Severe Jam Damage

Just got this from a friend.
Laugh? I nearly choked.
Lost Jewels.

If like me you are a regular user of public transport you will notice the world over that people on the bus all look the same, act the same and for the purposes of this entry can be split into three general groups of commuter:

The Regulars - These are the jaded, the tired, the ones who sit in silent resignation when the bus breaks down AGAIN or the driver announces a delay on the train. Regulars tend to sit in the same seat every morning. They carry books, rain macs and extra food on the off chance that the bus goes off the beaten track and the passengers have to resort to cannibalism to survive. Regulars never get lost in foreign cities, one automatic ticket machine is the same as another. All light rail systems look the same.

The Randoms - These are similar to Regulars. They travel on public transport a good deal of the time but may not be there every morning as they occasionally receive lifts from neighbours. Still, they are savvy enough to recognise an automatic ticket machine when they see it. Randoms have no ‘usual seat’ and will sit anywhere on the bus, thus increasing the chances of sitting beside a mentaller. Randoms may have a heightened sense of adventure.

The Bewildered - I couldn’t think of another ‘R’ word to adequately describe this last bunch which ruins my attempt at alliteration. The Bewildered are only using public transport because the car is in the shop and they had no other option. They are the ones who try to put their coins in the ticket reader or wait until they are ON THE BUS with a queue of assorted regulars and randoms behind them to dig out their purse for the fare, which they then pay in 5c pieces and after each coin falls through, squint hopefully at the driver that the fare is now paid.

Yesterday my Father was one of these. The car was ‘in the shop’ so he had to get public transport across town to get it. This morning he was up early so offered me a lift to work. This meant I got to hear all about his adventures yesterday. (I’m not going to use identifiers, I’m sure you can figure out who is who in the dialog below.)
‘I had to get the bus yesterday’
‘Uh huh’
‘Do you know when I left the house a bus JUST passed.’
‘Uh huh’
‘That ALWAYS happens to me, just as I leave the house a bus passes.’
‘Uh huh’
‘And THEN I was waiting 20 minutes for the next one.’
‘Uh huh’
‘TWENTY minutes, can you believe that?’
‘Uh huh’
‘Then we when we got to the top of Glenageary Road the bus stopped. Just… stopped. FOR NO REASON!’
‘Uh huh’
‘I don’t know what had happened but do you KNOW how long it took for the bus to get from our house down to Dun Laoghaire?’
‘Nope’
‘What?’
‘No, I don’t know. Tell me.’
‘THIRTY…. FIVE…. minutes. Can you believe that? Thir-tee Five minutes! That’s incredible isn’t it?’
‘Not really.’
‘So then I said ’sod this for a game of soldiers’ and when we got to Dun Laoghaire I hopped off and ran down to the train station.’
‘Mmm’
‘Then I ended up getting on a commuter train.’
‘Yuh-huh’
‘It didn’t stop till LANSDOWNE ROAD. I wasn’t sure of course, whether to get on. It was a train to Balbriggan. I didn’t know if I was going to town or not. ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?’
‘Yeah, yeah, you went to Balbriggan, got it.’
‘So it went ALL the way to LANSDOWNE ROAD without stopping. The next DART wasn’t for seven minutes, so I said I’d try this one.’
‘Uh huh’
‘I’ve never been on one of those commuter trains.’
This last was said wistfully, so that for a moment I wondered if he’d enjoyed himself more than I ever had on public transport.
‘Jaysus, I’m glad to have the car back.’

In college I was, what I suppose could be called a goth. I wore black, black and more black. I hung crosses, crucifixes and daggers from my neck and earlobes. Silver glimmered on my fingers. I stomped the streets in my docs, perfecting my ‘fuck off and die’ grimace. I hid in my bedroom listening to dour, strangulated music: The Cure, The Mission and all the Beggars Banquet artists. At night I listened to Dannie Ellwell’s Alternative Bedtime and This Mortal Coil was kept on repeat on my stereo. The only bit of goth-dom I didn’t have down was the make-up. I’m still not a fan of slapping a load of grease onto my face, although with my advancing years I understand the point of it.
And, as with all goths who thought themselves worthy of the name I read ‘The Vampire Chronicles’ by Anne Rice.
Now 15 years later, I look back at that time with a certain fondness. I still wear a lot of black, my right hand is weighed down with silver, and from time to time I throw on an old Dead Can Dance CD. I have however, been unable to re-read the Vampire Chronicles. I tried once, but found the prose suffocating. The tortured teenage angst of an immortal made me hurl the book across the room.
‘Grow Up Lestat.’
I had become used to the cynicism of Buffy and Angel. Teenage Angst was out, Post Modern Irony was in.

Spike: I’m surrounded by idiots. What’s new with you?
Angel: Everything.
Spike: Yeah. Come up against this Slayer yet?
Angel: She’s cute. Not too bright, though. Gave the puppy dog ‘I’m all tortured’ act. Keeps her off my back when I feed!
Spike: People still fall for that Anne Rice routine. What a world!

‘School Hard’ season 2

So when ‘Interview with a Vampire was released in the cinema I went to it grudgingly.
‘Tom Cruise can’t do blonde’ I whined. However, he did. And more surprisingly the Grand Dame herself praised the movie. At the time I thought this was a GOOD THING. That the author should praise a movie meant that they had not bastardised her original tale.
‘It must be ok.’ I thought.
Then I heard about Her Highness’ diatribe on amazon.com to reviewers of her book ‘Blood Canticle’. Which made me wonder why the author of a best selling series of books would get involved in a flame war and I began to question her judgement. (Although in a sort of vague, ‘this is kinda an interesting but possibly not very clever response to her fans’ way.)
Most recently Elton John has written ‘Lestat, The Musical‘ and Queen High Muck is delighted with it. For me, it sounds like something akin to the theatrical conflagration that was LOTR: the Musical. But AR is in all the papers and on the telly gushing about the production. Which, given her previous actions leads me to believe that she’s nothing more than what is known on the internetweb as an ‘Attention Whore.’

I originally set up a blog as an attempt to get myself writing on a semi-regular basis. I thought it would help with completing any one of the three novels I’ve been working on. And to a point it did. I sweated and slaved and currently I’m now in the (unenviable) position of having 2 completed first drafts and a third that’s about half way finished. My next task is to kick myself into gear and start doing some editing work so that they are clean enough to send to publishers \ agents, etc. (Something I am at the moment trying not to think about.)

So my summer project is going to be trying to get these stories into some sort of shape. The first novel is currently standing at about 100k, and the second has about 90k words.

Right about now you are probably wondering what the hell the title of this post has to do with my half finished novels.

Well, knowing what it’s like to have written a book, knowing that the first draft is only about a third of the battle I know it’s going to be a struggle, but it’s one I’m kind of looking forward to. And then I read about people like this idiot and it really pisses me off.

Milk and cookies goodness…

Titanic: Two the Surface

(needs quicktime)

The TomKitten has arrived.
And the girls over at ‘Go Fug Yourself’ say it so much better than I ever could.

Katie Holmes, of course, is dressed fine — incorrect-sized [ALLEGED] pregnancy pillow aside. But she looks like hell. Which is what HAPPENS when you’ve been PREGNANT for ONE YEAR. For REAL. This is officially the WEIRDEST CELEBRITY RELATIONSHIP EVER. I mean it. Sweet fancy Moses (not you, Paltrow), what is going ON WITH THEM?

More here.

Here, for your viewing pleasure are a couple of shots taken in Stephen’s Green last week. Proof that the sun does shine in Dublin (sometimes). Yes Gurrier, they were taken with my ‘crappy plastic camera‘. Happy Easter weekend everyone.
Lets hope it doesn’t snow…

So apparently young Katie is due to pop any day now and in addition to NOT screaming, shouting and ripping Tom’s hair out during labour she has also agreed not to speak to the baby for the first seven days of it’s life. Me, all I can think is that I wonder how long it will be before Tom is off running with the baby in his arms. After all if his movies are anything to go by, maybe the seven day thing is to give him a head start?

The Firm - running down a street
Jerry Maguire - running down an airport concourse
War of the Worlds - general running
Top Gun - running, on a bike
Minority Report - ‘everyone runs’
Collateral - running after Jamie Foxx
Eyes Wide Shut - running away from Nicole
Far and Away - running to America
Born on the Fourth of July - not running fast enough, ka-BLAM!
Cocktail - running, on a beach
Legend - running away from Tim Curry
The Outsiders - running with Matt Dillon
Mission Impossible(s) - more general running
A Few Good Men - Naval running
Rain Man - running through Las Vegas
Risky Business - not a lot of running, but some dancing

I’m only sorry that I can’t think of any movie where Tom had a tummy bug, cos then I could have described it as ‘Having the runs’.

The air is hot and sticky. My hands slide along the hot metal, well lubricated with the sweat of others who have come before me. To my right a man mumbles to himself, he grins showing yellowed teeth and I look away. Someone pushes against me and I feel pressure on my lower spine. A cough, then silence.
My grip slips again and I grasp the pole tighter, but others are pushing against me, jamming themselves into the empty spaces.
This bus isn’t big enough for all of us.
An old lady pushes past, elbows me out of the way and takes my spot on the pole. I am left afdrift, my balance shifts as the demon driver swerves and behind me someone leans, I fall against another. Like dominoes we tumble.
‘Watch the old lady’ shouts a voice from the crowd, an older woman, ugly as sin but seated comfortably.
‘I did,’ I think darkly ‘And the bitch stole my pole.’
Old HairyChops glares at me and I worry for a moment that she’s reading my mind. I think about her going home to a houseful of cats and smile broadly at her. Teeth bared.
Survival of the fittest.
Eventually I get a seat, I have to crawl and claw my way over bags and packages but when I get there it’s mine. Unfortunately it’s also across from Loves’ Young Dream, if Loves Young Dream was an undead version of Sondra Bernhardt and some sort of half man-half tribble hybrid.
Dark tufts of hair sprout from his back and chest making an Alice band from the collar of his t-shirt. A hirsute tide mark under his chin shows the limit of his shaving. They leave, thankfully and are replaced by a young man. His sits knees splayed out and I feel vaguely sorry for him. It must be hard living with Elephantitis of the balls. But it appears to be an affliction suffered by many young men in the city.
I stand again, and struggle back down to the doors of the bus. The driver is running late, trying to make up time, as I alight I wish him luck. All that lies ahead is badlands.

Oh Lord,
just in time for Easter the boys at Langerland have done it again.
The Rising.