you're spending too much
but you're having fun
you feel energised
in a tired way
you're dipping your toe back in the creative pond, and you like how it feels
you're back talking about things you're passionate about
you may even act on it this time
three of you, on rounds in the stag's head, a few smokes and an intelligent conversation after pushing eleven hours in room1004
higgins, ginsberg, thompson?
ginsberg, thompson, higgins?
thompson, ginsberg, higgins?
you don't want higgins in the middle or thompson at the beginning
it just won't scan
but you listen to the arguments, it's inneressin
it turns you on
it's a choice between a coherent, chronological show, or an emotional kick in the head
you're leaning towards the emotional element, because that's what drives your heart
but there's a pragmatic little fucker driving your head, and he's going for coherency
you don't like how much influence that guy has some times
you can't decide who has the final call on such things, and that's an important question moving forward
if you don't answer it, you may drown in that creative pond
(you wouldn't be the first)
but it was all going so well, last night
you were on the brink of drunkenness, that blissful state when you can still function like a rational being but feel like gravity has been turned down from 9.8 to around 1.67
on the dark side of, of course
you were, as ever, mildly conscious of the fact that all of this might seem silly tomorrow
but for now, this is real
they are of course real, genuine friends
it's just that three of you on rounds tend to express that a little more than you would, say, drinking coffee
but fuck it, you mean this
you're not some drunken schmuck pouring his heart out to a taxi man, believing you've really connected with him and thanking him with every ounce of sincerity your soul can muster for getting you home safely, tipping him excessively
not tonight anyway
tonight, you're yourself, with your friends, and you mean it
but tonight, when you get in the taxi, it all sort of goes horribly wrong
not that anything really happens, it's just that you're on a high and what you're forced to listen to sends you crashing and makes you angry
maybe you're over-sensitive
it starts out with you and the guy that didn't stay in town with his girlfriend cracking jokes about the psychic tarrot reading on the radio
is there someone in your life that needs help?you're a business man are you? are you thinking of expanding?all very insightful
the dj working with this visionary was irritating but, so far, nothing too offensive
then comes the one o'clock news
and much hilarity, it seems
the three stories were as follows
risk of riots in russiaarmpits are sexyman transplanted with woman's kidney turns gaythe stories were ridiculed in turn, with russians being "drunk outta der boxes", a brief discussion on women's bodily fluids (culminating in the dj sniffing loudly at the female newsreader's armpits) and a homophobic joke about whether gay men piss sitting down
everyone in the studio, including the producer and newscaster giggled throughout
at this point i asked the taxi driver what station we were listening to
he said 98fm, and something along the lines of
tom o'breanagain, 10-1 monday to thursdaymy friend turned to me
blog-a-tronic?abso-fuckin-lutely...the dj was clearly a prick, but that's to be expected on dublin radio stations
what got me was the lack of respect shown to, a) the stories themselves, though some didn't deserve it, b) the concept of News in general, and more specifically the stories that weren't reported, and c) the listenership, though perhaps they deserve it for tuning in to this bile
what sort of a mind...?
matters deteriorated further when it emerged that the show was to be played out with a performance by the worst dublin-based acoutic singer-songwriter wank you've ever heard
this is weighty statement, when you consider that you've heard enough wank these last few years to tip the balance of constituent parts in the atlantic ocean, where the output to be aimed in that direction
indeed, much of it seems to be
you get out of the taxi and light a cigarette
you didn't tip
your mood has been ruined and now you're starting to feel drunk
you getting to thinking about tomorrow's post
blog-a-troinicyou realise that maybe you won't get to sleep for a while, because any post that matters a shit to you, you thought it through in bed the night before
it's part of that clinical, pragmatic, perfectionist streak you don't like
you think back over the night
did you really hear that?
was it really that bad?
you think then of your friends, and though it makes you feel better at the time, the cold wind and change of ambient mood makes those earlier feelings that tomorrow that will all seem daft come back in augmented form
so you focus on the post
will you remember it?
how much faith do you have in your grey matter?
it's flooded right now, and all these high thoughts might slosh out over the sides
you think maybe you'll write some of this down when you get home
you stop behind a bush to stub out a half-smoked cigarette and light another, just out of sight of your parent's bedroom window
you get to pacing up and down, thinking things through
it's fucking cold
how much will you remember?
you think of that burger you had in ricks, on noticing (for the second time in two weeks) that the poster from casablanca was gone from the wall
you decide that casablanca is your favourite film, that the maltese falcon is both superb and important for its genre-defining qualities, and ultimately come to the conclusion that your favourite bogart movie is still key largo
this seems important at the time
you start to wish your laptop wasn't on a chair under your girlfriend's desk
this could have been so much better
turning to pace back, you see an old man coming
it reminds you of a post you were supposed to write the other day but didn't
mainly because you couldn't think of a title that would work with the "on" format
that little fucker in your head, calling the shots
it was a post about walking towards town and turning on your heel to watch two brand-new black ferrari f430s being transported on an open-backed truck
as you turned you got to facing an old man standing in the doorway of the findlater pub, smoking
from the bar the sound of pulp's
common people could be heard
it just got you to thinking is all
different lives etc.
you wanted to call the post something along the lines of
on the centre of the universe, but
at would clearly have made more sense
so you canned it
back behind the bush you light another last extra final cigarette as the old man passes you by
the image unsettles you and you start to pace again
you're trying hard to write this thing in your head, remember, remember, remember
you get to wondering about the psychological implications of when you use you
if you post this, you realise how relatively exposed you'll be
stubbing out the cigarette, you realise you paced a little further than you intended to, and wonder if you paced in to your home's line of vision
you rummage in your pocket for chewing gum and keys, surprised at the amount of change you find
you should have tipped
you almost catch the old man by the time you reach the end of your street
he's drunk too, walking ahead of you in the same zig-zag fashion that you are
you hope both similie and metaphor end there
you don't like the thought of his mishapen destination
maybe you're being unfair
you stumble to avoid standing on a snail and steady yourself on the wall of the mcK's, the most perfectly heartbroken home on your street
2am and the gates are open, the car's not there
the shame of it all
deep breaths at your doorstep and fumbling for the keys that you for some reason put back in your pocket, you scatter the foil of a dozen packs of cigarettes
it takes a moment to gather them, and yourself
composure regained, in bed, you're grateful that you had the presence of mind to buy a bottle of water
you're writing notes and realising you've forgotten most of it, that this could have been so much better
if you'd written it now, you would have been honest
as it is, you'll write it tomorrow from scrambled notes, with that guy in your head back in full control and worrying about presentation, sentence length, coherency
you need to decide who's gonna call the shots
for everyone's sake
especially
yours