January Blues

With 2012 now in official residence, you once again find yourself facing the annual challenge of surviving the post Christmas winter. More than any other time in the twelve month cycle, this time constitutes the most severe anti-climax in the societal vibe. So if you find yourself feeling a little deflated, you shouldn't be afraid to say so. After all, only a lucky few escape the January blues.

New Year's Day was the end of any fleeting attempt to hold onto the notion that you're still on holidays. You dug through the memories of New Year's Eve, wondering how you managed to spend so much money on those extra drinks that you really didn't need. You may have a few more days before you go back to work, college or the day to day struggle of unemployment. But it was in the scant daylight of January 1 that you realised that the holiday bubble had burst.

As the Christmas lights are taken down over the grey streets of your town, you may find yourself wondering what you should do now. And who could blame you? You've just spent three months being bombarded by the relentless commercialism of the holiday season, and now you find that previously championed items of materialism can be yours at a lesser expense to your volatile finances. But they don't seem so alluring anymore. Not without all the tinsel and jingle bell music. Indeed, with the woes of economic illness now firmly established, “January Sales” sounds more like the last desperate plea of a consumerism that can't accept that it's had its day.

Already the terms “downturn” and “debt crisis” are resuming their premier positions in the dreary news bulletin. Google isn't tracking Santa's sleigh anymore and dog pounds are being filled with pooches suffering the consequences of people's failure to grasp the age old proverb that begins with “A puppy isn't just for..”

Your emigrant friends have returned to the places that they spent most of Christmas describing to you with a wondrous glow in their eyes. “There's no place like home” now reads like some kind of disingenuous jibe that mocks the precarious foundations of your speculative career path. In destitute January, you may feel like you have more in common with the recent hysterics of the North Koreans than those few lucky enough to have the elusive “plan”.

In the next few days, you will find yourself reacquainting with people somehow absent from your Christmas mingling. Most of them will probably tell you they had a “quiet one”, conjuring up images of them sipping on a solitary glass of wine beside their modest Christmas tree. Those people were way too sensible to have gotten themselves involved in the spendthrift shenanigans of your hazy holiday. You wish you had their foresight.

Others will approach the new year under the desperate guise of “keeping the best side out”. They'll be all smiles and chat, informing you of their “wonderful” Christmas. They'll have probably got a new pair of jogging runners, complimented by a “really handy” new contraption to strap their ipod into. You'll be hard pressed to hear any “negative” (to you: honest) words from their mouths. Instead they'll be coping with the January blues contented in the knowledge that the new “The Secret” book has instructed them to think positively all the way to the promised land. You won't be able to relate to these people. Not because you don't appreciate the power of positive thinking, it's just that anyone who's fooled themselves into being positive at this time of year is clearly best left to themselves.

If you're lucky though, someone will be honest enough to tell you that they're feeling just as blue as you. Together, with an "all you can do is laugh" attitude, you will share the way through this miserable experience. Who knows, you might even enter into a pact, whereby you hold each other accountable for doing something just a little better than 2011. And then, as January changes to February, and the ones who had a “quiet Christmas” crumble under the boredom of their self-imposed sanctuary, and the “positive” fetishists succumb to the absurdity of their naive faith, life may seem that little bit more tolerable.

Tear Down The Wall

'I know people who got into The Wall and didn't come out for five years, they just locked themselves into this frame of mind of whatever they were getting out of that album. Most of it seemed to be positive but during those five years they became very distant from everybody..very alienated' -Axl Rose, 1990

That's right. I'm starting this entry off with a quote by Axl Rose. Do you know Axl? He's the guy who started a full-scale riot by fighting with a member of the audience. The front-man who took his previously 'dangerous' band in strange new directions by producing extravagant short films as music videos. The singer who took 14 years to make an album whilst losing all of his original band-mates. The diva who won't go onstage until he feels he is absolutely ready to deliver his explosive performances. Performances which regularly include stopping concerts because of things being thrown on-stage or because someone in the first few rows, for unknown reasons, is annoying him. As the enigmatic leader of Guns N'Roses, Axl's bizarre behaviour has left him few friends. Occasionally though, he communicates some things that make me sit up and say 'Yeah! Axl gets it!'. His above reference to Pink Floyd's 1979 album, The Wall, is an appropriate example.

I had first heard of Pink Floyd when, whilst on holiday in France, my brother cursed as 'Another Brick In The Wall, Part 2' played in the bar we were hanging around in. 'We don't need no education, We don't need no thought control'. Aged 14, I looked at Brendan inquisitively and asked 'Who's that?'. 'Pink Floyd' he said, with a drag in his voice. Brendan was a follower of Kurt Cobain, who had deemed Pink Floyd undesirable. As Kurt was an idol of my own, I decided to follow my brother's lead on avoiding our dead leader's hated bands. Indeed, this contempt from all things Punk-Rock for the perceived self indulgence of 'Progressive Rock' was something that held me back from listening to Pink Floyd until much later on. Until then, there was still the important practice of scribbling anarchy symbols over my schoolbooks and sticking anti-McDonalds signs to lamp posts.

Eventually, the hostile a nature of punk music started to wear thin. I got tired of blaming the Government and multi-national corporations for all my problems. Slowly, I started to open my ear to other types of music. Like heavy metal. But although blistering guitar solos and double-pedal bass drums seemed brilliant at first, I got a little tired of evaluating bands on how technically sound they were. Looking for something more, I stumbled into more multi dimensional places. Sifting through the pantheons of older bands, I eventually started listening to Pink Floyd. Before long, their ambient moods, thought provoking lyrical concepts and elaborate stage shows had captured my imagination like nothing before. I dove head first into the Pink Floyd experience, immersing myself in everything there was to about 'the floyd'. One might say I became a little obsessed.

I often wonder why so many people allow themselves to be taken over by a band, or a certain type of music. Like my brother before me, I had a track record of smothering myself with various bands to the point that my knowledge of them became almost weird and unhealthy. When I think of my various love affairs with bands now, I find myself wincing as certain names come into my head. Limp Bizkit represents an obvious low-point. How I related to such a horrible representation of white American male urban angst, in which merit is defined to how many times the word fuck could be used in one song, mystifies me. Such unfortunate tangents now seem like the pitfalls of searching for some kind of identity in the convenience store of popular culture. In the youthful act of rebelling against the life being prescribed to us, we inevitably make some dismal choices in adapting other, equally prescribed, personas. Sometimes though, we embark on some interesting journeys.

The intense relationship I had with the music of Pink Floyd represents the last time I made such a journey. And what a journey it was. As a Pink Floyd obsessive, I sometimes felt that I was experiencing something totally unique. Acting like I was on the verge of some new state of consciousness, I ritualistically listened to Echoes and The Dark Side Of The Moon in near trance, letting the beautiful yet unsettling sound take me where ever it would. The multi layered composition of their whole presentation seemed so well thought out that something bigger, something important was behind it. This arcane factor that Pink Floyd fans display is something which annoys people the world over. I must have been as annoying as any of them. Nothing lent itself more to this 'quality' than my fascination with The Wall. A rock opera which tells the story of a reclusive rock-star who's life falls to pieces after his childhood experiences of abandonment resurface, The Wall came to signify one of the most profound pieces of art I had ever been exposed to. I still think of it as a remarkably palpable expression of human emotion. But it's not to everyone's liking. Lots of my musical friends have expressed contempt for The Wall, calling it one of Pink Floyd's worst albums. They consider it bloated, over-considered and musically subordinate. Some people don't have time for the rounded analysis that the album requires, not just as a piece of music but as statement of abject nihilism.

To me though, the album offered unavoidable intensity- something I embraced with open arms. The sheer density of the album was perfect for someone, as I was, trying to fill some kind of void. It's a bit like the way everyone thought Johnny Cash was singing about them when he sang Hurt. Or how we nod in despairing unison to Mad World whilst welling up at the end of Donnie Darko. The Wall takes this process of identification to new levels. The melancholic, terrifying and nightmarish feel of the piece sums up some of the worst fears one might have about where they are headed in life. As a result, I was looking through the lens of the despair that the album so poignantly presents. Needless to say, the whole endeavour became a little frightening.

Eventually, although with less brevity than previous affairs, the majesty of Pink Floyd started to wane. My mandatory investigation into the lifespan of the band revealed a bitter split that, in itself, became an integral part of the Pink Floyd story. Many will be familiar with the schism between Roger Waters and the rest of the band after the former's artistic vision collided with that of his bandmates. The sheer nastiness of the whole affair made the English quartet seem less mystical and more predictably human. After Waters left the band in 1985 and embarked on a speculative solo career, it became clear that his concepts were lesser without his former friends. Indeed, Pink Floyd themselves, now led by David Gilmour, seemed a little tame without their fiery bassist. In the end, it was the wall between the band themselves that proved that they were not as esoteric as I once thought.

In retrospect, the most striking thing about my interest in music was the attempt to find some sort of meaning in it all. Much more than the simple enjoyment of it's sonic base, it was, ultimately, some kind of profound connection that I sought in music. The parallel with a dogmatic's search for fulfilment in scripture, even though this was something that I had wholeheartedly rejected as illogical, is now abundantly clear. It was probably simple naivety that blinded me to the intellectual inconsistency that I was partaking in. In the end, it is the home truth that satisfaction is something not present in idolisation that prevails most. Whatever about the dangers it incurs, mutuality is something essential to the search for the satisfaction of our tendency to like, love and adore. Looking for this in the auspices of impersonal culture rather than the people around us is null and void. In our diversions away from such a sentiment, we may find ourselves in dark places indeed.

And Now For Something Completely Different..

I have been fairly neglectful of this blog for the last month or two. This is due to my ongoing participation in RTÉ Storyland. Storyland is a web-based competition, run by RTÉ, for aspiring film makers in Ireland. This year, ThanklessFilms, our film company, managed to get into the mix with our very own mini series- Rent a Friend.

Rent a Friend is the story of two young men, Dave and Der, who decide to set up a business renting themselves out as friends. The idea is scantly based on Dave Minogue (Director and Writer) and I (Actor and Writer) trying to set up our own business last year. Scantly. So far we've managed to make two episodes but are counting on public votes to make more..

I would really appreciate your help in this endeavour.

http://www.rte.ie/storyland/episodes-rent-a-friend.html

Montreal-Toronto, July 2008

Adventure! What a word. It stirs within us a great feeling of excitement. The idea of breaking the routines we have by catapulting ourselves into something completely different. It's so appealing. How much we can learn by getting outside of the box, the comfort zone.. Nothing strikes down the cancer of apathy like looking beyond what is familiar. Exploration of the unknown is one of life's greatest thrills. May we always strive to live new experiences.

Such were my musings during the month of July 2008. My friend, Conor, and I were on the cusp of a great adventure across the geo-colossus that is Canada. I had spent 2 months in Montreal, walking the tightrope of life in a bilingual city.. A little dramatic perhaps.. The only real difficulty I had was trying to fit into my job where French speaking colleagues sounded so often to be bitching about even though I had no idea what they were actually saying. As much as we had come to settle (lots of 'settling') in to life in Montreal, we decided that we would see as much of it as possible.

Our first stop was Toronto. Not so unfamiliar, I had been there two years previous. This time though, I had timed our presence in correspondence with a gig that I really wanted to see. I couldn't wait! Better still, we were adventurously travelling the 5hr trip in a 'rideshare'. Being all progressive, I had arranged the 'ride' over the Internet with an anonymous man who would take us to Toronto if we contributed money for 'gas'. The plan was to meet him at Station Sherbrooke at 9am on a Sunday, July 27th. There, Patrick (prospect of conversation about his Irish name noted) would pick us up and we could share the ride all the way up Highway 401 to Toronto.

So it was on that bright summers morning, we hugged our neighbour Jake goodbye and started trekking down to Sherbrooke. The first snag on our great adventure was that Conor had to carry his very heavy bag after it's wheels jammed. Worried that we would miss our rendez-vous with our ride, I started pacing ahead to get there on time. Every now and again, I looked back at a blank faced Conor, who still managed to convey how annoying his bag was becoming. We did, however, succeed in getting there on time. At around 9.05 I might have commented on how annoying it was when people weren't on time. By 9.20 I was calling Patrick from a payphone. No answer. By 9.40, it was clear that the great adventure was struggling to get out of Montreal. 'Fuck sake Patrick, you said you'd let us ride with you'. We cursed the ambiguous rideshare system and resigned ourselves to the dreaded bus journey which took about 7hrs.

First impressions of Toronto were that we were in an English-speaking part of Canada, where stop signs said 'STOP' as opposed to 'ARRET' and where approaching strangers for directions didn't require the preamble of 'Parlez-Vous Anglais?'. That night we went to the gig that had I had spent the whole day trying to make it to. Even though Propagandhi rocked my socks off, I was too worn out to properly appreciate it. My abiding memory is watching revelers throwing themselves violently from the stage. I wondered where they got the energy. After spending the night in a hostel, we spent the next day roaming around 'downtown' Toronto. Highlights included pretending to take a sip of this junkie girl's drink after she kept offering us some. We were also accosted by a pretty young woman who told us that she had just had a fight with her boyfriend and who kept asking if she looked ok. 'Yeah, yeah..you like fine'. In a hazy state of mind, we walked through Chinatown, repeatedly commenting on how it felt like we actually were in China.

That night we made contact with a friend I had made on my previous visit. She offered us her couches for the night. We were delighted to accept. She did mention that she had a cat that was a little crazy. Ever the animal lover, I brushed aside any suggestions that this cat would actually interfere with our sleep. 'It's a cat..How bad could it be?'

Bob introduced himself to us by making a spectacular jump from one couch to the other. 'Well he certainly is a livewire, but I'm sure he'll settle down once he tires himself out'. Emily looked at me doubtfully. 'If he's a pain in the ass, just throw him in the bathroom'.

Apprehensively, we turned off the lights and lay down for some much needed sleep. I hadn't even reached the relaxation stage when Bob started to set out his stall for the night. He began by performing several more jumps around the living room furniture. Conor and I made no comment. I was hoping that these leaps were Bob's bedtime routine, a closing expenditure of any energy he had left.

After an hour or two, it was clear that this was wishful thinking. Bob was now carrying out routine attacks on both of us. His black coat blended in with the dark and so it was without any warning when his paws traversed my face. Or when my hair was being fiddled with by a stealthy and erratic claw. Bob's madness grew as the night wore on. When he wasn't bothering me, I heard monotone expressions of frustration from Conor. 'Fucking cat', 'Get off!' 'Jesus Fucking Christ'. Enough was enough. I decided to act on Emily's advice and confine him to the bathroom.

I'm not sure how I actually got him into the bathroom. I doubt it was physical force. He wouldn't have liked that. Whatever the means, I did manage to secure his confinement. I closed the door and returned to my couch, feeling a little cruel for resorting to imprisoning him. It was his turf. Who were we to just turn up and expect him to give up his space? And then lock him up when he wasn't conforming to the standards we expect of a 'good little pussy'.

Bob's false imprisonment was abruptly ended when I could stand his sorrowful bellowing no more. The prospect of him destroying the bathroom was too daunting to consider. When, with Conor's support, I went to release him, I opened the door to find him dangling from the toilet roll holder with a look of defiance etched across his face. He made for his escape quickly, immediately returning to his armchair pulpit. As I passed him by, I begged for a cessation of his escapades. 'Please just go asleep Bob'.

Vindicated by his victory over my conscience, he resumed his frantic attacks against our pursuit of some kind of serenity. The whole situation was starting to look like a campaign of guerrilla warfare against the forces of occupation. Bob, the determined rebel, against us, the usurpers of his residency, in this little insignificant part of the world; Emily's sitting room.

The Ontario sunrise was now scantly illuminating the room. We grabbed whatever sleep we could in between Bob's regular attacks. At one stage, Conor and I sat up and looked across at each other. We shook our tired heads as Bob's wild eyes assessed our condition from his armchair. And then, with some sort of divine intervention, Bob lay down outstretched and closed his eyes. After a few more minutes it was clear that if we were going to get any kind of sleep, now was the time. Already jaded, I battled with my anxiety at the possibility of him waking up and finally fell into proper sleep. I awoke a few times to to look at Bob still sleeping. When, on one occasion, I saw that he had moved, I was joyfully surprised to see him curled up on the bottom of my sleeping bag. 'See Bob, we can do this, we can work something out..We don't have to fight'.

I woke properly a few hours later to see Bob proudly looking out of the apartment window at the Toronto skyline. I spoke to Conor to see if he was awake. He was. 'Got a few hours there at the end, did you?'. Conor turned around to reveal several scratch marks on his face and neck. It seemed that Bob's early morning tactics involved an aggressive targeting of him. 'We can't stay here again tonight...'. Before long, Emily was up and about. 'How did you guys sleep?'. 'Ah yeah, Bob gave us a few frights but fine yeah, we slept fine.' Emily went over to Bob to get his side of the story 'Were you being a pain in the ass Bob? Eh?'. Bob didn't respond. Emily then verbalised our thoughts whilst affectionately petting Bob and adopting that sort of 'baby talk' voice people put on when they talk to animals. 'You're a crazy fucker aren't you Bob? Eh..You've got issues..haven't you..' Bob turned away.

We had a few days left in Toronto. Emily offered us another night on her couches. We replied politely. 'Really? Thanks so much!'. It wasn't that we didn't appreciate the offer from someone who, after all, we didn't know that well, it was just that another battle with Bob was a scenario that we felt undesirable. I checked a few guest houses to see if I could stretch my 'adventure budget' to purchase a cosy room usually occupied by middle aged professionals on business trips. And that didn't have mentally unstable animals. But I was in over my head. Too expensive. Conor, ever the economical one, was steadfast. 'I'm not paying for a room! I can handle him'. I admired his bravery especially while looking at his wounds from the night before.

We returned to Emily and Bob's place that evening. This time I played with the little bastard for a while. It might have some effect. That night, Bob's attitude was a lot less hostile. We managed to get a lot more sleep even if we it was marred with weariness at Bob's presence. The next day we bade Bob goodbye and prepared for our departure to Vancouver. Our plans to 'hitch' across Canada had been shelved after the film RoachTrip (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/RoachTrip) left us unsure about the wisdom of such a feat. We hung out with Emily that day. She shared with us her disdain for the pretentiousness of climate-change awareness and her obsession with the American Civil War. We were sorry we didn't get to hang out some more with Emily. She was fun.

That night Conor and I separated. He went to avail of a late Couchsurfing offerwhilst I stayed in the Global Village Backpackers hostel. There, I made acquaintance with an English guy. Playing Pool, I inexplicably managed to pull off some majestic pockets. He was impressed. I was perplexed (I'm normally really shit at Pool). I had a few drinks with him. He started on about what drugs he had taken and how they had nearly killed him. He was kind of weird. And I just wanted to sleep. I left him with an Irish acquaintance I coincidentally ran into. (I've never really reflected on how big a coincidence it was to run into John. John Prendergast. From Kilkenny). He was with loads of Irish people. I had a drink with them. Then I left.

The next day I met back up with Conor.

'Well, how was your night?'.

'Great.. Your one was sound'.

'Good for you. I bet this English guy at pool'.

'Yeah right'

'I wonder how Bob is'.

As we packed up our stuff and prepared for the trip out to Pearson International, we ran into the pretty girl who had asked a few days earlier how he she looked. She still looked pretty good. The funny thing was that she didn't remember us at all. It was a weird end to a weird couple of days. It wasn't easy, but our great Canadian adventure was underway. Even if the romantic musings I had in Montreal had been destroyed by a guy named Patrick and cat named Bob.

Animals

Celebrity Cows

I was about 8 years old when I watched, in the company of family, the 1991 comedy film City Slickers. For those of you who haven't seen it, it deals with three urban dwellers who try to escape their mid-life crises by taking part in a rural cattle drive, presumably to find some perspective on things. Traversing dangerous terrain, the three men and cattle herd eventually arrive at their destination after negotiating a dangerous river, where one calf really struggled to make it. For me, the film could have ended there. My young mind took great comfort in knowing that through some kind of interspecies harmony, both man and cow had arrived safely. It was to my absolute shock and horror that the closing scenes revealed that the herd were to be slaughtered for meat. Whilst I sobbed inconsolably, I remember my brother trying to tell me that the cows in the movie were some kind of 'celebrity' cows that would never be harmed. Beside the fact that I didn't believe such reassurances, I was way too emotionally involved in the story to accept such an ending.

Dominion to Factory Farms

The type of relationship we have with animals is probably best described as a bi-product of our ability to exercise power over them; an evolutionary facet of our transition from hunter-gatherers to civilisation. But it's a relationship that's been revisited and examined time and again throughout history. The Book Of Genesis (1:20-28) dealt with the question by giving humans 'dominion' over non-humans. Hence, the Bible supposes that God put animals here for us. Later, the French philosopher, Descartes, on similar lines, concluded that animals are lesser than humans because of their supposed inability to reason.

Nevertheless, even the most fundamentalist human societies did begin enact laws to reduce the suffering of animals. In Puritan England, legislation was introduced to curb the practice of bloodsports, which were widespread in the 17th century. The Puritans interpreted man's dominion over animals as one hinged by responsibility. Enlightenment philosophers like Locke and Kant opposed animal cruelty because of it's effect on human relations with each other; the idea being that indifference to animal suffering would reduce our capacity to empathise with human pain. By the 19th century, a more rounded concept of animal protection was beginning to emerge. In 1822, the Irish MP, Richard Martin, secured the introduction of legislation that outlawed the the ill-treatment of farm animals. In one of the earliest prosecutions under the law, Martin, seeing that the magistrates were unmoved by the plight of a donkey who had been beaten by a costermonger, decided to parade the injured animal in front of the shocked court. Seemingly, it wasn't until the court was actually confronted with the suffering animal that the case was taken seriously. Martin was later involved in the creation of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, an organisation who's members developed the concept that animals have rights.

By the 20th century, there had been a dramatic emergence in new attitudes toward animals and how they should be treated by humans. These attitudes weren't always always a product of general benevolence. For example, it was the Third Reich that passed some of the most progressive animal protection legislation. Hitler himself espoused the virtues of vegetarianism and would often try dissuade meat-eaters with accounts of his visit to a slaughterhouse. It is said that, whilst watching films depicting moments of animal suffering, Hitler would cover his eyes until he was told it was over. Nazi ideology removed the hierarchical barrier between humans and animals. Instead, it looked upon wolves and eagles as second only to Aryans, with rodents and Jews making up the bottom end. In effect, the Nazi's protection of animals was founded on the notion that 'subhumans' would take their place in the reception of unspeakable barbarity.

Since the Second World War, animal rights movements have grown in tandem with the marked increase in animal testing and industrial farming. Some groups like the Animal Liberation Front, advocate direct action in the pursuing an end to animal exploitation. The late 20th and early 21st century has also seen efforts by food manufactures to placate the growth of vegetarianism. The championing of free range animal products and the idea of 'humane meat' demonstrate new attempts to placate human concerns over animal treatment. So the idea that we should treat animals better isn't at all new, nor is it going away.

City Slickers:

Deleted Scene

I live in Kilkenny, a medium sized town surrounded by a well developed agricultural industry. My mother comes from a farming background and my father used to work for Glanbia, a leading dairy company that also produces meat. Nevertheless, whilst understanding the concept of food from animals, I was never really exposed to it. When I think of it now, I wonder that this might not have been purely circumstantial. As the City Slickers incident illustrates, I was always fairly sensitive about animal welfare. The common sight of cattle trucks on the roads always solicited a turning in the other direction, as I didn't want to look at the cows sticking their heads out from behind the bars as they were taken to their deaths. My concerns weren't limited to human treatment of animals. I still find it difficult to watch nature programmes that document one animal hunting and killing another. However, it was the contrived and mechanic slaughter of animals by people that troubled me the most. This was consolidated by my sister's vegetarianism. It was her lifestyle choice, which I think was more taste driven, that made me aware that animal slaughter isn't necessary. And that today, we do it just because we can.

It wasn't until my teenage years, during my discovery of punk rock music and the ideals amongst it, that I realised that there was a well established culture of vegetarianism that opposed animal consumption on more ethical grounds. This philosophy endorsed vegetarianism and in particular, veganism, as an extension of a general belief that it is fundamentally wrong to impose one will at the expense of the welfare of another. It equated animal freedom with that of humans, arguing that sentient suffering is essentially uniform. These ideas, whilst appealing, seemed extreme in the context of my surroundings. We ate meat every day; the music I listened to wasn't enough to undo that, not whilst it was confined to rhetoric anyway. It was then, with real unsettledness, that I listened to the track 'Purina Hall of Fame' by the Canadian band, Propagandhi. The song opens with a thirty second documentation of the sound of a sow been beaten by workers on a factory farm. The haunting scream of the animal was enough for me to fast forward every time the song came on. The inevitable visualisation of the event didn't quite match up to my eventual viewing of slaughterhouse footage on the internet these past weeks, something I've avoided doing for years. The reality of seeing defenseless animals been beaten in the most heinous ways is enough to cement my decision in becoming a vegetarian. Of course, I don't believe that all people who work in slaughterhouse's are as psychopathic as the workers in the videos, it's just I don't want anything to do with anything that even remotely resembles such scenes. If only the closing scenes of City Slickers documented the cattle's last moments in the abattoir, I might have followed through on my eight year old threats of refusing to eat meat. Enough is enough. If this has been been at the back of my mind for most of my life, it's time I started acting like it.

A Reasonable Emotionalism

It is then

with a certain amount of emotion that I have made the decision to stop eating meat. This has made me consider how wise my decision is and how I might be blinding myself with my own subjective views on right and wrong. The doubts I have about vegetarianism have always been th

ere and it's only now that I really have to challenge them.

The notion that vegeta

rianism is a defiance of the natural order of things is one such concern. For a long time, I thought there was no point worrying about animal slaughter because it was merely a reflection of nature. I was being faithful to the fact that we are the planet's dominant species by dutifully eating meat.

It's true that a large part of the heritage of human dietary habits is the consumption of animals. But human dietary habits can hardly be classified as infallible in a world where McDonalds is King and diabetes is rampant. However, it has been forwarded that the size of our brains could be directly tied to our meat-eating tradition (it has also been suggested protein rich nuts could have been more influential). But, even if that were true, what does it mean?

The basis of evolution is that a species is anything but static, that we survive and prosper on our ability to change and adapt to the world around us. Such change is apparent to anyone who compares today's world with that of before. The flat earth, divine right of kingship, religious dogmatism, slavery, racism, sexism and homophobia are all examples of previously held assumptions that have been challenged and lessened by our scientific and intellectual development. And is it really absurd to suggest that the darker side of humanity has something in common with the norm of animal genocide carried out on this planet every single day? Right now, as I write, and you read, conscious beings with fully functioning emotions and nervous systems are being terrorised and butchered so that we can eat food that we do not need to. It's making less and less sense every time I think about it.

It's been three weeks since I stopped eating meat. To call it a lifestyle change would be a dramatic overstatement. It's been too easy a change to qualify it as such. As such, I can see how my contribution to the reduction of animal suffering is only the smallest of drops in the ocean. Having taken the first step, I have already started thinking about what's next. The glue in my runners, my leather belt, the milk in my tea; living a cruelty free existence is a tough prospect. And have I properly considered that medical advancements may hinge on testing on animals? Even if many of the world's most threatening diseases thrive on the lifestyle that we choose to adopt.

And then there's the social implications. In such an economically sensitive time, asserting that an industry that provides livelihoods to so many people is ethically unsound is a big statement. Yet the issue at hand seems so much bigger than economics (if anything really is). Besides, to single out the meat and dairy industries as the 'evil' profiteers in this whole affair would be arrogant. Our treatment of animals is more of a cultural question. It's about a fundamental issue in our lives; how we treat other living things. The distant prospect of a cruelty free existence may only be attainable in a painfully slow recognition that there is something inconsistent about seeking understanding from a world where we impose such immeasurable suffering.

Eulogy For A Loyalist

I've recently been coming to terms with the passing of our West Highland Terrier, Scotty. The death of a pet is a strange experience. There are no sympathetic callers, no funeral arrangements, no formalities. The reactions to his death have been both sensitive and indifferent. As a result, I am sometimes unsure about how to feel myself. But when I devote any kind of thought to him, I realise just how sad I am. As such, the following is some kind of acknowledgement of his short time on Planet Earth.

Since St. Patrick's Day 1998, when we took him from his protesting but helpless mother, Scotty had been an integral part of our family. He lived with us until last year when he took up sticks with my sister, after a new family home was deemed spatially insufficient for him. Scotty wasn't the typical obedient and always adoring dog. Like we all fall out with each other, each of us fell out with him on more than one occasion. He wasn't always restrained in his protestations to something that was bothering him. Wicked would be a good word to describe his darker moments. In fairness to Scotty, this became less common as he got older. Though he did retain the threat of violence through his customary growl. However, he also had another more human way of expressing dissatisfaction. The most striking example of this was his refusal to have anything to with my mother after she accidentally stepped on his paw. His temporary rejection was especially strange because he usually displayed the utmost respect and admiration of her, possibly because she fed him whilst the rest of us were at school, work or wherever. She even went to the length of actually requesting his attention, something previously unthinkable. All in vain, Scotty must have been trying to make a point. He made classic amends by choosing to forgive her on Christmas Day whilst the family exchanged the annual pleasantries. He must have known there was an above average supply of food under her control that day.

Scotty didn't get on with many people outside the family. Many of my friends often told me how much they didn't like him, presumably because of the frosty reception they received upon arrival at the house. There were, however, some people that he did warm to. They understood that Scotty's friendship was a journey more so than a destination. Scotty often won over his opponents by demonstrating his ability to watch TV, something I deeply regret not capturing on video. He was especially fond of animal documentaries and horse racing. He did show his intellectual limitations by trying to follow the animal off the tv when they ran off screen, only to find that they weren't running across the room as he had expected.

Despite his sometimes lukewarm attitude, Scotty's true colours often shone bright. He rarely went beyond 100 yards of the house, proudly patrolling the garden against the perceived threats of low flying crows and the odd feline. He would be especially fierce in these pursuits after we would give him the verbal command of 'Go on Scotty, Get Him!', as if trying to impress the superiors in his pack. Despite being accused of cowardice, he often stood determinedly against the daily 'threats' of the postman and unfamiliar visitors. These confrontations were usually fanned by the stranger's frantic kicking, fight like stance and constant retorting of the immortal phrase 'Goway you little fucker!'. Scotty's finest hour came when he alerted my brother and I to the ailing condition of my very elderly grandmother as my mother tried to prevent her from fainting to the floor. With the TV volume at high level, it was Scotty's yelping and scratching of the living room door that drew our attention to what was happening.

Despite this dramatic example of just how worthy a dog can be, it is his more subtle friendship that I will miss most. These were much more apparent when one spent some time in the house alone. The cliché image of an owner using their dog as some kind of sounding board for daily thoughts and concerns is one that I can greatly identify with. Of course, he never answered, even if I sometimes imagined he did. But he did look like he was listening, even if he was probably just scanning for the words 'dinner', 'walkies' or 'Duxie' (Scotty's local canine rival).

I often wonder what went through Scotty's little brain when he was alone in the house. I wonder if he ever worried that we wouldn't come home. I always hoped not and tried to tell him, as we left, that would we see him later. Just weeks before he died, I took him to the vet for a haircut and a check on the worsening state of his ears. As the procedures required Scotty's anaesthesisation, I had the uncomfortable experience of having him plead for me, from the inside of his cage, not to leave. It was with reverse emotion that he greeted me upon return. Scotty was given a clean bill of health and sporting a new clean trim, he looked well below his 12 years. When I left him back to my sister that evening, I told him I'd see him later. He didn't take much notice. It was whilst I was out of the country these past few weeks that Scotty's deteriorating mood and turning of his head to one side forced another trip to the vet. This time there was a tumor found growing inside his ear. The vet warned of an increase in suffering and a consequential cutting of Scotty's relatively short fuse. My sister, who had a particular bond with Scotty, was forced to take the painful decision.

I wasn't sure how to take it. I had told myself after our last day together that he had another few years in him. After hearing of why and how he had died, I sat on the couch. As the above memories surfaced, I couldn't help but let go. I'm still reconciling with the fact that I've lost one of my best friends. A fellow sentient that saw me at my best and my worst, my surest and most doubtful, my happiest and saddest; Scotty knew me as the whole package, the complete human being that I am. And I will miss him alot.

Confessions Of A Recently Qualified Driver

I learned to drive this year. Yes, it took me until age 24 to finally get behind the wheel. I started not under the guidance of a parent, sibling or friend, but under the tuition of a stranger through driving lessons. I wanted to learn from someone I didn't know. When I was younger, I remember my two older brothers bitterly exchanging words over a failed project, where one had tried to teach the other how to drive. The student in this situation had warned me not to learn to drive from someone I know. Apparently, the whole event was marked with derisive sarchasm, insecure defensive snaps and intermittent automobile movement between sudden stops. In fact, seeing the car behave in such ways is something I can recall from my cautious peeking through the curtains at this particular 'lesson'. I always remembered that.

12 years later, I decided that it was time for me to face my fear of taking control of an automobile. My first driving lesson went quite well. My instructor had scoffed at my suggestion that I might not have been ready to get out on the road on the first day. I was thrown straight to the wolves in a novice negotiation of a spacious commercial estate. The wolves though, didn't bite. I surprised myself. It all came to me so quickly. 'Ok. Foot gently off the clutch, simultaneously applying slight pressure to the accelerator. That's not so hard. Ok my braking probably shouldn't jolt me forward like that. Ok. I stalled a bit at that junction but the driver in that car behind me didn't seem to mind. I'll get better. Hey! It's only my first lesson. I can do this! Top Gear Baby!'

Over the following months, I steadily progressed. Hill starts, reversing around corners and 3-point turns became almost bi-daily exercises as I prepared in focused anticipation for my driving test. My confidence grew and grew. I was ready! My driving test took place in late June. Despite a few hiccups, such as leaving my provisional licence in the car after I had gone inside to begin the oral test, I felt the test went fairly well. I even asked that the examiner put on his seat belt after he sat in to the passenger seat. Upon return, after the 45 minute tour of Kilkenny residential estates, I was DELIGHTED to have him tell me that I had passed. In fact, I was so happy that I offered him an enthusiastic handshake, something he clearly wasn't used to. My other memory of that day is returning to my car as a fully qualified driver, beaming with pride. As I unlocked the door, I noticed another candidate who had taken his test simultaneously to mine with a different examiner. He and another man, presumably his father, sat in his car, somberly looking over the test score card. I really should have had the presence of mind to refrain from making any gestures toward him, but before I knew it I was offering two thumbs up, backed up with a elemental smile of excitement. I don't know what I was trying to communicate. I think it was something like 'How did you do? Mine went well!!'. The glum expressions that they returned signaled to me that they wanted me to leave their field of view. Immediately.

Brazenly, I took to the roads as a fully licensed driver. Without the spectre of the test hanging over me, I started loosening up on the road. I felt like an equal now; liberated of those almost self-derogatory L plates. Passengers would compliment me on my 'assured' driving and congratulate me on the relatively short period of time it took me to get a full licence. I really started to enjoy driving. I still do. I haven't quite gotten over the novelty of being able to drive people from one place to another. Once, a friend of mine cringed when, mid-drive, I turned to him in the passenger seat and said 'You know what Michael, I really enjoy driving'.

Of course, such self-assurance could only yield some kind of grief. One day, as I creeped down a busy urban street, I started day dreaming. It gets boring travelling at a speed of 5km/h. In heavy traffic, the power of the driver diminishes, unless one wants to cause carnage, and reep the consequences. On this occasion, my mind wandered away from my location. I was probably thinking of something menial, like what I was going to have for dinner or what my next blog entry was going to be about. It was only when I casted my eyes back onto where they were supposed to be that I noticed how the car in front was really close to my bumper, and getting closer.My mind suddenly awoke from the day-dream. Too late. THUD. 'Fuck'. Fearfully, I noticed the driver of the struck vehicle angrily scan his rear-view mirror as he applied the handbrake, opened his door and stepped expressively out of his car. I pre-empted our little chat with some apologetic facial expressions and 'guilty as charged' hand gestures. I measured him up. He was middle-aged man. His car looked newish. I was scared. He looked closely at the point of collision and turned to me for an explanation. I felt it important to get my apology in first. 'Sor..Sorry..Is it bad?'. His reply was swift. 'Have you no brakes on that thing'? I giggled a little at his sarcasm, hoping to find some basis for harmony. I explained what happened. 'Look, I'm really sorry. I just lost concentration'. When he heard that, he seemed to let his guard down a little, as if he had some understanding. His tone of voice became less aggressive. 'I'd say you were away with the fairies were ya?' I seized upon this, 'Yeah.... I'm really really sorry... Sorry.' I got the feeling that he was actually a nice guy and was only behaving in this confrontational way because he had watched too many episodes of Top Gear and was trying to do what Jeremy Clarkson would do. He turned back to look again at the damage. I asked him if it was 'okay?'. Resuming his previous posture of indignation, he told me 'I hope so' in the least nice possible way.

After a couple of days of increased concentration and appreciation of the dangers of complacency, I managed to regain any confidence lost. Soon, the angry middle aged man was a distant memory and driving was enjoyable again. Allowing old people to cross the street, giving attractive girls the right of way and of course, giving every one a lift. It made me feel important, like I was making a difference. Driving had really improved my life. It was with such aplomb that I approached a long-distance journey this past week. The requirement for such a journey was a meeting with fellow stammerers in a hotel in Mullingar. The two-hour drive up went very well. I even got out on the motorway for the first time. No problem there. The hotel parking was a bit tight but I manged to squeeze my Opel Astra into an awaiting space. Sprightly, I jumped out of the car, immensely satisfied with yet another a smooth running journey. As I entered the hotel, I fleetingly thought about how it might be a little tricky to reverse out of that space. 'Nevermind', I thought, 'I'll worry about that later'.

Four hours later, I exited the back entrance of the hotel in a similar way to how I had entered. The day had gone well. My stammering demon was silenced. I wasn't having those toxic thoughts of self-consciousness. I really felt in control. Like, more than ever, this life is mine to live. It was one of those moments where one felt genuinely grateful. I looked at my car as I approached it. 'And now I get to drive all the way back to Kilkenny!'. As I sat back in for the 2 hour return journey, I noticed that an orange jeep (I don't know what brand) had parked perpendicularly behind me, in his own imaginary parking space. In the rear view mirror, I noticed that it was actually fairly close. 'Shit, I hope I can get out here'. At this point, I probably should point out that parking and negotiation of tight spaces is something I still haven't quite got the hang of. It was with such background thoughts that I started to reverse out. I tried going one way. Nope. Then the other. No. Two cars, parked closely on either side meant I wasn't able to avail of the turning space I needed to compensate for the lack of room I had to reverse straight out. I kept trying. To no avail. 'Bollocks'.

After a good ten minutes of trying various turning combinations, I decided I need to step out. I looked at the jeep that was causing all this and cursed at it. 'Fuck you. Fucking...Jeep'. I walked around the back of my car, and surveyed the situation. 'What do I need to do here?'. I tried to gather my thoughts and dispel the frustration that was starting to cloud everything positive about the whole day. The liberated feeling of ten minutes earlier was quickly subsiding. I was out of control again, falling into the vicious circle of doubt and angry frustration. It was at this frail time that I noticed the sound of knocking on a window. The car park was at the back of the hotel and in perfect view of hotel guests in their rooms. 'I really hope that's not for me'. I looked up to see where the noise was coming from. On the top floor, I noticed three girls, of similar age, waving down at me from the top floor. Yes, I had an audience. They looked giddy, possibly drunk. They were probably part of a hen party or something, getting ready for their 'big night out'. They must of thought that this was all great 'craic'. 'Oh look a man who can't park!'. Unsure of how to handle my new followers, I decided to start playing along with their amusing points of view. I gestured to them in that familiar 'what can I do' stance. They all laughed. I pretended I was 'having a laugh' at the whole thing. Of course once I turned around and my face was out of their view I was quietly willing them to 'Fuck off'.

With the onlooking females and their birds eye-view now very much part of the equation, I decided I needed assistance. 'Get someone to back me out! Yeah, at least that will make me look less alone in all this'. I walked around the car park looking for the nearest man. There were already enough women involved. Eventually, I came upon a smoking hut filled with about seven hotel staff. As I approached the hut, I noticed the familiar sound of employee banter. I didn't want to have to interrupt their sacred escape from work. At this stage though, I had no choice. Hesitantly, I filled a rare silence in their chatter with a meek 'Sorry would someone be able to give me hand backing out down here, there's a jeep blocking me in and I can't really..'. Before I could finish, there was a man on his feet accompanying me down to the car. He was around the same age as me. Yet, I kind of got the impression that he was unsure of how he was going to help me. Maybe he thought I would tell him what to do. He wished. As I returned to the cockpit(sometimes I imagine i'm a pilot), I had some hope that I might actually get out of there.

And so we began to co-operate in this temporary alliance. 'Yeah..yeah..come on...keep coming....STOP'. Move forward slightly. Repeat. Despite the efforts of my new friend, I soon found myself in laughable angles, wedged diagonally between the two cars on either side. I was literally moving milimetres, forward and back, trying to seize any turning space I could. His barks of 'STOP' became ever more frequent, suggesting that the whole thing was becoming painfully futile. I felt so ridiculous. Every now and again he would say things like 'Now, just move up there and you should be able to get out'. 'Move up where?' I thought. 'Haven't you noticed that there is nowhere to move!'. Of course, I didn't say any of this to him. Instead, I replied with macho utterances like 'Right so' and 'No bothers'. Eventually he realised that we weren't getting the desired result. He stood my window, with his hand on his head, confusedly looking at the angle. I was just about to offer him a go when we heard the distant shout of a female voice. 'Turn back the other way. That Renault is too big!' The girls from above were now offering their advice. The man looked at me, almost as if he came up with it himself, and told me to 'Try going back the other way'. I knew it was no use. I had already tried that. But just to placate the awkwardness of the situation, I decided to go through the motions. When that was over, and the girls were quiet again, I asked him if there was anyway of finding out who the jeep belonged to. If I could get them to move out of their self-made parking spot, all would be well. 'Go into reception and give them the reg, they might know who owns it'. Off I went.

Inside, I relayed the details of the whole situation to the girl at reception. I was terrified that I'd see one of my friends, who had stayed on, and have to explain why I was still at the Hotel an hour after I had bid them farewell. It's funny, I have no problem opening up to these people about something as deep set and emotive as a speech impediment, but I wouldn't want them to know that I wasn't able to reverse out of a tight parking space. The girl at reception wasn't sure how to handle me. She asked me to point out my car on her CCTV image of the car-park. 'Why?' I thought. 'Do you not believe me?'. Eventually she decided to contact the boss. He would figure it out.

I waited around for a few minutes before he showed up. It wasn't hard to spot him. He was moving through the lobby at lightening speed, like only a Hotel Manager would. It looked like he had ten different things to do. He was already talking to me from about 10 feet away. 'Now, are you broken down is it?'. Obviously he hadn't picked up the synopsis from the girl at reception. 'No, I can't get out of a space there because there's a jeep parked where it shouldn't be parked'. Of course, he didn't mind that. He's managing a business that relies on customers. He would let them park on the roof if they could get up there. 'Right, shir I'll go out and have a look at it'. I knew what was coming. The final stage of my humiliation. He was going to do it for me. At this stage, with my pride so wounded, I was content with that. When we got outside to the car-park, I pointed it out to him. He wasn't even nearly phased. He never actually stopped moving. 'I'll have a go at it there'. I handed over they keys. 'Yeah, you'll have a go', I thought. As if this was going to be some sort of challenge to him. There was no go to be had. He was going to just do it. He sat into the driver's seat and revved up the engine aggressively. Now here was a driver. I looked around to see if my new girlfriends were still watching. Thankfully, they had dispersed. 'Maybe they'll come back, see that the car is gone and presume that I finally pulled it off instead of getting a 'real' man to do it'. As I watched him manouvere the angles, a part of me hoped he would have similar trouble to me. No chance. Within about 30 seconds, he had achieved what I had spent the past hour aspiring to. I'm not sure what he actually did. It all happened so fast. He jumped out and enthusiastically handed control of the car back to me. 'Got it first time'. We both had a big laugh. His laughter was filled with 'There you go now you retard, don't forget to come back again and pick an easier spot'. Mine was charged by a simple attempt to divert the pain into the laughter, thereby surviving that horrible moment. I quickly looked back up at the girls' window, just to confirm they hadn't seen the final shaming. They had. I didn't even wait to see what they would do. I took my control of my freed vehicle and scurried out of Mullingar.

As I drove nervously through the midland night, I tried to absorb what had just happened. The embarrassment was immense. I decided that I would never go to Mullingar again, or possibly even Co. Westmeath, for fear of meeting some of the witnesses. Then, I thought about how the guy that had done his test at the same time as me would have loved to seen this newly qualified driver guillotined with humiliation. I could almost see him and his dad on the road in front of me, laughing at me and mockingly imitating my two thumbs up. I thought of how the girls would tell this story for years to come. How they had watched 'this chap trying to back out of a space for an hour'. And how all their boyfriends would laugh and point out that the driving test isn't hard enough if it allows 'lads like that' on the road. The middle aged man who's car I had bumped was there too, pointing me out to Jeremy Clarkson who was making shitty jokes at my expense to his sheep (audience). Of course, the humor of it all was also beginning to dawn on me. Now, having reflected deeply on the whole experience, I can appreciate more than ever the healing power of laughter. What a wonderful thing it is that can strip me of so many of the vices that I've written about in previous entries. Pride, doubt and anger don't seem so strong in the face of the ability to laugh and not take it all so seriously.