Samsebyaizdat

A new year, a new list of things I should do

2005-12-16T13:06:00.000-03:00

Next year I will...

Start smoking

Wear less appropriate shoes

Hone my caffeine addiction

...and I won't...

Tell a doctor I have no history of medical problems and then ask him for a glass of water because I think I'll faint if I stand up.

On poetry and proving yourself

2005-12-13T09:38:00.000-03:00

I was reading some 19th century Russian poetry last night...in the original, naturally (well, they were in the original, I just happened to spend more time skimming through the soulless prose translations underneath - Penguin Book of Russian Verse, ed. Dmitri Obolensky, still worth a look.)

The poems I'll leave for another time, but the biographies of the poets who wrote them are just as entertaining.

Mikhail Lomonosov (1711-65) was the son of a fisherman on the White Sea coast, became a Professor of Chemistry in the Russian Academy of Sciences, was a founder of Moscow State University...oh, and just happened to be a leading poet as well.

His success story is rare in the world of Russian poetry - most of the other entries end on a darker note.

Konstantin Batyushov (1787-1855):
"He strongly influenced Pushkin's early poetry." Hmmm, good thing.
"He became permanently insane in 1821." Ahhh, there we go.

As for Pushkin himself (1799-1837): well, he was acknowledged as the greatest poet Russia has ever seen but....ended up dying in a duel.

Mikhail Lermontov (1814-41), not to be outdone, also got himself killed in a duel (he was only 27 though, so at least he beat Pushkin at something).

After the revolution in 1917, many poets went into exile in France, Germany and the US. Nikolay Gumilev (1886-1921) did not. This meant he stayed married to Anna Akhmatova (just throwing in other famous Russian poets here in case anyone is still reading) til 1918, but also that he was shot by a firing squad a few years later. Osip Mandelstam (1891-1940) probably wished he'd left too - on his second arrest he died en-route to a gulag.

Then come the suicides. Marina Tsvetaeva (1892-1941). Vladimir Mayakovsky (1893-1930). And, most spectaculary of all, Sergey Esenin (1895-1925). He married the dancer Isadora Duncan but ended up alone in a Leningrad hotel, opening a vein to write a final farewell (in verse of course) in his own blood. Then he hanged himself just to make sure.

Which somehow brought to mind Richie James from the Manics....now, he wasn't a Russian poet, but he did write complicated lyrics (that didn't scan, he would've hated all the iambic pentameter and ternary metres those guys had to deal with) and was a bit disturbed (alcholism, depression, self-mutilation, insomnia, anorexia, all the greats).

Aside from all that, he was desperate to prove himself as the real thing, the epitomy of all the isolation, despair and self-loathing he wrote about in his lyrics and knew made great copy in interviews. When he was challenged by a music journalist as to his authenticity, he did what any barely-sane, deeply-idealistic band member (or Russian poet) would have done: slashed "4 Real" into his arm with a razor blade.

Some might say that if he really had been "4 Real", he would've at least had the decency to write it out in full. He settled any such debates a few years later by appearing in his last interview dressed in concentration-camp pyjamas and then...disappearing. No passport, no money, his car abandoned beside a known suicide point. He meant it all right.

But I started to think about Steve Lamacq, the journalist who challenged Edwards. He asked the difficult question, reluctant to be just another fawning fan willing to pass on the idea that the more-disturbed an arist is, the more artistic merit they have.

It's difficult to know whether the question should have been asked. It certainly didn't need to be, not right then. But it did make a great interview and a fantastic front page cover. Everyone was suddenly interested in this little band who'd had, until then, a cult following only. Lamacq's career wasn't harmed either - his name became associated with the incident, and the incident was splashed across most British newspapers.

If I had been sitting there with a man in front of me who was clearly fragile and not in the best frame of mind, I'm not sure I would've asked that question. Then again, in hindsight, that's easy to say. Maybe I would. But if he'd started carving up his arm in front of me I'm not sure I could have stayed in the room without crying or getting sick.

Lamacq managed to, and called an ambulance. When Richey rang him the next day to apologise, he was ready with another hard question: did he feel a bit foolish for hurting himself so badly?

You kind of have to admire someone who comes straight out with another saccharine-free question to the guy who had cut up his arm in response to the last one.

Celebrity has such a strange power these days - it seems that most journalists are so happy that this famous person is deigning to talk to them at all, that they keep those tough questions buried deep inside. And the longer the reading public don't see tough questions being asked, the less it'll become expected for journalists to ask them.

Which makes me a little bit happy if I'm honest. I won't have to deal with honest responses to honest questions if I just sit back and write PR for the next big things...

Maybe I'm not cut out to be a journalist. I think I'll just marry a moralistic Russian poet, who writes well and fights badly - then I can live off his estate when he loses that inevitable duel.

Measuring out my life in coffeespoons

2005-12-12T09:32:00.000-03:00

We keep on being told to keep things simple - it's in every advice column on reducing stress, every fashion piece elevating the 'capsule wardrobe' to the ultimate achievement for today's BYTs, and every class on what makes good journalism.

This weekend I took it to the extreme and simplified my language to the extent that I dragged others down with me.

I called in to the Temple Bar food market on Saturday (oh yes, here I am, selling a lifestyle) and wandered past stalls of olives, soup, cheese, fresh bread...though my 'wandered' may have looked more like a grim march. I scanned the square to establish the density of casual browsers per square foot and then put on my best lovely girl face as I elbowed them all out of the way (once you say 'sorry' every five seconds while you're doing this, people are generally too busy saying 'sorry' back to glare at you).

This was all in aid of buying a bag of coffee to get myself through a week of deadlines and, as I'm a bit of a coffee snob, it had to be exactly the right kind. Not that I'd want to blatantly plug the Ariosa coffee stall but any bag of coffee that stinks out your entire house for the rest of the day has to be good.
The guy serving me was new, or at least I'd never seen him before. I knew which coffee I wanted but when he asked me if I wanted it ground I got flustered. I knew I did, but I also knew what the next question was going to be.

"What do you want it ground for?" - and so it came, as it always does.

Poised by the machine, coffee beans in hand, he looked expectantly at me. Smiling, but expectant nonetheless.

I had gone blank - well, not quite blank, I did have an image of my little coffee pot at home, sitting there, all silver and pretty and utterly indescribable.

"Ehm, it's one of those stove-top pot thingys...", is what I came out with after a couple of seconds of screaming silently to myself "Don't say cafetiere cause that's the only coffee-related word you can think of - it's NOT a cafetiere."

And it's not. He knew what I was talking about, but my inability to remember the proper word for it started a pattern.

The manager came back so the guy serving me checked with him that he was grinding it to the right consistency.

"It's for one of those stove pot yokes..", he explained.

"Oh, yeah. Ehm, I know the ones you're on about", came the reply.

This was from a man who has, on occasion, spent up to ten minutes explaining to me each and every aspect of his coffees, including which works better in which machine.

By the end of the transaction I still had no idea what the proper name for my coffee pot is. The two guys at the stall had probably forgotten as well.

I did have the coffee though, which is the main thing. This whole piece is brought to you courtesy of it. (Cocaine get's a lot of bad press for making people spout shite, but coffee is every bit as bad.)

The rest of the weekend, the only word I could think of to describe things was 'nice'. Consistently: food was nice, people were nice, I had a nice time, the idea of doing shorthand was...well, not so nice, but still defined by the same word. I have a degree in English for God's sake (see the heading of this entry for examples of unnecessarily-nerdy literary referencing.)

As for simplicity, well, I know it's clarity that we're really supposed to be aiming for - at this stage, I'm just happy that anyone understands me at all. Not understands, understands, but, you know.

Oh God, someone get the girl a glass of water and a decaff.

xxxxx marks the blog

2005-12-10T11:09:00.000-03:00

Here's a mail we got the other day from our lecturer, the orignator of the idea we all do blogs.

HI Again,

Please use the time until I get there to READ EVERYONE ELSE'S ASSIGNMENT
#2, THE FEATURE ARTICLES, so that we can discuss them in detail when I get
there. Please don't waste time doing xxxxx e-mails!!

Is doing your xxxxx blog any different? Cause that's what I do now when I don't want to do any real work. And what does xxxxx stand for anyway? Go on, someone tell me.

Pat Kenny (again)

2005-12-10T11:00:00.000-03:00

I got a patronising email from a friend, congratulating me on overcoming my fear of technology and managing to get images up on my blog. He has a point, I am terrified of anything to do with computers - but sometimes a picture of Pat Kenny looking windswept will do wonders for a girl's motivation.

Having said that, I had to leave the room when he was doing an interview with two female vets on the Late Late tonight. They had showed a clip of a bullock being castrated and one of the women produced a fierce-looking metal instrument, saying that this is what they used for smaller animals.

He could have just smiled and crossed his legs but oh no.

"Well, I have nothing to worry about then", he smirked. Something along those lines.

I was so disturbed I went straight to bed and covered my head with the pillow til the horrible image went away.

Does he not realise he's not down the pub? That he's never going to be Graham Norton or Jonathan Ross and that most of the audience are watching for precisely that reason? "Smut-free and safe" should be the mantra going around inside his little wooden head.

He could've learned from a presenter I happened across during the week. No idea what his name is, but he was on E4 in the early afternoon (yeah, yeah, bloody students and all that) and had one of the lovely members of the lovely Girls Aloud on the couch beside him. Again, not sure which one, but I think it was Cheryl Tweedy. She certainly looked very pretty and acted pretty vacant.

She was being asked to pick her favourite video and the poor guy was trying to drag out the link a bit.

"So, have you ever blagged your way in anywhere then?", he asked, all cheer and awkward hand movements.

"Well, yeah, back when Justin Timberlake first came out...", she started.

"I didn't know he was gay?!", interjected yer man.

So far, so thinking he's in the pub. It was the way he dealt with her response that made him stand out.

"Gay?", she asked, deadpan.

She didn't get it at all, but looked mightily unimpressed that someone would dare cut across her big "I'm famous, me" anecdote.

So he let her continue on. No smart comments. No trying to explain. No "Oh, well you said he 'came out' and I just thought..." to distract us from her fascinating tale of showbiz life (eh, she got past a bouncer to watch him perform on Top of the Pops or something, Z-list here she comes).

Here was a presenter who knew that, no matter how charming he is or how airbrushed he looks in a studio setting, the viewer wants to hear the guest talking.

Maybe someone should tell Pat.

What's happening in the news...no, seriously, what is?

2005-12-06T10:47:00.000-03:00

I'd love to take this opportunity to offer some insightful commentary on the state of the world today, as represented in the national newspapers.

The thing is, last weekend each of us in the house bought at least one of the Sunday papers. We ended up with three copies of the Sunday Times, two of the Independent and one lonely Tribune. So, naturally, this weekend no one bought any.

And weekday reading is obviously out of the question cause I have so much work/coffee drinking/tv watching to be doing.

So, as Alanis Morrisette might have said (if she'd been more concerned about the true meaning of irony than whether the lines of her song scanned), isn't it ironic that, as a journalism student, i'm less in touch with what's going on in the world than i've ever been before?

Or is the word i'm looking for 'apt'? Hmmm.

RTE and TTV and BBC...

2005-12-05T09:57:00.000-03:00

RTE is nothing if not amusing. Usually not intentionally, admittedly, but at least we get the occasional moment of value for our licensing fee. (The inspectors called to our door the other day - who knew they even existed outside those scary ads? Well, they do, but it's not quite as dire as you're lead to believe - if you happen to be one of four twenty-something girls living in the house, and you all crowd around the door and look puzzled and terribly worried the nice man will just say "Well, you really should have one, but I see yours is just up, and you'll get two written warnings, so I wouldn't worry about it for another six weeks or so". Good to know, eh?)

Anyway, Friday evening brought another example of the national broadcaster's bizarre side. Now, before you go jumping to (well-founded) conclusions, this is not a rant about Pat Kenny. It's about David Norris appearing on TTV.

TTV, for those of you who aren't struggling with a Home and Away addiction, is the bit in the evenings (on RTE 2, or Network 2, or whatever it is at the moment) between The Den and grown up programming. It's usually presented by Aidan Power, who manages to be smiley and enthusiastic while talking to various young and trendy guest presenters about everything from gadgets to gossip.

So, on Friday, who pops up in the young and trendy guest spot but David Norris. Hmmm. In fairness to him, he was a lot more passionate, animated and well-presented than most of the wans who normally sit there trying to look pretty and talk all at the same time.

It was just that, instead of the usual fashion tips or cd plugs, he was talking about Tibet, politics and the filthy state of Dublin's streets. Now, the website says that "Each evening Aidan is joined by a host of guests and experts to deal with issues of the day", which covers just about everything. I just didn't expect to see David Norris pitching politics to teens as "the best gossip in town". Aidan Power didn't have a clue what to say, he was too busy laughing as Norris went from name-dropping the Dalai Lama to doing his best inner-city Dublin accent.

It was great. Maybe not planned that way, but good to see RTE stretching itself a little and exposing the largely teenage audience to some political awareness en-route to Summer Bay.

Maybe they'll work on their kids' news round-up next and stop describing everything as "big" - it's all "big meeting", "big problem", "big country". They were trying to put the issue of raised interest rates into simple terms the other night and it all came across as well-intentioned but a bit patronising. Did none of them ever watch "Newsround"?

Or maybe that was just me, living near enough to the border to get free British tv from the transmittors nearby. Better than the stuff we were paying to see though. Shame it hasn't changed much.

Niche work if you can get it

2005-11-27T13:29:00.000-03:00

May as well get some more mileage out of the conference...

Things I learned that day: (non-academic)

1. I am a terrible networker...

2. ...however, if you hang around at a wine reception for long enough, you will eventually be brought out for dinner by the organisers.

3. When a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist expresses an interest in your future career and asks you who your favourite feature writers are, you should really try not to say 'Ehm, I can't think of any.'

4. Similarly, when you are told to stash a left-over bottle of wine in your bag, just say:
"But I heard of a girl who did that once, and she ended up trying to sneak out of a restaurant without them noticing she'd just leaked red wine all over their carpet and chairs.She was with some important-looking people in suits who were laughing at her."

But the most important thing I learned was that if I want to get a job writing a column in a few years, providing it's about trivial things like what I did with my weekend or why it is that people in Dublin are incapable of walking from A to B in a logical manner, I should have very little competition.

It all stemmed from a conversation about Roisin Ingle. Now I've no idea how we actually got on to talking about her, but the outcome was a few disparaging comments and general looks of disgust. I was the only one standing there going, well, actually, I think she's quite good.

Not that I'm sure if I think she's good. I think she may have had her moment, but that's to be expected given the nature of the column she writes. It's all about her and her boyfriend and his Northern Protestant mother who loves cleaning and her brother who lives in India and is into yoga....and yes, I do read it every time I buy the Irish Times on a Saturday. I'm sure a lot of people do - it's one of the first things you see in the Magazine.

But not everybody likes it. The students and professionals I talked to didn't think it was worth reading. Some of them would flick through it occasionally but that was about it.

I tried to widen the discussion, bringing in the column Zoe Heller used to write in The Sunday Times. I could have gone on to talk about Tara Palmer-Tomkinson, or that other one who used to work for Vogue. But no-one really got what I was talking about (and not in a 'Oooh, you're so smart' kind of way. More a 'I do apologise for not being familiar with the subject matter but I was far too busy reading articles on foreign policy in the main section of the paper' kind of way.)

We had a similar discussion in class this week - we had been given an article by Gwen Halley, who writes in the Sunday Independent, and were supposed to comment on it. A few things were said about it being too personal, too rooted in her own life, her own experience. I agreed it was a bad piece of writing but not for those precise reasons.

I like reading about other people's lives. If you leave your diary lying around, I can't guarantee it'll remain unopened. That's part of what's so appealing about blogs.

I would have no problem writing a column based solely on all my quirky friends and fabulous thoughts - who cares if half the nation, even the author herself, find it trivial and contrived? If it paid the rent, or even part of the rent, I'd be happy.

Sunday Independent here I come.

On finding my niche (Part 1)

2005-11-26T11:11:00.000-03:00

It was a groundbreaking moment for me.

There we were - four students, two representatives of the British Council, one from Co-operation Ireland and a seasoned journalist from the Boston Globe - sitting over dinner at the end of a day spent discussing pluralism in the media.

Everyone was deep in discussion - US politics, Irish politics, British politics.I didn't really know what was going on but sure when has that ever stopped me. I threw in a few comments that were more grounded in the amount of free wine I'd had than any hard facts. (I don't think the story of my schoolfriend receiving a punishment beating for going out with a Paratrooper came up, but I wouldn't be surprised if it had - shock tactics are the way to go when you don't have anything relevant to say but feel like you should be saying something)

By the end of the meal I had given up trying to sound intelligent or appear sober. Then, suddenly, everything went my way.

Someone asked a question. Everyone sat back and answered, not at great length but with the kind of quick ease that suggested they were fully confident in what they were saying, this was their standard view, there was little room for debate.

I went last and dared to differ.

Faces contorted in confusion. Grimaces turned into nervous gestures as minds were changed, new conclusions voiced. Within 10 seconds everyone at the table had altered their original statements.

Only Colm, from the British Council, was left.

We looked at him expectantly.

He smiled, defeated.

"I suppose I'll make mine an Americano then."

From the initial order of bland black coffees to crema and cappucinos - I felt like I'd made a stand against mediocrity and lazy thinking. I'd captured a moment. Influenced minds. (Forgive me, I was still drunk)

So there you go. It's ok that I don't know about politics. I know all about coffee.

Which is more important to you?

Who needs a theme when you have cheerleading?

2005-11-23T13:05:00.000-03:00

The quarter life crisis is one thing I never talk about with my friends.

Last week I met up with a girl I'd gone to school with. We sat and chatted about what we are doing now - an outsider would have mistaken it for a conversation but it was more like a competition. Who had the most work, the most pressure, the better job-prospects? Who had been drunkest in the past week? Who had suitable plans for the weekend (with a bonus for unsuitable boys)? What the whole thing amounted to was an extended session of 'I'm so happy' - 'No, I'm so happy'. And by the end I wasn't sure that either of us are.

Why? We're both doing what we've always wanted to do. We have enough money to get by. We have friends who'll listen to us pretending that we're happy.

But we feel too old to be still in college, still broke, still living in rented accommodation, still single...

At the same time, as we kept reminding ourselves, we ARE still young.

Or at least I thought so until the weekend, when I saw my niece for the first time in a few months.

She's almost twelve and almost as tall as me. For Christmas she wants Santa to bring her a laptop - I tried finding out why, offering her reasoned debate as to why she couldn't possibly need one. She tossed her hair and said with self-assurance, 'Because I want one. And I have to check my email'. It was entirely convincing.

I want a laptop too but I don't really see Santa bringing me one, no matter how nicely I ask. The unfairness of this made me want to release my inner 5 year old and stamp my feet and sulk until Santa caved in. But I'm supposed to know better than that at my age.

I felt even older when she told me what she would be doing in school the next day. The boys in her class had made it to the local finals and were going to play in Croke Park. She had been picked to be on the school's first cheerleading squad.

Yes, that was cheerleading. In Croke Park.

It didn't get any better. My initial line of questioning met with withering responses.

- So, what final is it that they're playing? Is it Gaelic?

- Eh, no. It's GAH.

Oh, I see.

I changed tack, asking if she'd show me some of the routines. So she did, flashing pompoms about the family SUV like a demented auditioner for S Club Juniors. I recognised one or two chants from 'Bring it On' (cause I try to keep up with the kids you know. Or down with them, I'm not sure) and it was all sort of sweet and quite good.

But any feelings of family pride were buried under the thought that this probably wasn't what Michael Cusack and the rest had envisioned as the future of the GAA. I was also still bitter over the laptop. The fact that my pedantry was ruling over my sentiment (yet again) confirmed my suspicion that I am well on my way to being a proper grown up.

Which is terrifying. I don't have any of the trappings I associate with being a fully-formed adult. I dont have an interest in politics. A house. A pension. (Or a job for that matter) And I'm not sure if I ever will.

I wish I had a positive note to end this on but all I can think of is how the quarter-life crisis will probably run into the mid-life crisis and after that it won't be long til I die.

Oh dear.

Those pesky ethics

2005-11-21T13:34:00.000-03:00

The things I could tell you about Guantanemo Bay and the staff crisis of a leading national newspaper...

Or rather, the things I can't, much as the gossip in me would dearly love to.

The lecture on Guantanemo last Friday got off to a good start but, just as I was coming up with an opening line for the first in a series of smug 'Look what I get to do now I'm a student journalist' emails, I heard something about keeping information 'within these four walls'. Hmmm.

The next day I found out about all sorts of shady goings on in the newspaper world during a break in The X Factor. When my friend leaned in towards me and clasped my hand, I was ready for a major revelation.

"Just between us...", she started.

Yes?

I waited. Just between us WHAT?

But that was it. The whole conversation had been 'just between us'.

For the rest of the weekend I tried to find a loophole. I mean, I had never agreed to keep any information confidential. It was just that both people had assumed I wouldn't tell anyone else, and I hadn't tried especially hard to disillusion them.

In fact, in the comfort of my sitting room and with the knowledge that I only had 30seconds of adbreak left to get the end of the story, I might well have nodded my head at the crucial moment. But surely that was just a reflex action, designed to make my friend feel safe and at ease? And not a lie?

And even if it was a lie, is that so wrong?

There was an article in the Sunday Times yesterday about lying and it seems we do it every couple of minutes from the time we're three. Anyone who doubts this applies to him or her (why is there no one word for that, ugh, sometimes I hate the English language) is clearly just lying - lies to yourself count, unfortunately.

According to this particular research, people who lie most often are considered more attractive and successful than the average person. Which poses all sorts of questions as to whether being a liar makes you more attractive or whether all attractive people are liars...but before I get too sidetracked...the witholding of information can be a lie. Oh yes it can. Not a major lie, not the much feared 'mortaller' my mother remembers from her childhood, but a lie nonetheless.

What I came up with (reluctantly) was that, even though I hadn't specifically agreed not to pass on any information, doing so would make me a lousy friend in the case of the newspaper story, and a CIA target in the case of the other one.

And as a prospective journalist? Well, the fact that I don't start my Ethics class til next semester would have probably saved me. Wouldn't it?