Question

If you heat coleslaw in a pan, does it become a satisfying carrot and cabbage omlette?

I'm sure anyone with a bare fridge and a healthy imagination has considered this - so if someone out there had more courage than me and went through with it, could you let me know how it was please? And did you serve coleslaw with it?

And for the rest of you, I'll leave you to ponder which is weirder: coleslaw omlettes or coleslaw wrestling.

*Please note that the above link has been known to cause disturbance. Only click on the coleslaw wrestling link if you want to see coleslaw wrestling *

And I think to myself, what wonderful Wednesday.

Yesterday was just a great day.

Like Jack Osbourne once said to Kelly once when she derided him for getting excited about McRibs, "It's the little things in life that make a difference Kelly."

My first task of the day was to kill four hours in work in the morning. During this time, bets were placed on the squash game. I found an advocate in the office who placed two bets on my victory on the basis the impenetratable logic : "Ah, you can't beat the youth." "Foolish old man," I thought to myself with derision. I didn't bet on myself as I thought I would lose and didn't bet on my opponent because that really lacks dignity - something I struggle to maintain at the best of times (oh I'm so modest!).

I could bring some dramatic description to how the game went: the ups, the downs, the spectacular recoveries, the trick shots, the close-calls, the stench of man-sweat and blood - but let's just skip to the bottom line. I won. Boo-yah. In your face. Like my tie? Do ya? Do ya? (If that needs explanation click here)

I did feel a little uneasy about winning in retrospect(which I'll be honest I did literally by the proverbial skin of my teeth - before you ask, no I don't have any genetic mutation that causes my teeth to grow skin), but when the words of the foolish old man came echoing back to me in the final and deciding game and I thought about how his two euro were on the line for me, I realised that this was bigger than me - and he might buy me a danish with his winnings. He didn't though.

After the game I crawled to Dame Street and got a bit of lunch with Jenny which was very nice, and managed to cajole her into hanging about until Healy showed up. At this point he took up the cojoling baton and managed to get us (as well as two acquaintances of mine we happened upon - fair playt'im) into the pub for a couple of pints. Also very nice.

Pint number three came at the invitation of Conor just as I was about to go home with a nice big veggie burger in my belly and quite glad am I that I did not as it led to my having the pleasure of the company of two very beautiful French-women for a copule of hours. There's something very satisfying for a man about sharing the company of appreciable women. When I say that I don't mean to state an obvious or much-parodied/charicatured sexual issue, but rather that it brings a sense of well-being (all things going well) that emphasises one's manhood (don't snigger - that's not what I meant) and evokes emotions of the most healthy and paternal/masculine variety.
Ok I'm struggling to make any sense on this issue - so I will cease and desist. Suffice it to say I enjoyed their company and had a very nice day, all day, yesterday.

Vanity, thy name is Vanity

Some of my acquaintances are getting vain in their old (though still comparitively young really) age and I now count myself amoung them. Look at me closely the next time we meet (if I know you) and you will notice (if you have not already) that I have white strands in my facial hair. I'm growing my hair long at the moment as well, but recently some people have planted seeds of doubt as to the merit of this in my mind. I think I look fine though.

Squish Squash

I have a work colleague who derides my tie on what was a near-daily basis. At first I thought he just didn't like me, was being a deliberate dick and I resented the daily insults. Then I began to think he actually was quite fond of me but couldn't think of anything of a non-tie-slagging nature to say to me being a all-too-manly man (and no doubt feels intimidated by my
edumacation or whatever - well not so much intimidated by as annoyed with / contemptuous of) - but naturally I still didn't appreciate these repetative insults.

Somehow, perhaps in an absence of anything else to say, or perhaps in a spontaneous upsurge of a competitive spirit that sought to get one up on this guy, I challenged him to a game of squash two weeks ago. It's a sport that he takes very seriously, and which I happen (parp parp parp - there goes my own trumpet) to be quite good at (though he doesn't know this). And I suppose I thought that it would either break down the barrier between us (i.e. ameliorate his being such a dick to me) or give me an opportunity to trounce him and get sweet sweet revenge.

It has since got around the department that the challenge has been made and the general consensus is that everyone would like to see me beat him (the more convincingly the better) so that they can take the piss out of him for getting beaten by the scrawny bearded little freak (they call me that affectionately).

Now there are two things. Fristly, since the challenge (and the game is going to happen next Wednesday) he has been very very nice to me - even yesterday when I wore a snoopy tie he said nothing about it. A snoopy tie! I was begging for it! It's like he just wanted me to be nice to him or to acknowledge him or something. Secondly, I don't really care if I lose but everyone would give him a serious ribbing if he loses - which I know despite his bravado he would take quite badly.

So now for the sake of this guy continuing to be nice to me and allowing him the glory that's so important to him - I'm planning to lose the match. That way we will both have our respective areas of expertese which will eliminate the need to take the piss out of me for being what he perceives as pretentious and la-di-da (obviously he would use neither term) because he's beaten me in squash and has proved his worth - or my not-all-that-ness.

Then there is a possibility that I might try my best and still lose anyway - which would be good. But then I wouldn't feel like such a big man - oh wait, I'm a small man. Sorry. I forget.

Still, I think this peculiar scenario is working out quite well and I think this is a most novel and subtle solution to a problem of work-place bullying - even if I am unsure if I knew what I was doing when I did it.

And frankly yes - yes I am very proud of myself.

Watch the comments box for the update.

*This account is paraphrased from an email I sent and as such, it should be noted, is not fresh. But in my egoism, I think it is interesting; and in my laziness, was not willing to write a brand new account of it*

Return to The Middle Way

Is it irony? I'm too hung over (well, honestly, the drunkenness hasn't quite worn off yet - my tongue is still numb - but I expect I'll feel the full effects shortly) to tell.

After writing yesterday's 'Wholesome Day' Blog, I spent the evening (approx 9pm to 3:30am) drinking our national elixir and despite it's traditional reputation for it's medicinal effects - I hold it (and Max L's bad grammer) responsible for:

(a) the malfunctioning of my you've-had-enough-ometer
(b) the dissolution of my sense of work-commitment
(c) the worst, worst 'dancing' ever (ever) (apologies to dance partner - you also sucked though)
(d) knocking over a huge pile of books and not remembering anything about it.
(d) spending too much money
(e) arriving into work fifty minutes late
(f) arriving into work drunk (Yes - I'm ashamed of myself)
(g) writing '(d)' twice

But for everything else I take full responsibility myself.

So I think a lesson has been learned here, and I propose not to pendulum between extremes of behaviour but to find some middle way where an adequate amount of misbehaviour (so-called) is overtly welcomed in my routine as an innoculation against more serious bouts of madness. Deal? Deal.

Oh - loko that I'm becoming lucid. Here comes the headache...

A Wholesome Day

Yesterday I went to work on the bus like a normal person because it was too wet for even me to take my life in my hands (or rather put it in the hands - and feet - of motorists) and cycle like I usually do. I sat beside another normal person and tried not to look like I don't ride the bus all the time. I think I pulled it off, but Quasi-Mojo stuck right out because he kept saying things like "My God I can't breath in here, these people are probably contagious" while pulling extra-hard on his cigarette like it would filter the air or something. He also rang the bell rythmically to keep himself calm - which I believe is not in keeping with usual bus-etiquette. Laughing is also against bus ettiquette I noticed. The person next to me was listening to a radio show that was in danger of making him laugh and he was suppressing it for all he was worth shaking in his seat, looking out the window trying to hold his breath, squeezing his lips together. Sad thing is - for all that effort - I could still tell he was laughing! Still it was better than my last trip on the bus with the famous "conrazulations" incident.

Anyway, I had, as I suggest from my title, quite a wholesome day: perhaps the most wholesome in recent history. I did a good day's work and then went straight to the gym to play squash. I went home to find my dinner in the oven (I love my mommy) and spent the rest of the evening reading the Irish Times and a book about the Law of Tort, before retiring to bed at a reasonable hour.

My day did not include any drinking, any watching of television, any eating of sweets, any random text-messaging, any regretting being single or not sleeping enough.

I hope it never happens again.

Reverse Psycho-ology

Sometimes someone (i don't know who) who showers in my house leaves the shower curtain pulled across and I always (God I wish I were joking) imagine that there's someone behind it with a big knife who's just about to jump out and kill/stab me.

So I pull it back just a little bit and look in first before I pull the curtain fully back. Every time. Honestly.

She bought me an orchid

She bought me an orchid and smashed my dishes
and left me a note by the clock.
I touched it and day-dreamed of last night's kisses,
eating dinner straight from the wok.

My love was blinkered - not blind per se,
When fantasies filled my hours
Had I written it then the verse would say
She bought me lovely flowers.

She bought me an orchid and smashed my dishes
and left me a note by the clock.
I touched it and day-dreamed of last night's kisses,
eating dinner straight from the wok.

Who needs crockery anyway?

Monkey on your back

People use the phrase "monkey on my back" (admittedly not very much but nonetheless they do) to signify someone irritating. "Why is this?" You may well ask.

Well from personal experience, I can tell you a few things that are not merely a little irritating to the uninitiated.

First there is the weight of the creature, which is worsened by it's propensity to bounce when it is on any moving craft. Then there is the fact that when a monkey is on your back it changes it's normal mode of conversation (if it has one) to a mode that consists mostly of kicking and slapping. When it is not kicking or slapping because it has nothing to say for itself, it will continue to bounce nonetheless and will turn its attention to goodies that can be found on its steed's scalp and in its orifices. Despite what you might think, the nostrils are not immune from these investigations. That leads us to the surprising coarseness of a monkeys fingers and the not unsurprising smell which is pretty bad anyway and is made worse if it is smoking a cigarette. Not that this is the case with Q-M because interestingly, I can never smell anything from his cigarettes - but if you're a non-smoker, and you find a smoking monkey on your back, it's something you should be prepared for. But I digress, the combination of the weight and the coarse fingers left a rash on my forehead (which he was using as balance) after the trip down to the video shop on Sunday. Quasi-Mojo said yogurt would clear that right up and I agreed, but in his opinion I was "unbelievably and unforgivably clumsy" as I missed my forehead every time I attempted to self-medicate, and lost the whole carton down my mouth.

The thing is though, one gets used to having a monkey on one's back and being the messed-up, neurotic creatures that humans are, we get confoundedly attached to this sort of thing. Besides, walking down the street, hand-in-hand with a monkey just looks silly. But anyway, the rashes, the neck-strain, the slapping, the nit-picking and everything else are things I'd actually miss. I don't think I chose this though. I think it works like a disease. It's possible to get infected with a certain type of behaviour, and then there's little you can do to extricate from this disease of the heart. In many ways, it's my own fault. I didn't wear a crash-helmet. And I've seen this phenomenon in my romantic relationships too. Some people say, Oh I love her despite x,y,z (all bad things) but honestly sometimes I really think, bullfaeces, if she wasn't x-ing, y-ing and z-ing so much you would be entirely disinterested. Well, it seems (lately anyway) that I miss the erratic unreasonable girl and the attentive accommodating girl moves me little. Interesting. Confusing. Ridiculous.

I now declare the floor open as to the moral of the story.

Voiding Rheume at Speed.

When spitting from one's bike at speed there are but two options in my opinion. The first is to spit to the side in which case pedestrians, traffic or one's own shoulder run the risk of bieng loogied. The second is to spit to the front. It is possible to spit directly onto the ground in this way but there is nothing quite so satisfying as spitting dirctly onto your tyre causing the spit to ricochet forward onto the ground with impressive speed and efficiency. It's like getting the ball on a pin-ball machine to fly up the super-duper-chute or some such equivalent - I'm sure you know the feeling - smashing something that's far away with a catapult is also simimlar - unless you've just hit the patio door or a treasured garden gnome. Be warned however, for if you miss the tyre your spit might just land on the inner rim of the wheel and this causes the spit to be propelled back toward you. It's never nice to have something gooey in your crotch is it? Is it? Hmmm. Anyway, in exceptional circumstances, where the product has a high viscosity (if my understanding o fthe word is correct) it may even hit you much higher up. I remember in my earlier teens I spat in my own eye on the way to band (as it known to everyone who went to 'band' - in the USA they'd call it 'band practice' because they like big words but interestingly, not unusual spellings).

For advice on puking from the windows of taxis, consult my colleauge Mr. David Healy, who is contactable through myself, or Fingal County Council.

No Blog Today

I'm not sure what I want to talk about today.

Maybe I could say something to do with how i feel irritation to see someone using a superfluous amount of handtowels or napkins - which is a shame because I see it so often.

I could talk about young children and how when they piont to things they angle their hands horizontally while adults angle them vertically. That's intersting - however breif.

Or on a personal note, there's the inexplicable tiredness of today and yesterday that saw me get out of bed in the former instance, slump from sitting on my stairs to lie down for a while on the landing, and in the latter to sit on the edge of the bath and rest my head on the sink clutching a toothbrush i hadn't yet brought myself to use. It even resulted in my getting a video (Lost in Translation - It was good while I lasted) after work last night because I didn't want to read but I had to switch it off and go to bed before it ended - even though I thought it was very much worth watching.

I could even make room for a few lines of how I just about manage to mask feelings that are descending daily toward contempt and loathing for someone I am in the presence of for about thirty hours a week, but I am ultimately unconcerned by this - its a normal aspect of the working environment.

I find the vignettes from the Children's Court that appear in the Irish Times very interesting and there haven't been any this week.

I bought a red apple for a change and it was too hard to eat.

None of these things seem fit for blogs really and even if they are jumbled up together they just read like ramblings of a drunk or a hangoveree or an insomniac or depressed individual. I'd like to think that I'm none of the above. We all have moments.

So there will no blog today - just an admission that inspiration is proving elusive and a window (that needs cleaning) inside my temporarily sluggish little head.