Ado
Friday 30 March 2007
Wednesday 28 March 2007
A Day in the Life of a Eunuch
The first morning noises wake him. Then again he could have been awake a while guarding what he is under the illusion to be his territory from the incursions of the black tom. On the other hand the black trespasser seems quite at ease asleep on the eunuch’s armchair.
After breakfast has been served to him, the eunuch walks out on a matter-of-fact morning patrol: down the garden, up the wall, round the bleeding bushes, up on the shed with the surfing board, good sniff at the crisp air, fuck the morning dew, it’s too cold out here. And the magpies are back. Chased by the territorial birds, he gallops to his flap. Back inside, the daily yogic stretches are performed on the coir mat in the kitchen, perfect for exercising all the toes while clawing at it. Ritual cleansing is the next absorbing activity for the eunuch to be carried out preferably in the sunny spot on the table.
Forget all the commonplace: cats in general (and the eunuch in particular) think they are Buddhists.
They practise meditation daily, for long periods and with fervour. Just sitting, contemplating the world around them in a state of perfect relaxation and sharp awareness is not a goal but a way of life. The periods of ‘sitting’ may last for hours with intervals of pure rest. Mere humans cannot fathom the difference between these two states.
But when dusk descends upon earth, the wild thing awakens.
The meek eunuch stretches and stands taller. He paces silently across the kitchen to his private entrance. He looks out into the world like a paratrooper ready to jump into enemy territory. He carefully noses his way through the flap and sits on the step. Already the dignity of his ancestors oozes from each and every stripe. No longer a meditating moggie, he’s a feral predator. A few more watchful steps. Another rekki. All being clear a quick trot will bring him to the border of his realm and beyond the neighbour’s shed. After that he is swallowed into the mysterious world of twilight.
Upon his return to the comforts of civilisation- the length of his absence depending on atmospheric conditions- he quickly peels off his tiger skin. The beast is thus transformed back into the bewildered looking tabby suffering from intestinal problems and, possibly, piles.
Pinzimonio
After breakfast has been served to him, the eunuch walks out on a matter-of-fact morning patrol: down the garden, up the wall, round the bleeding bushes, up on the shed with the surfing board, good sniff at the crisp air, fuck the morning dew, it’s too cold out here. And the magpies are back. Chased by the territorial birds, he gallops to his flap. Back inside, the daily yogic stretches are performed on the coir mat in the kitchen, perfect for exercising all the toes while clawing at it. Ritual cleansing is the next absorbing activity for the eunuch to be carried out preferably in the sunny spot on the table.
Forget all the commonplace: cats in general (and the eunuch in particular) think they are Buddhists.
They practise meditation daily, for long periods and with fervour. Just sitting, contemplating the world around them in a state of perfect relaxation and sharp awareness is not a goal but a way of life. The periods of ‘sitting’ may last for hours with intervals of pure rest. Mere humans cannot fathom the difference between these two states.
But when dusk descends upon earth, the wild thing awakens.
The meek eunuch stretches and stands taller. He paces silently across the kitchen to his private entrance. He looks out into the world like a paratrooper ready to jump into enemy territory. He carefully noses his way through the flap and sits on the step. Already the dignity of his ancestors oozes from each and every stripe. No longer a meditating moggie, he’s a feral predator. A few more watchful steps. Another rekki. All being clear a quick trot will bring him to the border of his realm and beyond the neighbour’s shed. After that he is swallowed into the mysterious world of twilight.
Upon his return to the comforts of civilisation- the length of his absence depending on atmospheric conditions- he quickly peels off his tiger skin. The beast is thus transformed back into the bewildered looking tabby suffering from intestinal problems and, possibly, piles.
Pinzimonio
Sunday 25 March 2007
Monday 19 March 2007
Horoscope
ARIES: Spare the rod and spoil the child, as the saying goes. I’m not talking canes here. You must make sure that your children get a dose of at least two Rod The Mob Stewart songs per day. This will ensure that they talk in raspy voices and dress in pink leopards-skin leotards. This will leave you free to think you are sane. You are not.
TAURUS: After years of being a shrinking violet, you realise that the Gods made a typo and you ere supposed to be THE SHRINKING VIOLENT the smallest, angriest, super hero. You immediately become enraged and shrink to a size of 50cm. This allows you to fight crime in all the most inaccessible areas. You will obviously be owed back pay. It may arrive, it may not.
GEMINI: Your already significant powers of seduction reach new heights as you tempt an endless array of fabulous lovers to your lair. Be wary of blond haired vixens with ‘love’ and ‘hate’ tattooed on their knuckles. Beware also of any guy who knows all the words of ‘Like a Virgin’. Lucky revolutionary leader: Che Guevara.
CANCER: This month you are more chancer than cancer. You will try to persuade your place of employment that you need time off because the Government want to experiment on you and your family. As luck would have it you actually decide to sign up for top-secret government experiments. These make you super-intelligent. You go on to win Countdown, The Weakest Link and Blankety Blank. Well done, you have achieved much.
LEO: It is essential that you focus all your feline intuition on your health in the coming months. There is a possibility you will lose an appendage on Tuesday. Stem the flow of blood with a tunicae or any handy napkin. This could lead to your own self-help book and a spot on the Pat Kenny Show, if you play your cards right.
VIRGO: All the planning and patience over the last few years is destined to come to fruition within the next two months. I know it means so much to you but, my dear Virgo, my dear, dear big headed, tiny minded Virgo, please do try to stay within the public nudity laws. Godspeed and may your spirit always be this free.
LIBRA: You cheeky monkey you! OO be do I wanna be like yoooooho. Fantastic cheekbones will drop from the sky and make you a smash on the Milan catwalk. Don’t do Dior shure he’s sooo last season. Home life will stabilise once your family stop wrestling bulls. Be polite to ladies and don’t chew with your stomach full.
SCORPIO: Scorpio, Scorpio wherefore art thou Scorpio. You are lost in a fog of conflicting emotions and needs. The path through these times involves a long time friend, a strong pair of hands, 4 kiss-me-quick hats and an Austin Allegro. Don’t ride the clutch too much. Lucky concept: time or space… well, it’s one of those big ones anyway.
SAGITTARIOUS: please try to keep in mind that yesterday does not exist, neither does tomorrow for that matter. Only the now. This only exists because some electricity is bouncing around in the synapses of your brain. Taking these gigantic philosophical thoughts into consideration leaves you with more time to think about puppies and guns.
CAPRICORN: This month you will be flooded with ideas for finally making those millions. Bouncy hats, shoes that tell the time, odd socks, reusable food, an Irish rail system. When they let you out, you should peruse one of these dreams: Lucky parable: the one about the farmer and the seeds
AQUARIUS: Your inspiration and guide this month will come from the sea. Not for the might of the ocean, the gods of the depths. You shall invent beef fingers made with real sea cow. As sea cows are an endangered species you will only be able to sell them on the black market to millionaires. You will also start a campaign to bring back the old captain Birds Eye. The new one is so unconvincing with his smooth moves and designer stubble, gorgeous ladies draped on either arm… (We apologise, as your regular psychic has had to be taken away for shock therapy. We will be replacing him with a panda). THE JOY OF BAMBOO by A. Panda…we apologise the panda has just been shot, made into panda fingers and sold to a millionaire.
PISCES: On a Tuesday at 3 o’clock you will find 4 men vying for your affections. If you are female, enjoy the attention and be careful not to become too complacent in your suspicion of their motives. If on the other hand you are a male, shave the moustache and stop wearing that studded leather cap and lycra jumpsuit to work.
Bobby Peru
TAURUS: After years of being a shrinking violet, you realise that the Gods made a typo and you ere supposed to be THE SHRINKING VIOLENT the smallest, angriest, super hero. You immediately become enraged and shrink to a size of 50cm. This allows you to fight crime in all the most inaccessible areas. You will obviously be owed back pay. It may arrive, it may not.
GEMINI: Your already significant powers of seduction reach new heights as you tempt an endless array of fabulous lovers to your lair. Be wary of blond haired vixens with ‘love’ and ‘hate’ tattooed on their knuckles. Beware also of any guy who knows all the words of ‘Like a Virgin’. Lucky revolutionary leader: Che Guevara.
CANCER: This month you are more chancer than cancer. You will try to persuade your place of employment that you need time off because the Government want to experiment on you and your family. As luck would have it you actually decide to sign up for top-secret government experiments. These make you super-intelligent. You go on to win Countdown, The Weakest Link and Blankety Blank. Well done, you have achieved much.
LEO: It is essential that you focus all your feline intuition on your health in the coming months. There is a possibility you will lose an appendage on Tuesday. Stem the flow of blood with a tunicae or any handy napkin. This could lead to your own self-help book and a spot on the Pat Kenny Show, if you play your cards right.
VIRGO: All the planning and patience over the last few years is destined to come to fruition within the next two months. I know it means so much to you but, my dear Virgo, my dear, dear big headed, tiny minded Virgo, please do try to stay within the public nudity laws. Godspeed and may your spirit always be this free.
LIBRA: You cheeky monkey you! OO be do I wanna be like yoooooho. Fantastic cheekbones will drop from the sky and make you a smash on the Milan catwalk. Don’t do Dior shure he’s sooo last season. Home life will stabilise once your family stop wrestling bulls. Be polite to ladies and don’t chew with your stomach full.
SCORPIO: Scorpio, Scorpio wherefore art thou Scorpio. You are lost in a fog of conflicting emotions and needs. The path through these times involves a long time friend, a strong pair of hands, 4 kiss-me-quick hats and an Austin Allegro. Don’t ride the clutch too much. Lucky concept: time or space… well, it’s one of those big ones anyway.
SAGITTARIOUS: please try to keep in mind that yesterday does not exist, neither does tomorrow for that matter. Only the now. This only exists because some electricity is bouncing around in the synapses of your brain. Taking these gigantic philosophical thoughts into consideration leaves you with more time to think about puppies and guns.
CAPRICORN: This month you will be flooded with ideas for finally making those millions. Bouncy hats, shoes that tell the time, odd socks, reusable food, an Irish rail system. When they let you out, you should peruse one of these dreams: Lucky parable: the one about the farmer and the seeds
AQUARIUS: Your inspiration and guide this month will come from the sea. Not for the might of the ocean, the gods of the depths. You shall invent beef fingers made with real sea cow. As sea cows are an endangered species you will only be able to sell them on the black market to millionaires. You will also start a campaign to bring back the old captain Birds Eye. The new one is so unconvincing with his smooth moves and designer stubble, gorgeous ladies draped on either arm… (We apologise, as your regular psychic has had to be taken away for shock therapy. We will be replacing him with a panda). THE JOY OF BAMBOO by A. Panda…we apologise the panda has just been shot, made into panda fingers and sold to a millionaire.
PISCES: On a Tuesday at 3 o’clock you will find 4 men vying for your affections. If you are female, enjoy the attention and be careful not to become too complacent in your suspicion of their motives. If on the other hand you are a male, shave the moustache and stop wearing that studded leather cap and lycra jumpsuit to work.
Bobby Peru
Saturday 17 March 2007
Sniff Sniff hooray!
I like my food. . From unemployed size 8 living on Koka noodles to well fed Public Servant, my waistline is the widening proof of it
Foraging for food is something I do from time to time, mostly when I leave my lunch in the fridge at home or I just can’t fit the three minutes’ sandwich preparation time into my tight morning schedule My latest discovery is a little spot in North King Street, selling bowls of soup and stews for a more than acceptable price. They have a little train suspended from the ceiling an’ all!! Nothing pretentious about it, Just good food to eat. Alas, still no rightful heir to the Market Café (closed down by the impending poshness of Smithfield). Even featuring as a location in Irish productions such as Intermission and Adam And Paul couldn’t save it. I will mourn the loss of Martin’s egg and chips for a long long time to come. Instead of the deep fryer smell titillating your cholesterol, a synthetic smell wafts from a Subway. Good fortune has it that the Chinese community are colonising the old tile shop at the corner, and I’ll have to have a closer sniff around the promising food hall upstairs.
On the other side of town Café Sofia is resisting the American invasion, waving the Bulgarian flag and dishing up traditional Irish fare.
It is good to see places like these, weathering the storm of culinary colonisation in the forest of pseudo-aristocratic eateries and American junk.
A Polish bakery in D7, my favourite north African patisserie at Harold’s Cross Bridge, far eastern un-Irishised food on Parnell street. All good, all diverse, all enriching, fighting off the pretence of tastes dictated by overly fussy self appointed food connoisseurs and the standardised mush of Ronald’s French fries.
Pinzimonio
Foraging for food is something I do from time to time, mostly when I leave my lunch in the fridge at home or I just can’t fit the three minutes’ sandwich preparation time into my tight morning schedule My latest discovery is a little spot in North King Street, selling bowls of soup and stews for a more than acceptable price. They have a little train suspended from the ceiling an’ all!! Nothing pretentious about it, Just good food to eat. Alas, still no rightful heir to the Market Café (closed down by the impending poshness of Smithfield). Even featuring as a location in Irish productions such as Intermission and Adam And Paul couldn’t save it. I will mourn the loss of Martin’s egg and chips for a long long time to come. Instead of the deep fryer smell titillating your cholesterol, a synthetic smell wafts from a Subway. Good fortune has it that the Chinese community are colonising the old tile shop at the corner, and I’ll have to have a closer sniff around the promising food hall upstairs.
On the other side of town Café Sofia is resisting the American invasion, waving the Bulgarian flag and dishing up traditional Irish fare.
It is good to see places like these, weathering the storm of culinary colonisation in the forest of pseudo-aristocratic eateries and American junk.
A Polish bakery in D7, my favourite north African patisserie at Harold’s Cross Bridge, far eastern un-Irishised food on Parnell street. All good, all diverse, all enriching, fighting off the pretence of tastes dictated by overly fussy self appointed food connoisseurs and the standardised mush of Ronald’s French fries.
Pinzimonio
Saturday 10 March 2007
Tuesday 6 March 2007
Thursday 1 March 2007
Big Sofas, Small Change
4.30 on Sunday. A bit late to go window-shopping for sofas, but it suited me.
I went to this place I had meant to visit since I spotted one of their sofas in a posh magazine in the doctor’s waiting room. The surrounding area wasn’t inviting at all. Newly demolished building at the corner, a couple of warehouses and a yard to let, a slightly rundown side street between the Tenters and Black Pits (wool workers and communal graves for plague victims don’t sound nice on postal addresses). I was delighted to find the sofa-place was accompanied by other 2 furniture shops. At long last I had found it! The Mecca for sofaly challanged people! I entered. There were couches everywhere, the odd armchair and a young woman from whom I enquired whether they were still open. She rushed upstairs. As it turned out she also switched on the soft lights and mellow sofa music. Having looked around for a short while, I tried one (uncomfortable) couch. It’s useless wandering around a sea of settees when there is a shop assistant and no other living creature in the shop, I thought. I descended to the ground floor, gave my best smiley hallo. The assistant jumped up like a vixen with big blue eyes out of her computerised den in the corner.
The nice black overcoat my mammy bought me didn’t hide my real financial condition: more I-wish-I-could-buy than I-am-going-to-buy. The vixen instinctively knew. No point me smiling at her and trying to elicit information about their less puffy range, the size and prices. She spoke at me condescendingly thinking ‘no commission out of this one’, as stiff and uncomfortable as her sofas.
Feeling despondent, I quickly checked the place next-door, as deserted and friendly as the one I was coming out of, but nicer furniture. Panther was supposed to meet me in Lidel for a shop. So up I went to the proletarian Thomas Street and the value supermarket. As usual I had no change to put in the trolley. No security man to let me in from the exit to go and annoy somebody at the till, no husband in sight to extort money from. A young couple (inner-city accents, tracksuit bottoms and a baby on the way) were just leaving and I casually asked did they have change of 2 euro. They told me I only needed 20cent, put it in the trolley for me and refused to take any of my coppers. Reconciled with humanity, I pushed my little trolley through the East-Euro-Afro clientele, the vixen and her empty sofas only a hollow memory.
Pinzimonio
I went to this place I had meant to visit since I spotted one of their sofas in a posh magazine in the doctor’s waiting room. The surrounding area wasn’t inviting at all. Newly demolished building at the corner, a couple of warehouses and a yard to let, a slightly rundown side street between the Tenters and Black Pits (wool workers and communal graves for plague victims don’t sound nice on postal addresses). I was delighted to find the sofa-place was accompanied by other 2 furniture shops. At long last I had found it! The Mecca for sofaly challanged people! I entered. There were couches everywhere, the odd armchair and a young woman from whom I enquired whether they were still open. She rushed upstairs. As it turned out she also switched on the soft lights and mellow sofa music. Having looked around for a short while, I tried one (uncomfortable) couch. It’s useless wandering around a sea of settees when there is a shop assistant and no other living creature in the shop, I thought. I descended to the ground floor, gave my best smiley hallo. The assistant jumped up like a vixen with big blue eyes out of her computerised den in the corner.
The nice black overcoat my mammy bought me didn’t hide my real financial condition: more I-wish-I-could-buy than I-am-going-to-buy. The vixen instinctively knew. No point me smiling at her and trying to elicit information about their less puffy range, the size and prices. She spoke at me condescendingly thinking ‘no commission out of this one’, as stiff and uncomfortable as her sofas.
Feeling despondent, I quickly checked the place next-door, as deserted and friendly as the one I was coming out of, but nicer furniture. Panther was supposed to meet me in Lidel for a shop. So up I went to the proletarian Thomas Street and the value supermarket. As usual I had no change to put in the trolley. No security man to let me in from the exit to go and annoy somebody at the till, no husband in sight to extort money from. A young couple (inner-city accents, tracksuit bottoms and a baby on the way) were just leaving and I casually asked did they have change of 2 euro. They told me I only needed 20cent, put it in the trolley for me and refused to take any of my coppers. Reconciled with humanity, I pushed my little trolley through the East-Euro-Afro clientele, the vixen and her empty sofas only a hollow memory.
Pinzimonio
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