched them sail around for a third time.

So now I will go on record and withdraw any claims I previously made about being a seasoned sea swimmer, one that knows a thing or two about a thing or two, or how when it comes to the water, Dr. Herringbone Dread ain't nothing to fuck with.  Now that humiliation has helped me achieve some level of humility, I can comfortably put myself on the bottom of the open water food chain, a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas.  Unfortunately, my ego has not been fully deflated, and I am now determined to make a decent go of this craic.  After all, that was only day one, and there can only be improvements from now on, right?  If I am wrong, the sea won't be long giving me a hearty bitch-slap.

The Cosmos Heap

"Brewed & Stewed - inspired by bad weather & Barry's Gold Blend" received mostly positive reviews, with the exception of one person who hated it.  Normally he is a proponent of my work, and I have no qualms with people disliking what I do.  The galling part was the attitude, that somehow he was owed a mix CD that he would enjoy.  My process is always the same, select a bunch of records (about twenty to thirty), hit record and keep going for an hour to an hour and twenty minutes.  Never have I attempted to put together a mix for anyone's enjoyment but my own.  If people like this stuff, that's all good and groovy.  If nobody likes it, then there is not much I can do about that.  Some people do not understand that, and hold me responsible for their happiness, which is quite a hefty job for someone who spends their week wandering around town, handing out free mix CDs.

This time the approach was slightly different: the attempt was to make a painfully self-indulgent mix that hopefully nobody but me would like.  The resulting mix is more morose, headier, and spacier than usual.  If there is an underlying message, it is the feeling of disconnection with humanity and society, but the unmistakeable sense that one is somehow part of the universe as a whole.  Unfortunately since this mix went online yesterday, it has gotten quite a bit of love, which means that this mission was a failure.

01. Nannie Porres & Claes-Goran Fagerstedts Trio - It ain't necessarily so
02. Donald Byrd - Where are we going?
03. Norma White - I want your love
04. Fela Soul - Oohstrumental
05. Janet - Got 'til it's gone (featuring Q-Tip and Joni Mitchell)
06. Visioneers - Ice cream on my kicks
07. Ramp - Daylight
08. El Michels Affair - Hung up on my baby
09. Dionne Warwick - Walk on by
10. Nat Birchall - Peace in Nineveh
11. Bobby Womack - Point of no return
12. Charles Bradley - Victim of love
13. The Vogado Projects - Mas fuerte que el sol
14. Colm K - The attic (featuring Walshy)
15. Massive Attack v Mad Professor - Radiation ruling the nation (Protection)
16. Nostalgia 77 & The Monster - The taxidermist
17. Sun Ra - Moonship journey



Thanks to Sunday Times, Fish Go Deep, Rootical Sound System, Colm K, Cork city and county for the inspiration.

Inspirational

If you're reading this you are probably feeling pretty inspired, right?  You might even be feeling inspired enough to re-post this picture on your blog, facebook or twitter.  I think it is a wonderful sentiment, but I have a few creeping suspicions about it.

As much as I am a proponent of spirituality, meditation and all that jazz, I had the misfortune of being born into an academic household.  Academia is a lot like alcoholism: even if you don't become one yourself, growing up around it will leave scars on the psyche that no amount of counseling, crying or inspirational quotes can heal.  So unfortunately when I see this picture, my first thought is "Could you please show me the research which has allowed you to draw such a conclusion Mr. Lama?"  (My second thought is "What is in the puppy's speech bubble on the girl's shirt?  I bet it's both cute AND funny.")

To arrive to such a conclusion must have taken years of research.  That bit about "within one generation" suggests a longitudinal study of incredible magnitude.  This means teaching a group of 8 year olds to meditate, then observing the violence levels of that person over the course of 20-30 years.  To be properly thorough he would also need a control group of 8 year olds that were not taught to meditate, and, for proper academic rigour, he would have to have a third group who were actively encouraged to be violent.  Now things are getting interesting!

As this is a longitudinal study there would need to be numerous follow ups.  At twelve they could be left on a desert island with nothing but wild pigs and sharpened sticks to see what they'd get up to.  At fifteen they could be administered milk laced with adrenochrome while wearing bowler hats and codpieces, and if the experimental group don't descend into muggings and gang rape, the experiment could be considered a roaring success.

The age thing here is oddly specific.  Did he conduct this experiment with numerous groups aged between 6 and 12, and, for some reason the only one that worked was 8?  Were there wildly disastrous consequences when this was tried with 7 and 9 year olds?  Could this be the reason he was run out of Nepal?

If the statement is true, then the logistics would be a fucking nightmare.  As it is, every 8 year old in the world is not taught how to read, who is going to provide the resources to teach them to meditate?  Will it become the responsibility of the parent or the education system?  Is his Holiness going to launch a franchise of Lama approved facilitation courses to make sure your child gets trained by a certified meditation instructor?  What about screening for (potential) sex offenders?  "Say kids, you know what the first step towards enlightenment is?  Silence.  That's right, keeping your mouth shut and not saying a word to anybody..." 

This could be solved by having parents and guardians supervise what's going on, but then we'd have the bigger and more annoying problem of the Meditation Mom phenomenon.   Soccer moms might be bad, but at least with soccer ability is quantifiable.  How well does the little one run up and down the pitch, does he get picked for games, and does he score goals or defend well consistently?  The thought of a group of middle-aged suburban housewives sitting around gabbing on about how their Caoileann has accumulated more good karma than next door's Kevin is enough to make my kidneys shudder.

Anyways, I am going to end it here; the last thing I want to do is piss off the Buddhists, mainly because they're such a blissful, forgiving bunch and it would take waaay too much work on my part to evoke any sort of outrage in them.  Here are some inspirational quotes that I came up with, feel free to look up little girl meditating on google images and add your own!

Separating the feat from the faff

Well if it isn't the first posting of 2012! Can I get a great big whoop de doo from all the money makers in the house and the peoples up back? Whoop de doo is one of the lesser known call and response shout outs in the hip hop world so I guess you should feel very privileged that I shared that with you. It would be nice to be able to say that the reason I haven't posted in a while is because I've been so fantastically busy, but now I'm going to sit down for a whileen and fill you in on all my adventures from the last few months. Sadly the truth is a lot more dismal and all that has gone down is a fuck load of faffing about.

Arsin' alone around Barcelona
Some of that faffing is noteworthy, as I turned thirty the first week in February and faffed around Barcelona for a week. The trickiest bit was swallowing the condoms filled with teabags before boarding the plane (strawberry flavoured were used for the occasion, and taste every bit as strawberryish as Mr. Freeze) and the second trickiest bit was trying to order Big Catalan Sausage without creasing myself laughing. As I don't keep a journal I can't give a blow by blow account of what went down over there, but it was along the lines of walked around, gawped at nice buildings, ate lots of nice pastry and meaty things, repeat to fade.

Bowl of Coiffusion (that's what the world is today)
Other faffery involves getting my hair cut, which happens less often than blog updates. I'm nearly up to two a year, and who knows some day I'll be one of those chaps who frequents a barber to get it tidied up every few weeks. Currently I let it grow and grow and grow until I can't see beyond a wall of hair. Then after a few weeks of that I decide that it might be time to get it chopped. Most of my teenage years were spent under the cover of unfortunate bowlcuts that even Shaun Ryder would have derided, either that or I'd try to get a normal haircut which the hairdresser would inevitably hear as "I would like a fringe akin to that of a mental patient, could you sort that out for me?" As a result I have an understandable fear of the barber. When they ask what would I like done, my ideal response would be "Does it really matter? Just do what you're gonna do and get it over with. I can always hide under a hoody for the foreseeable future." It was fairly painless this time, snip snip snip how's that? Could you take a bit more off please? Snip snip snip how's that? Could you stick a bit more on please?

Nu micks

It's been a while since I put together a mix, quite a while. For several yonks I was bringing my laptop out to every gig, hitting record, and then the best hour or so would become a mix cd. Sadly (well it was more unfortunate than sad), a few months ago I was getting up off the couch (something that I never do unless it's very necessary, usually only to make more tea or have a pee) without realising that the power cord of my laptop was wrapped around my foot. As a result my aged powerbook hit the floor at the exact angle required to break one of the hinges. There are many things I like about apple products, but the main dislike is that when things go wrong, they go wrong in a big and or tedious way. The replacement part will cost about fifty quid, and it will only be slightly less complicated than advanced neuroscience to stick it in. In summary, to replace this one bit (which is also the most breakable part), I will have to take out everything else. This is not an exaggeration, a quick google search of "g4 powerbook titanium replace broken hinge crying blood nightmare" will give you an idea of the ordeal involved. Granted, it would probably take a full day to do it and be done, but I haven't worked up the nerve yet (either that or I really couldn't be arsed, take your pick).

So there's my tediously drawn out excuse as to why it's been a while since I've put out a mix cd. I suppose a tracklist wouldn't go astray?



01. Kumasi Walk - Ikebe Shakedown
02. Sneakin' In The Back - Tom Scott
03. Mr. Brown - African Music Machine
04. Four Play (Promo Edit) - Fred Wesley & The Horny Horns
05. La Valla - Bronx River Parkway
06. An Announcement To Answer - Quantic
07. Ease Jimi - Nightmares On Wax
08. Freedom Road - The Pharoahs
09. Eli's Pork Chop - Little Sonny
10. Gasoline Alley - Dave Grusin
11. Droge CX9 - Manfred Hubler & Siegfried Schwab
12. Dance - George Benson
13. Feed Me Good - Har You Percussion Group

Can be downloaded here, if you would like a copy on cd, leave a comment and I'll hook you up.




Wishing you a merry Christmas, and a happy new beard!
Over the last few months I've been feeling a beardy sort of broodiness. I'd see men with impressive facial hair and find myself sighing wistfully. Movember was the cruellest month, so I made a decision to hang up my razor once it was over. It's been well over a year since I undreaded my head and gave my face a jolly good shaving, and there has been a constant stream of questions relating to when I would regrow them, or could I at least bring the beard back? It's bizarre, but I imagine that if I were to retire from DJing, there would be less of a demand to get me back behind the decks, than there has been for me to regrow the beard.

For the inexperienced, it's worth noting that there is more to growing a beard than just not shaving. Getting through the itchies is a test of endurance that few men can tough out. It kicks in after a week and then lasts for about a week and this is when most so-called men tap out. If you know someone who usually looks unkempt and unshaven but has never had a proper beard this is why.

The other major stumbling block for me is what most Irish men are cursed with: The Ginger Beard. I understand that the G-word is no longer considered politically correct, but there's no point calling a spade a spud. Even though having dark hair, brown eyes and eyebrows means I'm not a true blue ginger, when my face furniture is in full effect I experience the slings and arrows of outrageous anti-gingerism.

And yet here I am, face itching likes it caught an std and growing ever more ginger by the hour. It will be all worth it in the end, won't yet? (Yeah, keep tellin' yourself that Señor Gingernuts)