Six hundred and forty days ago, I sat down on front of my 2001 Dell desktop. I would write about my relationship. I would write with absolute honesty, regardless of the consequences.
My Dell desktop no longer exists, at least not in my study, but my relationship, which has faltered without doubt more often than the computer, continues to be something that I proudly possess. Within three days I had written the same amount of articles: about choices, intimacy and monogamy, all of which would go on to define my relationship in the future.
As a single person living in the dating jungle that is Dublin, I had imagined myself being a practicing monogamist upon my arrival at relationship central. It seemed right, and even if I’d fancied the idea of multi-dating, wouldn’t it be too complicated? I tried to understand how I’d manage to schedule numerous dates on the weekend without eventually double-booking, and landing myself in a sticky situation. I hadn’t had many offers of interest pre-relationship anyway, so it was a non-issue.
It turns out, you’re more desirable when you’re in a relationship. Enter, Potential Future Lover Number One. It was December 15, 2007. The streets were cold and the night was young. The building was old, a section of the 1774 Powerscourt Townhouse, and the people were new. PFL Number One was fresh out of the Irish countryside and a one-off piece, like couture Marc Jacobs, you’re comforted by the knowledge that you won’t be seeing a 20-something piece of work walking along the opposite side of Grafton Street with a replicate of what, or rather whom, you’re wearing.
Simon, my best friend, a singleton at this stage having split from the Dark Lord, reconciling briefly and being hijacked on a plane, was at my side on the inside of the Powercourt Townhouse. “If walls could talk…I would be in a lot of trouble”, I recently whispered over lunch at a new eatery on the opposite side of South William Street.
PFL Number One was ordering a drink. Suddenly I was parched. I needed vodka, straight up. The next week, I felt like I was coming down off a bad drug, and a fix was necessary. Dublin made that possible: sometimes, the city had turned against me, sending ex-bosses into Butlers coffee shop at 8am, and kindly distributing past one-night-stands to the next table at the flavour of the month restaurant.
Today, the city was on my team, and shortly after my departure from the job from hell at 42 Grafton Street, at approximately 7pm, I arrived in Paris. Or at least the next best thing, Leon café on Exchequer Street, where I want to marry, in no particular order: the food, the décor, and just about anyone who takes me there. “Hi”, I said, sounding a little too surprised. PFL Number One was like the dish on their place setting: unpretentious, classic, and a winner. I took two sips of my Château Lastours Perlé, and one deep breath, and told the CliffsNotes version of my life story.
“This is the first time I’ve felt like I mightn’t be able to keep up with a guy”, said the stockbroker. It occurred to me in retrospect, the economy might have been about to plummet, but my stock was up. Maybe those PR classes had taught me more than client relations, maybe they had shown me how to sell myself in shorthand. “Listen, as much as I’d love to stay in France, there’s something I have to get to at home”. We stood up, walked past the pastries and out the door, returning approximately 30 seconds later for the Ralph Lauren carrier bag which held a considerable amount of my recent earnings.
Christmas came and went, and on St. Patrick’s Day, as Simon and I slouched in the leather chairs at Ba Mizu, I lifted what must have been my second glass of wine that afternoon and gushed: “I want to have my cake and eat it. I want a Woody and Mia situation: to be together when I want to be and apart when I want to be”. Simon, who I’d decided was either too scarred from his former serious relationship to enter another, or had become despaired in the desert, probably thought. “You, my friend, are a greedy pig”, but because Simon was Simon, he said “The stockbroker is gorgeous”, and I loved him for it.
That spring, PFLs Two, Three and Four arrived and departed with little more than surface scratches caused to my relationship. A well-heeled diarist with a briefcase full of grand gestures, a socialite with a penchant for acting and boys in Abercrombie, and a broadcaster with dirty blond hair and talk that was even dirtier, couldn’t take my attentions away, at least not for more than a few hours here and there, from my chosen person.
Each time I encountered another singleton hoping to alter my intentions, I came to realise that my romantic relationship with Significant Other was more than just a passing trend. In our time together, skinny ties and Old Glory T-shirts had come in and out of fashion, along with the endless other fads I couldn’t care to mention. I had lost mobile phones, jackets and friends, not to mention hopes and bets.
There was one certain in my life, and that was my relationship. Short of being struck down by a bus, and it’s been close, it felt like I could count on Significant Other to always be there for authentic love and support. It was certain too, that my most intimate moments of the emotional variety had been spent with my romantic partner.
On the other hand, there was the certainty of the countless Flirtinis that would be consumed in just seven days on September 13, 2008, before the doors of the venue where it had all started would close for the final time, at least in it’s current life form. There was the certainty of the courage that came from the rush of alcohol to the head. There was the certainty that I loved. There was the certainty that love would be enough. There was, only one uncertainty.
This was the final Sex and the Liffey column. The author, Robert O’Connor, would like to thank the people of Dublin for the inspiration they have provided, especially those he’s been on dates with.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Paper Covers Rock?
I sat on the terrace outside of Cocoon bar on Duke Lane, a long term Saturday night haunt of ours, swilling a glass of Pinot Grigio, as Simon explained to me how the Dark Lord had cut him out of his life with one simple, sharp text message: “don’t call me, I’ll call you”.
Sometimes I wonder has modern technology encouraged us to stop using our own functions, manners being one of them. “Simon, look, that is just not acceptable… ever”. I had been telling my best friend for the past year that there needed to be a clean cut after his relationship with the Dark Lord had ended, but in fairness, it was easier said than done. When I looked at my own relationship, people had been giving me advice that I had been ignoring for almost as long.
A buyer from Brown Thomas sat next to us with her baby, no more than six months old. An older gentleman sat together with the strawberry blonde, who’s make-up looked as if she was intentionally mocking a clown. He was a friend, not a lover, I assumed, for she most certainly wouldn’t be speaking so openly about baby weight and stretch marks to her husband, fiancé or boyfriend.
What kind of a person do you think she goes out with, I thought about asking Simon, before thinking, what kind of a question is that? How shallow can one man be? I expected that the man she would raise this designer baby with was a solicitor or surgeon with an impressive pile in Dalkey, drove a Bentley and holidayed in Marbella and the South of France. For all I knew, he could have been a bar man with a Fiat and a flat on Sheriff Street, but we, or at least I, have these preconceptions about people from their image.
Simon was still single since his split from the Dark Lord, and I had recently celebrated my three year anniversary with Beloved at an out of town hotel. I thought back to when we were both in relationships, and how neither of us knew which would last longer or whether “this” was “it” or not.
I wondered what it was that I had done that allowed my relationship to survive beyond Simon’s. From the outset Simon’s relationship could have been ideal had I not been informed otherwise. There were the mini-breaks to Paris and London, and of course there was the fact that they had considered moving in together in the not-too-distant future at the time. It was further than Beloved and I had reached in our three-year stint. From what I could see, their respective lives went from the setting of desirable city love to desolate suburban despair in a matter of months.
All of a sudden we were no longer complaining about the Dark Lord’s obsessive phone calls, we were complaining about the lack of phone calls period. Simon’s life was a full one with his work and studies, and becoming a full time English teacher wasn‘t lending him any free time, but Simon hadn’t felt his heart leap at the thought of what his Significant Other might have said in their most recent text in a time that felt like forever.
I, on the other hand, had a heart that never stopped leaping, each time my Blackberry buzzed, which had recently been kindly upgraded by Beloved to a brooding Burgundy model. When Simon’s phone rang, he knew it was another offer for a job interview, when mine rang, I knew it was a call from Lover Ville, and unlike Simon, I became disconsolate each time I realised I was unable to accept offers of interviews, because my interviews were with potential new friends with benefits over coffee, champagne or cocktails.
“Remember the Relative Stranger?” I asked Simon, taking a long sip from my glass. I was referring to a certain person whom I’d met at a certain Dublin 2 establishment in the later parts of 2007 and who had caused me to re-evaluate my relationship. “We met in Powerscourt the other night”, I whispered. “Are we talking about the stockbroker?”, Simon sat upright, becoming slightly excitable, his newly highlighted hair glistening in the late afternoon sunshine.
“Yes…well, I had sort of forgotten we had had the conversations and the repartee”, I gushed, “and when we ran into each other we sort of picked up where we left off. Significant Other, as you can imagine, isn’t exactly thrilled about the whole thing”. Simon wondered, why would there be a problem in having a friend that was interesting.
He wondered why it needed to be a threat to my relationship, which by all means should have been strong enough to endure this sort of thing after three years of flying high, even though we had experienced bouts of turbulence along the way. “You’re hardly supposed to cut the Relative Stranger out of your life, are you?”, Simon announced in a steely tone. “You are allowed to be fond of a person”, he assured me, with confidence that I wished he would reserve for his own matters of the heart.
I wanted to believe Simon, I wanted to say that it was the right thing for me to do in keeping a healthy balance of friends in my life alongside my authorised lover, but I was frightened that the Relative Stranger, with their good on paper credentials, would work their way into my mind and worse still, my heart. You have a rock solid foundation in your relationship, I told myself, and even if there are a few cracks in the paintwork, the damage can still be repaired.
There we were, now alone on the terrace on Duke Lane, as the strawberry blonde buyer and her male friend in tow headed on to Grafton Street. I realised, Simon, a good on paper guy himself, had been viciously cut out for a reason we may never know, whilst I, was fighting harder than ever to prevent good on paper from covering my rock.
Sometimes I wonder has modern technology encouraged us to stop using our own functions, manners being one of them. “Simon, look, that is just not acceptable… ever”. I had been telling my best friend for the past year that there needed to be a clean cut after his relationship with the Dark Lord had ended, but in fairness, it was easier said than done. When I looked at my own relationship, people had been giving me advice that I had been ignoring for almost as long.
A buyer from Brown Thomas sat next to us with her baby, no more than six months old. An older gentleman sat together with the strawberry blonde, who’s make-up looked as if she was intentionally mocking a clown. He was a friend, not a lover, I assumed, for she most certainly wouldn’t be speaking so openly about baby weight and stretch marks to her husband, fiancé or boyfriend.
What kind of a person do you think she goes out with, I thought about asking Simon, before thinking, what kind of a question is that? How shallow can one man be? I expected that the man she would raise this designer baby with was a solicitor or surgeon with an impressive pile in Dalkey, drove a Bentley and holidayed in Marbella and the South of France. For all I knew, he could have been a bar man with a Fiat and a flat on Sheriff Street, but we, or at least I, have these preconceptions about people from their image.
Simon was still single since his split from the Dark Lord, and I had recently celebrated my three year anniversary with Beloved at an out of town hotel. I thought back to when we were both in relationships, and how neither of us knew which would last longer or whether “this” was “it” or not.
I wondered what it was that I had done that allowed my relationship to survive beyond Simon’s. From the outset Simon’s relationship could have been ideal had I not been informed otherwise. There were the mini-breaks to Paris and London, and of course there was the fact that they had considered moving in together in the not-too-distant future at the time. It was further than Beloved and I had reached in our three-year stint. From what I could see, their respective lives went from the setting of desirable city love to desolate suburban despair in a matter of months.
All of a sudden we were no longer complaining about the Dark Lord’s obsessive phone calls, we were complaining about the lack of phone calls period. Simon’s life was a full one with his work and studies, and becoming a full time English teacher wasn‘t lending him any free time, but Simon hadn’t felt his heart leap at the thought of what his Significant Other might have said in their most recent text in a time that felt like forever.
I, on the other hand, had a heart that never stopped leaping, each time my Blackberry buzzed, which had recently been kindly upgraded by Beloved to a brooding Burgundy model. When Simon’s phone rang, he knew it was another offer for a job interview, when mine rang, I knew it was a call from Lover Ville, and unlike Simon, I became disconsolate each time I realised I was unable to accept offers of interviews, because my interviews were with potential new friends with benefits over coffee, champagne or cocktails.
“Remember the Relative Stranger?” I asked Simon, taking a long sip from my glass. I was referring to a certain person whom I’d met at a certain Dublin 2 establishment in the later parts of 2007 and who had caused me to re-evaluate my relationship. “We met in Powerscourt the other night”, I whispered. “Are we talking about the stockbroker?”, Simon sat upright, becoming slightly excitable, his newly highlighted hair glistening in the late afternoon sunshine.
“Yes…well, I had sort of forgotten we had had the conversations and the repartee”, I gushed, “and when we ran into each other we sort of picked up where we left off. Significant Other, as you can imagine, isn’t exactly thrilled about the whole thing”. Simon wondered, why would there be a problem in having a friend that was interesting.
He wondered why it needed to be a threat to my relationship, which by all means should have been strong enough to endure this sort of thing after three years of flying high, even though we had experienced bouts of turbulence along the way. “You’re hardly supposed to cut the Relative Stranger out of your life, are you?”, Simon announced in a steely tone. “You are allowed to be fond of a person”, he assured me, with confidence that I wished he would reserve for his own matters of the heart.
I wanted to believe Simon, I wanted to say that it was the right thing for me to do in keeping a healthy balance of friends in my life alongside my authorised lover, but I was frightened that the Relative Stranger, with their good on paper credentials, would work their way into my mind and worse still, my heart. You have a rock solid foundation in your relationship, I told myself, and even if there are a few cracks in the paintwork, the damage can still be repaired.
There we were, now alone on the terrace on Duke Lane, as the strawberry blonde buyer and her male friend in tow headed on to Grafton Street. I realised, Simon, a good on paper guy himself, had been viciously cut out for a reason we may never know, whilst I, was fighting harder than ever to prevent good on paper from covering my rock.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Seeing Beneath the Surface
Dublin has a population of just below three million people, all of different colour, age, background and personality. During the time of our existence, we form a pool of just a few of those people from different aspects of our lives: from school and from college, from the workplace and from sports teams, from the coffee shop on the corner of South William and Wicklow Street, and from the clubs and bars we frequent every fortnight.
Every so often, a person comes into our lives that is more intriguing than the others. In September 2006, I met one of those people. A man who shall become known as John for the sake of his privacy. John and I did not have an immediate connection, it was one that rather grew and continued to grow further over a period of less than two years.
John was an articulate writer and a visionary. He had an interesting and somewhat mysterious background. I once commented that it would make for an interesting novel, but then, hadn’t I said the same of many of my friend’s lives? He was full of infectious ambition that made my temperature rise and was like a kick in the ass every time I was tempted to slack off.
My relationship with John was different than my relationships with all other friends. It was not necessarily better or worse, it was just entirely alternative. John and I could tell each other almost anything, at least that is how I felt. And then there were the things that we didn’t say: the things that were bubbling just beneath the surface of one of us which the other would then refer to.
It was a Sunday afternoon and I was in the process of packing my suitcase for a trip that I would make to Portugal the next day on a visit to a good friend, Laura. My mobile rang…disturbances always pleased me--a visitor, an email, a phone call--anything to make the mundane tasks of everyday life less solitary.
It was John. “Can you talk?”, he queried in his antique Dublin tone. “Yes of course”, I responded. I always found that the activity I was undertaking happened so much faster whilst speaking on the phone, maybe it was the distraction of conversation. I had played a gig the night before to an extremely unsuccessful turnout, more so than normal circumstances even, I was disappointed to admit. “How was the gig?”, John continued, upbeat and genuinely interested as he almost always had been.
I tried to conceal my disappointment, and revealed the facts, such as those who had attended and the songs that had been performed. “You sound very down…”, John remarked, sounding concerned. It was one of those moments. So many people could have heard the facts and moved on to the next topic of conversation, but John was so tuned-in that he became instantly aware that there was something wrong despite the fact that I had not pointed towards the issue.
I was down. It was one slap in the face after another, I had thought. The music industry--I could go on for hours, and I have, much to the listener’s horror--was the kind of industry in which you could spend thousands of euros, hundreds of days and nights, and every drop of energy that your body will allow, all for nothing. It is not guaranteed that you will receive a cent in return, nor a record sale, and you certainly won’t be having that piece of time back.
The gig had been the last straw for me and I was just glad to be getting on a plane the next day. “Maybe this is the break you need”, said John, “to relax and to think about other things and to clear your head”, he added. Part of me agreed, but I had to wonder, were those who succeeded before me and those that would succeed after me in the music business, or in any business for that matter, those that didn’t run scared and disheartened after a poor-charting record or an empty venue gig?
I had my suspicions, but I didn’t know if they were true. I did know, however, that things were made slightly less difficult by those few people in my pool that understood and supported how I was feeling even when I didn’t speak about it. I may not be rich in terms of a career, I thought, but counting my pool of friends, I am a very wealthy man indeed.
Every so often, a person comes into our lives that is more intriguing than the others. In September 2006, I met one of those people. A man who shall become known as John for the sake of his privacy. John and I did not have an immediate connection, it was one that rather grew and continued to grow further over a period of less than two years.
John was an articulate writer and a visionary. He had an interesting and somewhat mysterious background. I once commented that it would make for an interesting novel, but then, hadn’t I said the same of many of my friend’s lives? He was full of infectious ambition that made my temperature rise and was like a kick in the ass every time I was tempted to slack off.
My relationship with John was different than my relationships with all other friends. It was not necessarily better or worse, it was just entirely alternative. John and I could tell each other almost anything, at least that is how I felt. And then there were the things that we didn’t say: the things that were bubbling just beneath the surface of one of us which the other would then refer to.
It was a Sunday afternoon and I was in the process of packing my suitcase for a trip that I would make to Portugal the next day on a visit to a good friend, Laura. My mobile rang…disturbances always pleased me--a visitor, an email, a phone call--anything to make the mundane tasks of everyday life less solitary.
It was John. “Can you talk?”, he queried in his antique Dublin tone. “Yes of course”, I responded. I always found that the activity I was undertaking happened so much faster whilst speaking on the phone, maybe it was the distraction of conversation. I had played a gig the night before to an extremely unsuccessful turnout, more so than normal circumstances even, I was disappointed to admit. “How was the gig?”, John continued, upbeat and genuinely interested as he almost always had been.
I tried to conceal my disappointment, and revealed the facts, such as those who had attended and the songs that had been performed. “You sound very down…”, John remarked, sounding concerned. It was one of those moments. So many people could have heard the facts and moved on to the next topic of conversation, but John was so tuned-in that he became instantly aware that there was something wrong despite the fact that I had not pointed towards the issue.
I was down. It was one slap in the face after another, I had thought. The music industry--I could go on for hours, and I have, much to the listener’s horror--was the kind of industry in which you could spend thousands of euros, hundreds of days and nights, and every drop of energy that your body will allow, all for nothing. It is not guaranteed that you will receive a cent in return, nor a record sale, and you certainly won’t be having that piece of time back.
The gig had been the last straw for me and I was just glad to be getting on a plane the next day. “Maybe this is the break you need”, said John, “to relax and to think about other things and to clear your head”, he added. Part of me agreed, but I had to wonder, were those who succeeded before me and those that would succeed after me in the music business, or in any business for that matter, those that didn’t run scared and disheartened after a poor-charting record or an empty venue gig?
I had my suspicions, but I didn’t know if they were true. I did know, however, that things were made slightly less difficult by those few people in my pool that understood and supported how I was feeling even when I didn’t speak about it. I may not be rich in terms of a career, I thought, but counting my pool of friends, I am a very wealthy man indeed.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Martinis and Monogamy
At exactly 9:05pm on Friday evening, Beloved and I came from our respective homes at opposite parts of Dublin and entered our favourite hotel bar of the moment, The Morrison, from opposite entrances.
I ordered a Martini, Beloved took a beer. It hadn’t been a particularly exciting week for either of us: Significant Other was ticking over at the office, whilst I, remained unpublished. I secretly longed for the moment where I had good news, something along the lines of “I’ve just had a 500-word feature printed in The Dubliner”, but a bigger part of me realised that the moment was no closer than it had been twelve months ago.
It may or may not have been time for a yet another career choice change, I thought, but either way, here I was, right now, in a good hotel with a great person, who was concerned only with the next six hours. I lost my worries and found my next drink at approximately 11:30pm across town at a venue that had caused quite a stir in my relationship on most visits since it’s opening.
As we walked the staircase to the decadent “room of doom” as I had come to call it, I noticed that I had adopted my single persona all of a sudden. Across the room, a stockbroker that I had been friendly with for a few weeks some months ago approached. “You're blonde now”, said the stockbroker, flashing a wide grin that I remembered from our previous encounter.
“Who are you here with?”, the stockbroker enquired. I glanced at Beloved and understood that it was not cool that my partner of three years was being overlooked. “Oh you’ve met each other before, right?”, I joked. “Oh we go way back”, the stockbroker said, more serious than before, and right then, with a beer in one hand, Beloved was punched in the arm. “Your friend here doesn’t like me”, the stockbroker announced. How could anyone know, I wondered, before catching a glimpse of Beloved’s Stare of Death.
The double glass doors opened and Michael, a Castleknock society boy renowned for his partying ways, entered with a new lover in-tow. “You’ve got to be shitting me”, I said under my breath. Michael, and his date. Michael stood for single, and when he was introducing a lover as a life partner, I knew it was time to settle. “How long has it been, Michael?”, I probed. I wasn’t ready for his response. “Three months…and we just had our first fight, I‘m an emotional wreck right now”, he divulged. “Well you look great”, like always I thought. The stockbroker had escaped whilst my attention was on the society boy.
I realised, the reason Beloved wasn’t exactly crazy about this joint was that my attention was on all people except my true partner. What was it, I had to wonder, that prevented me from being the person that I wanted to be for my Significant Other. I wanted to be the strong type who treated my partner like a trophy. Why? Because I had always felt that there was something terribly attractive about that. I knew that I never felt demeaned by such treatment on the occasions that I’d experienced it.
I wanted to tell Beloved, “I’m sorry you love me so absolutely and that I’m a prat to you”, but my single persona, the part of me that is most chauvinist, wouldn’t allow the words, and so instead I said “What do you want to drink, babe?” The stockbroker had returned, and the fact that I was buying all three of us a drink wasn’t going down particularly well with Significant Other. “It’s a suggestion”, my partner suggested. “No. It’s a Vodka”, I said, returning promptly to my obnoxious guise.
Later, on the dance floor in the next room, as the DJ played “4 Minutes To Save The World”, I stomped my feet, which were contained in my don’t-fuck-with-me Gucci loafers, as though I had only the same amount of time to live, flashing that same grin that the stockbroker had greeted me with right back.
“I am 22”, I affirmed silently whilst we walked to Beloved’s contemporary central apartment. I had been beating myself up for my flirtatious ways as we left the club, and I wondered, despite my knowledge that my existing relationship was the one that would be the most rewarding, not to mention the most sensible, why was I always tempted away from being smart and towards being sexually provocative with individuals who were interested mostly in checking off another man about town on their personal “to-do” lists?
I realised it may have been my age, and the fact that I had lived the beginning of my adult life in a particularly close-knit romantic relationship. I considered the prospect that it was the Martinis, that if I had been sober I would have been more sensible.
Most of all though, I was appreciative, that a couple of years my senior, Beloved probably knew that my behaviour, however nonsensical, was down to such trivial reasons. And of course, my Significant Other was nothing if not loyal.
I ordered a Martini, Beloved took a beer. It hadn’t been a particularly exciting week for either of us: Significant Other was ticking over at the office, whilst I, remained unpublished. I secretly longed for the moment where I had good news, something along the lines of “I’ve just had a 500-word feature printed in The Dubliner”, but a bigger part of me realised that the moment was no closer than it had been twelve months ago.
It may or may not have been time for a yet another career choice change, I thought, but either way, here I was, right now, in a good hotel with a great person, who was concerned only with the next six hours. I lost my worries and found my next drink at approximately 11:30pm across town at a venue that had caused quite a stir in my relationship on most visits since it’s opening.
As we walked the staircase to the decadent “room of doom” as I had come to call it, I noticed that I had adopted my single persona all of a sudden. Across the room, a stockbroker that I had been friendly with for a few weeks some months ago approached. “You're blonde now”, said the stockbroker, flashing a wide grin that I remembered from our previous encounter.
“Who are you here with?”, the stockbroker enquired. I glanced at Beloved and understood that it was not cool that my partner of three years was being overlooked. “Oh you’ve met each other before, right?”, I joked. “Oh we go way back”, the stockbroker said, more serious than before, and right then, with a beer in one hand, Beloved was punched in the arm. “Your friend here doesn’t like me”, the stockbroker announced. How could anyone know, I wondered, before catching a glimpse of Beloved’s Stare of Death.
The double glass doors opened and Michael, a Castleknock society boy renowned for his partying ways, entered with a new lover in-tow. “You’ve got to be shitting me”, I said under my breath. Michael, and his date. Michael stood for single, and when he was introducing a lover as a life partner, I knew it was time to settle. “How long has it been, Michael?”, I probed. I wasn’t ready for his response. “Three months…and we just had our first fight, I‘m an emotional wreck right now”, he divulged. “Well you look great”, like always I thought. The stockbroker had escaped whilst my attention was on the society boy.
I realised, the reason Beloved wasn’t exactly crazy about this joint was that my attention was on all people except my true partner. What was it, I had to wonder, that prevented me from being the person that I wanted to be for my Significant Other. I wanted to be the strong type who treated my partner like a trophy. Why? Because I had always felt that there was something terribly attractive about that. I knew that I never felt demeaned by such treatment on the occasions that I’d experienced it.
I wanted to tell Beloved, “I’m sorry you love me so absolutely and that I’m a prat to you”, but my single persona, the part of me that is most chauvinist, wouldn’t allow the words, and so instead I said “What do you want to drink, babe?” The stockbroker had returned, and the fact that I was buying all three of us a drink wasn’t going down particularly well with Significant Other. “It’s a suggestion”, my partner suggested. “No. It’s a Vodka”, I said, returning promptly to my obnoxious guise.
Later, on the dance floor in the next room, as the DJ played “4 Minutes To Save The World”, I stomped my feet, which were contained in my don’t-fuck-with-me Gucci loafers, as though I had only the same amount of time to live, flashing that same grin that the stockbroker had greeted me with right back.
“I am 22”, I affirmed silently whilst we walked to Beloved’s contemporary central apartment. I had been beating myself up for my flirtatious ways as we left the club, and I wondered, despite my knowledge that my existing relationship was the one that would be the most rewarding, not to mention the most sensible, why was I always tempted away from being smart and towards being sexually provocative with individuals who were interested mostly in checking off another man about town on their personal “to-do” lists?
I realised it may have been my age, and the fact that I had lived the beginning of my adult life in a particularly close-knit romantic relationship. I considered the prospect that it was the Martinis, that if I had been sober I would have been more sensible.
Most of all though, I was appreciative, that a couple of years my senior, Beloved probably knew that my behaviour, however nonsensical, was down to such trivial reasons. And of course, my Significant Other was nothing if not loyal.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Relationships & Real Estate (Part Two)
I sat in the car wondering what was going on inside the ivy-covered house. My parents had been house-hunting. I was their unofficial realtor, scouring the internet and the weekend property supplements for suitable residences.
The Laurels was just the house: detached, red-brick façade, on a tree-lined road of a settled suburb. I had made an appointment to view and informed my parents that it would take place the following evening. Later that day, I got a call from the auctioneer. “I’m afraid the property has been taken off the market and the viewing will not be going ahead”, said the precise female voice on the other end of the line.
I had never trusted auctioneers, and immediately suspected one of the agents wanted the reasonably priced gem for themselves. “We’re going to speak with the owners”, I announced. My mother walked down the long driveway that led to the car where I sat impatiently. “It’s on the market”, she told, matter-of-factly. Less than an hour later, we returned to make an official bid on the house. A tall, sharp-featured man opened the door. “The house is not for sale”, he announced. “Oh for goodness sake”, I raged.
“Look, I don’t know what is going on here, internal conflict I suppose, but I am giving you my name”, my mother announced (she could have been her own realtor, I thought), reaching inside of her brown tweed suit jacket and extracting a ballpoint pen, “and my number”, she continued, optimistic as ever. “When you decide to put the house on the market, call me. We are willing to pay above the odds”. “Mother!”, I exclaimed, “I’m really liking this side to you”.
That night, across town, a 30-something diarist was filled with a similar desire. “You ought to come with a government warning, I’m fairly sure you’re the best looking guy I’ve seen on front of me”, said the diarist, had recently landed a job with a newspaper that treated high-society parties as priority above the general elections.
“You know I’m not even going to justify that comment with an answer”, I said, taking another sip of my gin and tonic. The restaurant was full to the brim. To our left, a politician and her middle-aged friends from the countryside attempted to unwind over a bottle of vintage port, whilst on our right came our floppy haired waiter armed with champagne and a beaming smile. “Complimentary sir”, he advised, cheerfully.
It was one of those perfect Dublin nights, filled with great food, wine, conversation. What were the motives of the diarist? What would it require to keep both parties satisfied? Was it a case of one person’s business being another person’s pleasure? It was a night of questions, followed by a morning of answers.
“The diarist is a purpose build”, said Lora, who at 19, had reached a new level of mania about finding a suitable man to let into her heart, mentioning nothing of her sheets. “You slept together”, interrupted Sarah, who‘s soul hadn’t existed since puberty kicked off, “you have that Rob look on your face”, she confirmed. “No, no I did not”, I fought back, “It’s just not there”, I tailed off. “I’m actually in love. I think I already have what I want and maybe that’s it for me, no more encounters, no more dates, no more experimenting”. Lora and Sarah glared in my direction.
“So tell me about your date”, I changed the subject to Lora’s night-before encounter. “Did he pass all of the tests? Will you be allowing him to come inside?”, I sniggered. As the topic was about to shift, my BlackBerry beeped. We stared at the handheld device in horror, though no-one really understood why. “Can these friends and/or judges be at all bribed?”, I read the text message. It was the diarist. “Christian Louboutin size six”, screamed Lora, quickly adding “Black”.
What was it about the diarist, I had to wonder. What was it about me for that matter? What could I bring to the table? Why was the diarist interested in someone who was trying to grasp what they themselves had already achieved. Why were the grand gestures so easily made and what would their final bid be?
It took me back to the day before, outside the house in the suburbs. We never heard from the owners despite our offer. Did it mean that they were settled, and content, enough so to remain despite knowing that they could gain by surrendering their property? Was I the same? How high did the offers need to be in order for me to surrender my fast-approaching three-year relationship, which was sort of like pine wood, easily damaged but at the same time full of fine character.
What did it represent that we were allowed to view the property yet go no further? I got to thinking, I too, had been allowing viewings to take place, and there was bound to be disappointment ahead when potential buyers found themselves sold on me.
The Laurels was just the house: detached, red-brick façade, on a tree-lined road of a settled suburb. I had made an appointment to view and informed my parents that it would take place the following evening. Later that day, I got a call from the auctioneer. “I’m afraid the property has been taken off the market and the viewing will not be going ahead”, said the precise female voice on the other end of the line.
I had never trusted auctioneers, and immediately suspected one of the agents wanted the reasonably priced gem for themselves. “We’re going to speak with the owners”, I announced. My mother walked down the long driveway that led to the car where I sat impatiently. “It’s on the market”, she told, matter-of-factly. Less than an hour later, we returned to make an official bid on the house. A tall, sharp-featured man opened the door. “The house is not for sale”, he announced. “Oh for goodness sake”, I raged.
“Look, I don’t know what is going on here, internal conflict I suppose, but I am giving you my name”, my mother announced (she could have been her own realtor, I thought), reaching inside of her brown tweed suit jacket and extracting a ballpoint pen, “and my number”, she continued, optimistic as ever. “When you decide to put the house on the market, call me. We are willing to pay above the odds”. “Mother!”, I exclaimed, “I’m really liking this side to you”.
That night, across town, a 30-something diarist was filled with a similar desire. “You ought to come with a government warning, I’m fairly sure you’re the best looking guy I’ve seen on front of me”, said the diarist, had recently landed a job with a newspaper that treated high-society parties as priority above the general elections.
“You know I’m not even going to justify that comment with an answer”, I said, taking another sip of my gin and tonic. The restaurant was full to the brim. To our left, a politician and her middle-aged friends from the countryside attempted to unwind over a bottle of vintage port, whilst on our right came our floppy haired waiter armed with champagne and a beaming smile. “Complimentary sir”, he advised, cheerfully.
It was one of those perfect Dublin nights, filled with great food, wine, conversation. What were the motives of the diarist? What would it require to keep both parties satisfied? Was it a case of one person’s business being another person’s pleasure? It was a night of questions, followed by a morning of answers.
“The diarist is a purpose build”, said Lora, who at 19, had reached a new level of mania about finding a suitable man to let into her heart, mentioning nothing of her sheets. “You slept together”, interrupted Sarah, who‘s soul hadn’t existed since puberty kicked off, “you have that Rob look on your face”, she confirmed. “No, no I did not”, I fought back, “It’s just not there”, I tailed off. “I’m actually in love. I think I already have what I want and maybe that’s it for me, no more encounters, no more dates, no more experimenting”. Lora and Sarah glared in my direction.
“So tell me about your date”, I changed the subject to Lora’s night-before encounter. “Did he pass all of the tests? Will you be allowing him to come inside?”, I sniggered. As the topic was about to shift, my BlackBerry beeped. We stared at the handheld device in horror, though no-one really understood why. “Can these friends and/or judges be at all bribed?”, I read the text message. It was the diarist. “Christian Louboutin size six”, screamed Lora, quickly adding “Black”.
What was it about the diarist, I had to wonder. What was it about me for that matter? What could I bring to the table? Why was the diarist interested in someone who was trying to grasp what they themselves had already achieved. Why were the grand gestures so easily made and what would their final bid be?
It took me back to the day before, outside the house in the suburbs. We never heard from the owners despite our offer. Did it mean that they were settled, and content, enough so to remain despite knowing that they could gain by surrendering their property? Was I the same? How high did the offers need to be in order for me to surrender my fast-approaching three-year relationship, which was sort of like pine wood, easily damaged but at the same time full of fine character.
What did it represent that we were allowed to view the property yet go no further? I got to thinking, I too, had been allowing viewings to take place, and there was bound to be disappointment ahead when potential buyers found themselves sold on me.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Morals of the Media Darling
We believe so often that we know all there is to know about a public figure: a politician, a pop star, a footballers wife. We believe that because their lives are exposed in the pages of glossy magazines around the globe, that we can make an effective judgement.
Sometimes, we admire their lives: like that time you saw Victoria Beckham looking picture perfect in Versace swimwear on her yacht in the South of France and you said “That’s what I want”, and sometimes, we feel their despair, like the time(s) Bertie Ahern stumbled to talk his way out of his financial troubles.
We think that what we see being documented through the media is a reflection of what’s actually going on in their private lives. Many a pop princess has been the envy of a million teenage girls from Brooklyn to Bali to Ballsbridge. Who didn’t want to be Britney in 1999?
So many of us buy into the American Dream: the perfect house, the perfect spouse, the ideal car, the ideal career. But it takes work to achieve any and all of these things, and sometimes, even the most independent of characters need to accept a helping hand.
The late Irish model, Katy French, could never have achieved the rapid success that she enjoyed for a short time had it not been for the initial support of a number of high-profile journalists. Magazine editors who decided that Glenda Gilson was “done” saw French as the next in line. People listen when high-profile journalists speak, and we read when they write. We can only choose to like or dislike the things and people we have been made aware of.
The journalists’ interest in French, though the basis of it could never quite be fathomed, were expressed publicly through the social pages of the Sunday newspapers first of all, filtering through the glossies and trickling on to the tabloids, ultimately ending with a final interview in a Sunday magazine that gave the model a vast push throughout her career, before her untimely death on that fateful day in December 2007.
It did not appear that French and the showbiz journalists of Ireland were real friends, and so it was not a selfless favour on their part, but what did they stand to gain in return from a model who was concerned first and foremost with her career. The chance to be involved romantically with a young attractive woman, some might say. Of course, this was not true of all those who supported French, but it could be suggested that the 24-year-old’s looks and flirtatious personality didn’t hurt her chances.
Being media savvy is a great part of success for potential media darlings: Amy Winehouse has been the darling of the UK media for what seems like an eternity, despite the singer rising to prominence only in recent years with her Back to Black album and its hit singles.
However, once one engages in a relationship with the media, it’s not so easy to exit that relationship that involves so many. Today, to be a star, the looks and talent combination is not enough. A third ingredient is necessary. Some call it luck, some say determination is the key characteristic. A select few agree that it is about “who you know” that determines who will “come to know” you.
French, like Winehouse, appeared to be enjoying life: every hour was happy hour, with glamorous photo shoots by day and cocktails and more in VIP areas of hip bars by night, partying through the early hours with the beautiful people. Infact, there was more to it than that, often left undocumented by the media.
The support French and Winehouse, as well as so many before them, had received by the journalists who embraced them for whatever reasons, was tainted by the negative coverage about them. Perhaps part of the problem comes from within: it seems we are almost conditioned to listen to the negative things people say, whilst we brush off our rave reviews, wondering if they could be truthful.
What about the partners of the stars? French upset her restaurateur fiance Marcus Sweeney at the beginning of her year in the limelight by posing in lingerie on a table at his Dublin city centre restaurant for a certain glossy publication. Sweeney, a self-proclaimed traditionalist, was extremely upset and the couple engaged in an all-too-public war of words through any form of media that would provide a platform: from morning radio to the Sunday papers.
Katy French’s name was made. Everyone was talking, and she was in demand as a model. Who would she have been had it not been for the risk she’d taken? It is difficult to deny that she would be just another blond model on the books of Assets, her agency. Was it worth it, we might ask French if she were here today. Was it worth destroying her relationship for the sake of igniting her career, which would eventually come to a tragic end.
Was it Karma that got Katy? Can anyone have a fast-tracked career as a media darling and continue to enjoy a relationship of the romantic variety that is 100 per cent morally correct?
Sometimes, we admire their lives: like that time you saw Victoria Beckham looking picture perfect in Versace swimwear on her yacht in the South of France and you said “That’s what I want”, and sometimes, we feel their despair, like the time(s) Bertie Ahern stumbled to talk his way out of his financial troubles.
We think that what we see being documented through the media is a reflection of what’s actually going on in their private lives. Many a pop princess has been the envy of a million teenage girls from Brooklyn to Bali to Ballsbridge. Who didn’t want to be Britney in 1999?
So many of us buy into the American Dream: the perfect house, the perfect spouse, the ideal car, the ideal career. But it takes work to achieve any and all of these things, and sometimes, even the most independent of characters need to accept a helping hand.
The late Irish model, Katy French, could never have achieved the rapid success that she enjoyed for a short time had it not been for the initial support of a number of high-profile journalists. Magazine editors who decided that Glenda Gilson was “done” saw French as the next in line. People listen when high-profile journalists speak, and we read when they write. We can only choose to like or dislike the things and people we have been made aware of.
The journalists’ interest in French, though the basis of it could never quite be fathomed, were expressed publicly through the social pages of the Sunday newspapers first of all, filtering through the glossies and trickling on to the tabloids, ultimately ending with a final interview in a Sunday magazine that gave the model a vast push throughout her career, before her untimely death on that fateful day in December 2007.
It did not appear that French and the showbiz journalists of Ireland were real friends, and so it was not a selfless favour on their part, but what did they stand to gain in return from a model who was concerned first and foremost with her career. The chance to be involved romantically with a young attractive woman, some might say. Of course, this was not true of all those who supported French, but it could be suggested that the 24-year-old’s looks and flirtatious personality didn’t hurt her chances.
Being media savvy is a great part of success for potential media darlings: Amy Winehouse has been the darling of the UK media for what seems like an eternity, despite the singer rising to prominence only in recent years with her Back to Black album and its hit singles.
However, once one engages in a relationship with the media, it’s not so easy to exit that relationship that involves so many. Today, to be a star, the looks and talent combination is not enough. A third ingredient is necessary. Some call it luck, some say determination is the key characteristic. A select few agree that it is about “who you know” that determines who will “come to know” you.
French, like Winehouse, appeared to be enjoying life: every hour was happy hour, with glamorous photo shoots by day and cocktails and more in VIP areas of hip bars by night, partying through the early hours with the beautiful people. Infact, there was more to it than that, often left undocumented by the media.
The support French and Winehouse, as well as so many before them, had received by the journalists who embraced them for whatever reasons, was tainted by the negative coverage about them. Perhaps part of the problem comes from within: it seems we are almost conditioned to listen to the negative things people say, whilst we brush off our rave reviews, wondering if they could be truthful.
What about the partners of the stars? French upset her restaurateur fiance Marcus Sweeney at the beginning of her year in the limelight by posing in lingerie on a table at his Dublin city centre restaurant for a certain glossy publication. Sweeney, a self-proclaimed traditionalist, was extremely upset and the couple engaged in an all-too-public war of words through any form of media that would provide a platform: from morning radio to the Sunday papers.
Katy French’s name was made. Everyone was talking, and she was in demand as a model. Who would she have been had it not been for the risk she’d taken? It is difficult to deny that she would be just another blond model on the books of Assets, her agency. Was it worth it, we might ask French if she were here today. Was it worth destroying her relationship for the sake of igniting her career, which would eventually come to a tragic end.
Was it Karma that got Katy? Can anyone have a fast-tracked career as a media darling and continue to enjoy a relationship of the romantic variety that is 100 per cent morally correct?
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Jury is Out
“Is everything OK?”, said the foreign waiter in a tone that mortified me. I wasn’t in the city. I wasn’t in the suburbs either. I was somewhere in between that was so undefined it unsettled me. I was sitting in a wicker chair: fragile and unstable, and ready to break at any given moment.
“Yes, everything’s perfect”, I said, grateful that I could at least convince a perfect stranger it was the truth. Truth was, everything was far from perfect. I was in romantic limbo, the place in a relationship where you realise you can’t go on but neither can you terminate.
I had no clue what I was going to do, but this week like no other, my body had announced to me that I was going to arrive at a decision. Such decisions can be pondered over for weeks, months, even years, but sometimes, in love, there are emergencies of the heart.
The Other Party, I was sure, was confused about why I needed, right now, to make a change. I was confused too, but sometimes, you just have to trust your gut feeling. Sometimes, your mind cannot rationalise a decision.
They say that in lifetime you have just two great loves. How do you define a great love, I had to wonder. Is it a love that feels comfortable and safe, or is it a love that grips you, insists that you take part, and makes you feel every feeling you’d never before experienced, both positive and negative. If it was the latter, I guessed that I was in the midst of experiencing the Great Love of the 21st Century.
Ten minutes later, my coffee arrived. It was 8:30am and in this part of town, no-one was sitting-in. I should be grateful that I have the time to ponder my life in such depth, I decided.
“Sometimes you just need a break, right?”, I questioned of my 19-going-on-30 friend Lora some hours later, waiting for our beers to arrive. “Sweetheart, you are a single man in a relationship. It’s not fair to anyone”, she announced, swinging her Prada, so enormous it could have been luggage, I believed.
I was at risk of becoming fatally dissatisfied through ignorance of the situation and yet, acknowledging it would create deep unhappiness for the Other Party. It was true: the ball was in my court, and for once, I had no idea what to do with it. Maybe Lora was right, maybe I was out of the game already in my own mind, and so there was no decision to make.
And then I wondered, had I consulted too many opinions on the subject? Had I become so acutely aware of the opinions of others that I had completely lost the ability to acknowledge my own? Would my relationship make or break on the basis of a survey?
It is a terrible thing to find yourself in a position where other peoples feelings will dictate your actions. It is a sign of weakness, I told myself. Maybe, it was goodness at one point, but not anymore. I had been worn down. Those who exercise goodness and a Mr Nice Guy attitude too liberally will be taken advantage of by some characters that crop up in life, and the fault is their own.
In friendships it happens all the time, but at least in friendships the Sex Haze doesn’t exist. You can make a logical decision and usually it’s “Bye-bye Polly” without a parting kiss. With relationships of the romantic variety, it’s more complicated.
It’s a great thing to be Mr Nice Guy when you’re telling your sweetheart that you know no-one in the world that is greater than them, and you mean it too. It’s not such a great thing however, when you find yourself trapped and feeling like you’re being suffocated by an 800-count Egyptian cotton duvet cover.
You are trapped because by leaving--there are several comic exit lines to do this--you are causing potentially harmful damage to the Other Party. By staying, you are causing potentially harmful damage to yourself. It’s all sort of, “I love you sweetheart, but I love me more”.
Three days, two clubs and one party later, I decided that you can listen to the defendant, and you can listen to your friends--the jury you rely on to produce a rational and impartial verdict--but at the end of the day, you are the best judge of your own fate. “The jury is out”, I said aloud, “but times-a-ticking”.
“Yes, everything’s perfect”, I said, grateful that I could at least convince a perfect stranger it was the truth. Truth was, everything was far from perfect. I was in romantic limbo, the place in a relationship where you realise you can’t go on but neither can you terminate.
I had no clue what I was going to do, but this week like no other, my body had announced to me that I was going to arrive at a decision. Such decisions can be pondered over for weeks, months, even years, but sometimes, in love, there are emergencies of the heart.
The Other Party, I was sure, was confused about why I needed, right now, to make a change. I was confused too, but sometimes, you just have to trust your gut feeling. Sometimes, your mind cannot rationalise a decision.
They say that in lifetime you have just two great loves. How do you define a great love, I had to wonder. Is it a love that feels comfortable and safe, or is it a love that grips you, insists that you take part, and makes you feel every feeling you’d never before experienced, both positive and negative. If it was the latter, I guessed that I was in the midst of experiencing the Great Love of the 21st Century.
Ten minutes later, my coffee arrived. It was 8:30am and in this part of town, no-one was sitting-in. I should be grateful that I have the time to ponder my life in such depth, I decided.
“Sometimes you just need a break, right?”, I questioned of my 19-going-on-30 friend Lora some hours later, waiting for our beers to arrive. “Sweetheart, you are a single man in a relationship. It’s not fair to anyone”, she announced, swinging her Prada, so enormous it could have been luggage, I believed.
I was at risk of becoming fatally dissatisfied through ignorance of the situation and yet, acknowledging it would create deep unhappiness for the Other Party. It was true: the ball was in my court, and for once, I had no idea what to do with it. Maybe Lora was right, maybe I was out of the game already in my own mind, and so there was no decision to make.
And then I wondered, had I consulted too many opinions on the subject? Had I become so acutely aware of the opinions of others that I had completely lost the ability to acknowledge my own? Would my relationship make or break on the basis of a survey?
It is a terrible thing to find yourself in a position where other peoples feelings will dictate your actions. It is a sign of weakness, I told myself. Maybe, it was goodness at one point, but not anymore. I had been worn down. Those who exercise goodness and a Mr Nice Guy attitude too liberally will be taken advantage of by some characters that crop up in life, and the fault is their own.
In friendships it happens all the time, but at least in friendships the Sex Haze doesn’t exist. You can make a logical decision and usually it’s “Bye-bye Polly” without a parting kiss. With relationships of the romantic variety, it’s more complicated.
It’s a great thing to be Mr Nice Guy when you’re telling your sweetheart that you know no-one in the world that is greater than them, and you mean it too. It’s not such a great thing however, when you find yourself trapped and feeling like you’re being suffocated by an 800-count Egyptian cotton duvet cover.
You are trapped because by leaving--there are several comic exit lines to do this--you are causing potentially harmful damage to the Other Party. By staying, you are causing potentially harmful damage to yourself. It’s all sort of, “I love you sweetheart, but I love me more”.
Three days, two clubs and one party later, I decided that you can listen to the defendant, and you can listen to your friends--the jury you rely on to produce a rational and impartial verdict--but at the end of the day, you are the best judge of your own fate. “The jury is out”, I said aloud, “but times-a-ticking”.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Say No to Joint Savings
“You have to be a cynic to be a journalist”. So said George Hook, in his raspy tone, during a talk to a group of journalism and public relations students in Dublin last week.
The reaction was mixed, to the talk itself, and more specifically to his comments. However, as we walked the daily walk down a tree-lined Leinster Road, a haven in an otherwise out of town ghetto, my friend Miriam; a journalist in progress, brought the subject of marriage to the table, for she was on her way to make a wedding purchase, for the requirement of her sister, not herself. And there we found ourselves, cynics in the making, speaking with negative expression as old Hook had insisted was necessary.
“I want to own [property] before marriage”, I announced, matter-of-factly. “Oh my goodness”, shrieked Miriam, usually calm and collected. “That is exactly how I feel. It’s like, no, I do not want a joint account", she added, aware that neither of us owned the desire to trade in our Volvos for Skodas as the divorce papers presented themselves. Of course, neither of us own Volvos now, but we shared the opinion that when we do, it’s til death do us part.
Call me pessimistic, or call me safe, but I would rather sit on that side of the verge. Maybe it’s something to do with working towards an artistic profession, whereby money doesn’t come easy, that I’m particularly fond of the idea of keeping hold of it when it eventually makes its way into my account.
I don’t want to spend many a year slaving at a middle market newspaper to enable me to afford a three-bed-semi to find myself suddenly in a bedsit when we have a severe disagreement over how many television sets should be in the house and suddenly realise it wasn’t meant to be after all.
Because in New Ireland, it comes down to the specifics in a relationship. And when the going gets tough, we’re all too familiar that there are few households on the commuter belt willing to stay together “for the kids”. No, sir, it’s bye-bye, Parochial Ireland.
They say pre-nuptials are unromantic, but as successful businessman and “face” of the music industry Simon Cowell told the Sunday Independent last weekend, “if I go into a relationship with an artist, we have a 100-page contract covering every eventuality, whereas with marriage you go into it with no contract, with laws that date back hundreds of years”.
One might expect, that a person like myself, who is as fond of little luxuries in life as much as the next potential media darling, to be perfectly satisfied to marry into a family that could offer to me the financial security, the kind that is so rarely available to artists of any kind. This is not my story, though. I choose not the easy ride, but that of eventual rewards.
And if there are luxuries in ten years time, at least I will know they are deserved. And if Miriam catches the bouquet at her sister’s eventual wedding, she can only hope and pray (or just hope, religion doesn’t exist in New Ireland) that the gent in question is willing to wait until the war-correspondent-to-be is stable in a Dublin 6 Pile of Bricks, enabling her to say an eventual “I do”. Except, of course, to a joint savings account at the AIB.
The reaction was mixed, to the talk itself, and more specifically to his comments. However, as we walked the daily walk down a tree-lined Leinster Road, a haven in an otherwise out of town ghetto, my friend Miriam; a journalist in progress, brought the subject of marriage to the table, for she was on her way to make a wedding purchase, for the requirement of her sister, not herself. And there we found ourselves, cynics in the making, speaking with negative expression as old Hook had insisted was necessary.
“I want to own [property] before marriage”, I announced, matter-of-factly. “Oh my goodness”, shrieked Miriam, usually calm and collected. “That is exactly how I feel. It’s like, no, I do not want a joint account", she added, aware that neither of us owned the desire to trade in our Volvos for Skodas as the divorce papers presented themselves. Of course, neither of us own Volvos now, but we shared the opinion that when we do, it’s til death do us part.
Call me pessimistic, or call me safe, but I would rather sit on that side of the verge. Maybe it’s something to do with working towards an artistic profession, whereby money doesn’t come easy, that I’m particularly fond of the idea of keeping hold of it when it eventually makes its way into my account.
I don’t want to spend many a year slaving at a middle market newspaper to enable me to afford a three-bed-semi to find myself suddenly in a bedsit when we have a severe disagreement over how many television sets should be in the house and suddenly realise it wasn’t meant to be after all.
Because in New Ireland, it comes down to the specifics in a relationship. And when the going gets tough, we’re all too familiar that there are few households on the commuter belt willing to stay together “for the kids”. No, sir, it’s bye-bye, Parochial Ireland.
They say pre-nuptials are unromantic, but as successful businessman and “face” of the music industry Simon Cowell told the Sunday Independent last weekend, “if I go into a relationship with an artist, we have a 100-page contract covering every eventuality, whereas with marriage you go into it with no contract, with laws that date back hundreds of years”.
One might expect, that a person like myself, who is as fond of little luxuries in life as much as the next potential media darling, to be perfectly satisfied to marry into a family that could offer to me the financial security, the kind that is so rarely available to artists of any kind. This is not my story, though. I choose not the easy ride, but that of eventual rewards.
And if there are luxuries in ten years time, at least I will know they are deserved. And if Miriam catches the bouquet at her sister’s eventual wedding, she can only hope and pray (or just hope, religion doesn’t exist in New Ireland) that the gent in question is willing to wait until the war-correspondent-to-be is stable in a Dublin 6 Pile of Bricks, enabling her to say an eventual “I do”. Except, of course, to a joint savings account at the AIB.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Good Conversation With Strangers
Recently, after more than two and a half years in a relationship, the lid was lifted on the box that had safely contained me for the duration.
I was pursued, by a relative stranger, who knew no more of me than my choice of clothing (7 jeans and a tee), and my choice of drink for the evening (vodka-tonic). And yet a distinctive interest existed, even after being informed by my present best friend, of my relationship status being a resounding “involved”.
What does it mean then, when a well-educated, fine-mannered individual, with evidently no malice intended, makes a bid for your heart, I had to wonder. “Let’s go someplace else”. “I can’t”, I whispered, “I have a situation”, I added, in my best ventriloquist’s impression, trying to avoid looking conspicuous to my shared company: my life partner in waiting.
Not “No. I’m in a relationship. A happily-ever-after relationship with bells on”. That would have been the ideal. But I knew there and then that the situation I had found myself in all of a sudden was far from ideal. Making matters worse, I was at the end of my vodka-tonic.
My best friend present did his very best in communicating messages, of a very polite manner I might add, between the two of us that night, in the dim-lit art-deco room, which was proving to be a venue for controversy as well as cocktails in these winter months.
I realised, I wanted to talk with the relative stranger. And in some ways, that was ok, but talking with a view to touching was not, and that needed to be known by the alternate party, I felt. Of course, my judgement was impaired by alcohol, and I decided that the best thing was to reveal my phone number on demand, before disappearing into the frosty air of South William Street. Conversations followed.
Articulate, I-could-really-bloody-get-to-know-you conversations. But by no means were they about relationships. They were about the music world, the book world, Irish culture, family, food, sports, the stock market. They were the conversations you can have only on those rare and wonderful first dates, when they are in fact not dates at all.
Now the conversations have ended (my choice), and I have once again closed the lid on my box. I am aware of the fact that no-one has been harmed by my actions, yet there is an underlying sense that I have scratched the paintwork of my relationship. It’s that same feeling I got when I scratched my Italian leather Prada wallet for the first time back in 2005. Perfection, or the illusion of it, has been snatched away.
My friends tell me I’m crazy, and the fact that I stopped at conversations makes me a saint of sorts. I’m no saint, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to hear your innocence proclaimed by your peers. Myself, I tend to believe that it has been a good thing.
I have been allowed to see my market value, I have been able to value my relationship for all that it is--many things that I took for granted, I am able to be thankful for--instead of all that it is not, and I have been able to value myself, which I believe, in some ways, was the true reason behind the sending of the Relative Stranger.
It has been said that we all need in our lives, to be validated by others. Maybe, every once in a while, when our worlds become polluted by negativity, it’s true. Maybe, we all just want good conversation with strangers.
I was pursued, by a relative stranger, who knew no more of me than my choice of clothing (7 jeans and a tee), and my choice of drink for the evening (vodka-tonic). And yet a distinctive interest existed, even after being informed by my present best friend, of my relationship status being a resounding “involved”.
What does it mean then, when a well-educated, fine-mannered individual, with evidently no malice intended, makes a bid for your heart, I had to wonder. “Let’s go someplace else”. “I can’t”, I whispered, “I have a situation”, I added, in my best ventriloquist’s impression, trying to avoid looking conspicuous to my shared company: my life partner in waiting.
Not “No. I’m in a relationship. A happily-ever-after relationship with bells on”. That would have been the ideal. But I knew there and then that the situation I had found myself in all of a sudden was far from ideal. Making matters worse, I was at the end of my vodka-tonic.
My best friend present did his very best in communicating messages, of a very polite manner I might add, between the two of us that night, in the dim-lit art-deco room, which was proving to be a venue for controversy as well as cocktails in these winter months.
I realised, I wanted to talk with the relative stranger. And in some ways, that was ok, but talking with a view to touching was not, and that needed to be known by the alternate party, I felt. Of course, my judgement was impaired by alcohol, and I decided that the best thing was to reveal my phone number on demand, before disappearing into the frosty air of South William Street. Conversations followed.
Articulate, I-could-really-bloody-get-to-know-you conversations. But by no means were they about relationships. They were about the music world, the book world, Irish culture, family, food, sports, the stock market. They were the conversations you can have only on those rare and wonderful first dates, when they are in fact not dates at all.
Now the conversations have ended (my choice), and I have once again closed the lid on my box. I am aware of the fact that no-one has been harmed by my actions, yet there is an underlying sense that I have scratched the paintwork of my relationship. It’s that same feeling I got when I scratched my Italian leather Prada wallet for the first time back in 2005. Perfection, or the illusion of it, has been snatched away.
My friends tell me I’m crazy, and the fact that I stopped at conversations makes me a saint of sorts. I’m no saint, but it certainly doesn’t hurt to hear your innocence proclaimed by your peers. Myself, I tend to believe that it has been a good thing.
I have been allowed to see my market value, I have been able to value my relationship for all that it is--many things that I took for granted, I am able to be thankful for--instead of all that it is not, and I have been able to value myself, which I believe, in some ways, was the true reason behind the sending of the Relative Stranger.
It has been said that we all need in our lives, to be validated by others. Maybe, every once in a while, when our worlds become polluted by negativity, it’s true. Maybe, we all just want good conversation with strangers.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Change of Character
Have you ever taken a long hard look at yourself and realised in one profound moment that you are not at all who you thought that you were?
I enjoyed (and I use the term loosely) this hilarious moment of clarity recently. There I was, not in the mirror, but at a bus stop, deprived of background music in my ears and with only the sound of the morning traffic to accompany my thoughts.
This weekend, and come to think of it, quite a few before it, had been, what I was choosing to refer to as “out of character” to friends of old and new, when speaking of the those 48 hours that had once again become an exciting part of life.
I was without doubt a shy child, but had become not so much rebellious as innovative in my early teenage years. I was sure of what it was that I stood for, but at the same time did not promote what it was that I stood for in the public arena, at that time, school. I just revelled in private at the fact--or rather the personal opinion--that I was my own person and not part of a flock, even if that did mean being shunned by the mainstream. I was laughing on the inside, perhaps prematurely.
My early teens had given way to a sort of tunnel-vision, overly-ambitious creature that understood rules, accepted them, and then decided those that one would follow, and those that one would break. Was I trying to be controversial? No, there was nothing to be gained in this. Was I just a narcissist? It’s possible, but there was definitely more to it than that.
It was at this point that I decided my beliefs and my values. It was at this point also, that I validated my ambitions and decided to simply go about them. It was at this point that I was sure I knew everything there was to know about myself. I realise today that it was just the beginning of life becoming an adult. I had become acutely aware of desire and also of pain. There I sat on my bedroom floor thinking of what might be, in the short and in the long-term, whilst listening to Dido’s No Angel, the “soundtrack to my life”.
Relationships with family and friends, and those that I was surrounded by in life, were passionate on both ends of the scale. This is still the case, at the age of 21, now officially an adult. I have met more people in the real world that I can relate to than was feasible within the constraints of school and a local suburban community. Relationships now too, had become easier and still more difficult than before.
Those that encouraged growth as a person, who made me feel optimistic and who made me think, were easy. They made me realise that I was right a few years ago when I had privately held the belief that there were other similar-minded individuals in the county that I would connect with, and not simply have surface conversations with.
Then there were the relationships that made me feel once again, slightly as if I could privately commentate on life, hold beliefs and thoughts, and yet not truly share them due to the knowledge that they would be met with one of two things: deemed outlandish, somewhat eccentric, or worse again, discarded without feeling.
But it didn’t matter. There would always be double-edged swords in life. And there would always be toxins, that was my belief at least. What really mattered was that here, in November, I was not behaving out of character, I was developing it.
The things that I thought I would never do--positive and negative--I was doing. And I was loving every minute of it.
There I sat on my bedroom floor thinking about what had been, in the near and distant past, whilst listening to Dido’s No Angel. A friend who I had known the first time I’d heard the record in my teens and still know today recently told me that I had changed. Maybe she was right. Maybe she had seen it before I was able to see it myself.
I enjoyed (and I use the term loosely) this hilarious moment of clarity recently. There I was, not in the mirror, but at a bus stop, deprived of background music in my ears and with only the sound of the morning traffic to accompany my thoughts.
This weekend, and come to think of it, quite a few before it, had been, what I was choosing to refer to as “out of character” to friends of old and new, when speaking of the those 48 hours that had once again become an exciting part of life.
I was without doubt a shy child, but had become not so much rebellious as innovative in my early teenage years. I was sure of what it was that I stood for, but at the same time did not promote what it was that I stood for in the public arena, at that time, school. I just revelled in private at the fact--or rather the personal opinion--that I was my own person and not part of a flock, even if that did mean being shunned by the mainstream. I was laughing on the inside, perhaps prematurely.
My early teens had given way to a sort of tunnel-vision, overly-ambitious creature that understood rules, accepted them, and then decided those that one would follow, and those that one would break. Was I trying to be controversial? No, there was nothing to be gained in this. Was I just a narcissist? It’s possible, but there was definitely more to it than that.
It was at this point that I decided my beliefs and my values. It was at this point also, that I validated my ambitions and decided to simply go about them. It was at this point that I was sure I knew everything there was to know about myself. I realise today that it was just the beginning of life becoming an adult. I had become acutely aware of desire and also of pain. There I sat on my bedroom floor thinking of what might be, in the short and in the long-term, whilst listening to Dido’s No Angel, the “soundtrack to my life”.
Relationships with family and friends, and those that I was surrounded by in life, were passionate on both ends of the scale. This is still the case, at the age of 21, now officially an adult. I have met more people in the real world that I can relate to than was feasible within the constraints of school and a local suburban community. Relationships now too, had become easier and still more difficult than before.
Those that encouraged growth as a person, who made me feel optimistic and who made me think, were easy. They made me realise that I was right a few years ago when I had privately held the belief that there were other similar-minded individuals in the county that I would connect with, and not simply have surface conversations with.
Then there were the relationships that made me feel once again, slightly as if I could privately commentate on life, hold beliefs and thoughts, and yet not truly share them due to the knowledge that they would be met with one of two things: deemed outlandish, somewhat eccentric, or worse again, discarded without feeling.
But it didn’t matter. There would always be double-edged swords in life. And there would always be toxins, that was my belief at least. What really mattered was that here, in November, I was not behaving out of character, I was developing it.
The things that I thought I would never do--positive and negative--I was doing. And I was loving every minute of it.
There I sat on my bedroom floor thinking about what had been, in the near and distant past, whilst listening to Dido’s No Angel. A friend who I had known the first time I’d heard the record in my teens and still know today recently told me that I had changed. Maybe she was right. Maybe she had seen it before I was able to see it myself.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Textual Assault
Why do we have to live in a society where our every move is broken down, scrutinized, and decided upon as being acceptable or unacceptable?
I’ve chosen to advocate this concept, you might say, like the unacknowledged choice to become popular and endorse popular kids rules and regulations, and so I deserve everything I get, right? We’re not kids anymore though, and really, shouldn’t we have moved on by now?
When is it that we’re allowed to stop playing silly games and start to favor clever adult life? We’re in our twenties. This is our prime. This is our prime and we know it. We have chosen to carry on like Californian Valley kids, despite the fact that this--Dublin--is not the real Orange County. It’s not even close.
There may be faux Valley-girl accents and fake bake, and there may be upper crust surfer dude slurs and slang, but the fact of the matter is, this is as close to resemblance as we’re getting to our buffed-up Aberzombies across the Atlantic.
Dating is complicated, not dating even more so. So is it any wonder we’ve been sent into a frenzy, trying to get things in order by deciding on what can be done in the dating world, and what cannot. The first impression is important, of course, but so too is the second.
Let’s be hypothetical. We’ve exchanged phone numbers. “Digits”, in Valley-speak. There has been text-based communication. “Which college do you go to?” is either a polite--although surely it’s unlikely politeness exists within these circles--“I’m not that interested in you as a potential lover” or maybe, one would hope, it is just another way of determining your status before any further action is taken. They say 30-something's want a HIV-test and an ATM receipt before they agree on a second date, maybe 20’s somethings just need to know the educational institution you attend.
So what happens then, when there is a drop off in text conversation? Is it socially acceptable for he or she at the would-be receiving end to text twice in a row? Is it as Valley guys would say, “liable of landing you in a court room for Textual Assault”?
Surely not! What if, you’ve already opened the deal with a kiss or three? This defines the shared human relationship as “kissing”, Valley-talk for the phase where you are not quite “seeing” someone, nor are you friends.
The nerds--I mean, smart kids--always did say that they would be winners one day. The popular kids laughed in their faces. And maybe they were right. Maybe they’ve paired off, lost the puppy fat, and are today laugh-snorting into their Star Trek lunch boxes at the expense of the petty preppies.
For it is the preppies that established this dating code, and have failed to update the rulebook. Playing by the rules of a school kid in your twenties just isn’t going to fly. At least it isn’t my belief that this can be the foundation of a serious relationship.
So unless there’s a textbook-type out there willing to have you--if only for research purposes--you’re looking at 30-40 years of hardcore game-play.
I’ve chosen to advocate this concept, you might say, like the unacknowledged choice to become popular and endorse popular kids rules and regulations, and so I deserve everything I get, right? We’re not kids anymore though, and really, shouldn’t we have moved on by now?
When is it that we’re allowed to stop playing silly games and start to favor clever adult life? We’re in our twenties. This is our prime. This is our prime and we know it. We have chosen to carry on like Californian Valley kids, despite the fact that this--Dublin--is not the real Orange County. It’s not even close.
There may be faux Valley-girl accents and fake bake, and there may be upper crust surfer dude slurs and slang, but the fact of the matter is, this is as close to resemblance as we’re getting to our buffed-up Aberzombies across the Atlantic.
Dating is complicated, not dating even more so. So is it any wonder we’ve been sent into a frenzy, trying to get things in order by deciding on what can be done in the dating world, and what cannot. The first impression is important, of course, but so too is the second.
Let’s be hypothetical. We’ve exchanged phone numbers. “Digits”, in Valley-speak. There has been text-based communication. “Which college do you go to?” is either a polite--although surely it’s unlikely politeness exists within these circles--“I’m not that interested in you as a potential lover” or maybe, one would hope, it is just another way of determining your status before any further action is taken. They say 30-something's want a HIV-test and an ATM receipt before they agree on a second date, maybe 20’s somethings just need to know the educational institution you attend.
So what happens then, when there is a drop off in text conversation? Is it socially acceptable for he or she at the would-be receiving end to text twice in a row? Is it as Valley guys would say, “liable of landing you in a court room for Textual Assault”?
Surely not! What if, you’ve already opened the deal with a kiss or three? This defines the shared human relationship as “kissing”, Valley-talk for the phase where you are not quite “seeing” someone, nor are you friends.
The nerds--I mean, smart kids--always did say that they would be winners one day. The popular kids laughed in their faces. And maybe they were right. Maybe they’ve paired off, lost the puppy fat, and are today laugh-snorting into their Star Trek lunch boxes at the expense of the petty preppies.
For it is the preppies that established this dating code, and have failed to update the rulebook. Playing by the rules of a school kid in your twenties just isn’t going to fly. At least it isn’t my belief that this can be the foundation of a serious relationship.
So unless there’s a textbook-type out there willing to have you--if only for research purposes--you’re looking at 30-40 years of hardcore game-play.
Monday, October 22, 2007
The Hours of Desire
It was a Sunday morning and I was walking along Grafton Street. The weather was cold. Wet and cold. There was a frost air that I considered confirmation that October had arrived.
There were many matters to be attended to. There was the college assignment, there was the research. There was the fact that I had not been to the gym or played sports of any kind in many months, and was hiding a few inches of winter weight under my three-quarter length black coat, soaked.
There were the credit card bills that would not be paid in full this month. There was the day that lay ahead, nine hours of work that were at best irrelevant. There were the words that had to be told to Significant Other. The dreaded words.
“I can’t see you tonight”.
And that was the worst part. I could deal with the rain and the sodden coat and the irrelevance of the work and the bills that would not be paid. It was the words. As the days go by, I find myself saying “next week will be better”, like an over-booked socialite. What happens in life, I had to wonder, when it is required of you to fulfil a number of different roles which are both demanding and important in some capacities.
Do you focus on being wonderful at work? Paying intricate attention to detail despite the fact that your salary is something even you sneer at? Do you pretend that it will all take care of itself and take in a double vodka Martini with your urban friends? Or do you believe that indeed the meaning of life is love and nestle with Significant Other and forget about the world, as those acknowledging it continue to run with scissors.
You have to think about it. But you also have to understand that there will be an end point for thinking and a beginning for deciding.
But it’s decisions that many of us in 20-something Dublin find ourselves incapable of making. We know what it is that we want. We want to be able to fund our social lives. And so we work. We want “guys nights out”, and we don’t want to have to explain it. We want to go on dinner dates, and to the theatre and to wonderful concerts and on mini-breaks to New York and Milan. We want to be educated and to take in the finest books and the broadest quality of music. We so badly want it all, and that is that.
And it was this that made me realise. I had made a decision. I had decided not to decide just yet. I would have a hamper-style life containing a little bit of everything that I loved and liked. And at some point I would decide to endorse one or two or three of the contained items, and to put the others aside. But for now, want was enough. The want alone, the desire. The desire to have it all and to maintain it all so beautifully and with elegance and poise was what made life “just fantastic” on a wet morning on Grafton Street.
There were the hours ahead. Of work. There were the hours ahead. Of explanation. There were the hours ahead. Of saying the words that one did not want at all to say. The were the hours ahead. Of desire. And it was this that allowed me to smile.
There were many matters to be attended to. There was the college assignment, there was the research. There was the fact that I had not been to the gym or played sports of any kind in many months, and was hiding a few inches of winter weight under my three-quarter length black coat, soaked.
There were the credit card bills that would not be paid in full this month. There was the day that lay ahead, nine hours of work that were at best irrelevant. There were the words that had to be told to Significant Other. The dreaded words.
“I can’t see you tonight”.
And that was the worst part. I could deal with the rain and the sodden coat and the irrelevance of the work and the bills that would not be paid. It was the words. As the days go by, I find myself saying “next week will be better”, like an over-booked socialite. What happens in life, I had to wonder, when it is required of you to fulfil a number of different roles which are both demanding and important in some capacities.
Do you focus on being wonderful at work? Paying intricate attention to detail despite the fact that your salary is something even you sneer at? Do you pretend that it will all take care of itself and take in a double vodka Martini with your urban friends? Or do you believe that indeed the meaning of life is love and nestle with Significant Other and forget about the world, as those acknowledging it continue to run with scissors.
You have to think about it. But you also have to understand that there will be an end point for thinking and a beginning for deciding.
But it’s decisions that many of us in 20-something Dublin find ourselves incapable of making. We know what it is that we want. We want to be able to fund our social lives. And so we work. We want “guys nights out”, and we don’t want to have to explain it. We want to go on dinner dates, and to the theatre and to wonderful concerts and on mini-breaks to New York and Milan. We want to be educated and to take in the finest books and the broadest quality of music. We so badly want it all, and that is that.
And it was this that made me realise. I had made a decision. I had decided not to decide just yet. I would have a hamper-style life containing a little bit of everything that I loved and liked. And at some point I would decide to endorse one or two or three of the contained items, and to put the others aside. But for now, want was enough. The want alone, the desire. The desire to have it all and to maintain it all so beautifully and with elegance and poise was what made life “just fantastic” on a wet morning on Grafton Street.
There were the hours ahead. Of work. There were the hours ahead. Of explanation. There were the hours ahead. Of saying the words that one did not want at all to say. The were the hours ahead. Of desire. And it was this that allowed me to smile.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Ex and the Liffey
That’s the thing about Dublin city. Once you’ve known someone, it’s difficult to not know them. It’s a small, intimate county, sometimes so intimate that it’s possible to meet your ex-boss at lunch and your ex-lover at cocktail hour, all in a day.
The social scene of Dublin is undoubtedly divided in a similar way to most other cosmopolitan cities in the world. There’s the “it” places, and there’s the “not it” places. It’s pretty much black and white, but it’s by no means simple. Soon enough, at say 19 or 20, you find the scene that fits you best, and make friends, not to mention dates, with those who fill the bars, coffee shops and restaurants you frequent.
What happens though, when the friendships turn sour and the dates become just that - a string of dinners, drinks, mueseum openings and movies with stranger after stranger? What happens, I have noticed, is that you never can say “I am never seeing that person again”, because most likely you will.
In a few short days last week I managed to take what I considered to be an unnecessary trip down Memory Lane. On yet another Summer morning disguised by rain, wind and general dreariness, I huddled into my usual coffee haunt. There she was, on front of me in the line of impatient workers waiting for their caffeine fix: the dreaded ex-boss.
There she was, with her unmistakable ash brown hair, black twin-set and pearl necklace. She looked around, as though she had sensed being looked at. I looked at her, a moment passed as we both decided whether or not to bother being falsely nice to each other. The “Hi how are you?” that came from both our formerly pursed lips indicated that we both cared far too much about the circles we moved in to ignore each other merely because an actual disliking existed.
Two cappuccinos and ten hours later, the last thing on my mind was that another, much more painful type of ex would be drinking another, much stronger drink mere inches away from me. As I stood beside the bar of a popular city centre dancing haunt, sipping a vodka-soda which was far too light for my liking, Beloved moved backward on sighting of a former lover. It was then that I realised, it happens to everyone, ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends living on the island were bumping into each other left, right and centre, and they were even engaging in flowery conversation.
And there it was, the first lover. It wasn’t love, or was it? Maybe lust. It didn’t even matter. After all, it had only been a couple of months, almost three years ago. What mattered was that I was here now, standing on front of an ex and wondering what the appropriate level of engagement would be. A perfunctory hello allowed me to stop wondering and set the bar for my response. It seemed so odd that two people could share a bed, each others bodies, thoughts and lives for a time, only to avoid any sort of real communication upon their next encounter.
Did it signify something, I questioned. Why did I even care? I cared because it felt like opening the Sunday newspapers to find no comment columns on the week’s news - it wasn’t something that was required, but it was a nice touch.
Later that night, I realised, it’s difficult to not know someone you had once known, but maybe it was possible to acknowledge someone you had known a lot of, very little.
The social scene of Dublin is undoubtedly divided in a similar way to most other cosmopolitan cities in the world. There’s the “it” places, and there’s the “not it” places. It’s pretty much black and white, but it’s by no means simple. Soon enough, at say 19 or 20, you find the scene that fits you best, and make friends, not to mention dates, with those who fill the bars, coffee shops and restaurants you frequent.
What happens though, when the friendships turn sour and the dates become just that - a string of dinners, drinks, mueseum openings and movies with stranger after stranger? What happens, I have noticed, is that you never can say “I am never seeing that person again”, because most likely you will.
In a few short days last week I managed to take what I considered to be an unnecessary trip down Memory Lane. On yet another Summer morning disguised by rain, wind and general dreariness, I huddled into my usual coffee haunt. There she was, on front of me in the line of impatient workers waiting for their caffeine fix: the dreaded ex-boss.
There she was, with her unmistakable ash brown hair, black twin-set and pearl necklace. She looked around, as though she had sensed being looked at. I looked at her, a moment passed as we both decided whether or not to bother being falsely nice to each other. The “Hi how are you?” that came from both our formerly pursed lips indicated that we both cared far too much about the circles we moved in to ignore each other merely because an actual disliking existed.
Two cappuccinos and ten hours later, the last thing on my mind was that another, much more painful type of ex would be drinking another, much stronger drink mere inches away from me. As I stood beside the bar of a popular city centre dancing haunt, sipping a vodka-soda which was far too light for my liking, Beloved moved backward on sighting of a former lover. It was then that I realised, it happens to everyone, ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends living on the island were bumping into each other left, right and centre, and they were even engaging in flowery conversation.
And there it was, the first lover. It wasn’t love, or was it? Maybe lust. It didn’t even matter. After all, it had only been a couple of months, almost three years ago. What mattered was that I was here now, standing on front of an ex and wondering what the appropriate level of engagement would be. A perfunctory hello allowed me to stop wondering and set the bar for my response. It seemed so odd that two people could share a bed, each others bodies, thoughts and lives for a time, only to avoid any sort of real communication upon their next encounter.
Did it signify something, I questioned. Why did I even care? I cared because it felt like opening the Sunday newspapers to find no comment columns on the week’s news - it wasn’t something that was required, but it was a nice touch.
Later that night, I realised, it’s difficult to not know someone you had once known, but maybe it was possible to acknowledge someone you had known a lot of, very little.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Simon Says "Game Over"
It is recommended that you read the previous columns listed below before reading the following column:
The Reason To Rebound
No Pressure Over Cappuccino
Midweek, 12 noon, a rare opportunity arose where the sun stayed out long enough over Dublin city centre for myself and Simon (my highly educated, highly frustrated friend) to eat lunch in the great outdoors of South William Street.
As the tables began to fill and our fiery-haired waitress approached to take our order, I realised that I had not yet glanced at the menu, for there were far more pressing items on the agenda: Simon's love-life, circa the last three months.
The couple, who split in January this year one week after my 21st intimate birthday dinner at the Morrison (coincidentally under that very roof), reconcilliated their love at the beginning of the summer, and while I was apprehensive, I was glad to see Simon glow once again. Not for long, it would seem.
In Simon's eyes, the reunion would mean that the couple could resume couple-oriented activities, you know, kissing, sex...and mini breaks. Mini-breaks, Simon would soon discover, were the only thing on the menu. I sympathised, and yet I wondered what was the underlying problem of the Dark Lord that meant sextra curricular activities must be ruled out. I couldn't help but wonder, had the fact that Simon had made the decision to dump the Dark Lord back in January encouraged growth in the gaping hole that was the Dark Lord's self-esteem?
That lack of self-esteem was endearing at first, though with self-esteem, come side-effects. He possessing the low esteem requires the feeling of control, and when that control is given, well, everything is hunky dory. However, when control is taken away, out comes the self esteem monster...revenge.
The well disguised revenge included a "no labels" rule. Simon was in hell. Well, he was in Aldi when he really wanted to be in Superquinn, and let's face it, that's pretty much the same thing. "This is not a relationship, it's a trial", said the Dark Lord. Simon couldn't help but feel like a lab rat. Pessimism, naturally, was order of the day, and sprinkled on the relationship, apologies, "not relationship" at any given opportunity.
Suffice to say, after his fun, the Dark Lord decided that the flight home from said mini break was the ideal moment to terminate the relationship. As I had suggested weeks prior, this would happen at a time when it was least expected by Simon, just to allow the Dark Lord have added kicks.
Simon, once again, had been booted, full force, out of the driver seat. "I just feel, had I not gone back into it the first time I would be totally over the entire issue now", he told me, toying with his fish cakes, which at this point were as cold as his love life. "And now, I'm here, basically hijacked", he said despairingly.
"Well there's only one thing you can do now", I interrupted. "And that is to viciously cut the toxic Dark Lord out of your life, if not for good, for an extended period".
"You know what", my anxiety-ridden friend announced, sounding more powerful than before, "Simon Says Game Over".
And just like that, I realised, I had hardly touched my Tandoori Chicken, which was still mid air on fork, for I was far too busy devouring the contents of Simon's non-labelled mess. It re-enforces the thought that, we are far more interested in stories of doom and gloom that those of hope and happiness.
The Reason To Rebound
No Pressure Over Cappuccino
Midweek, 12 noon, a rare opportunity arose where the sun stayed out long enough over Dublin city centre for myself and Simon (my highly educated, highly frustrated friend) to eat lunch in the great outdoors of South William Street.
As the tables began to fill and our fiery-haired waitress approached to take our order, I realised that I had not yet glanced at the menu, for there were far more pressing items on the agenda: Simon's love-life, circa the last three months.
The couple, who split in January this year one week after my 21st intimate birthday dinner at the Morrison (coincidentally under that very roof), reconcilliated their love at the beginning of the summer, and while I was apprehensive, I was glad to see Simon glow once again. Not for long, it would seem.
In Simon's eyes, the reunion would mean that the couple could resume couple-oriented activities, you know, kissing, sex...and mini breaks. Mini-breaks, Simon would soon discover, were the only thing on the menu. I sympathised, and yet I wondered what was the underlying problem of the Dark Lord that meant sextra curricular activities must be ruled out. I couldn't help but wonder, had the fact that Simon had made the decision to dump the Dark Lord back in January encouraged growth in the gaping hole that was the Dark Lord's self-esteem?
That lack of self-esteem was endearing at first, though with self-esteem, come side-effects. He possessing the low esteem requires the feeling of control, and when that control is given, well, everything is hunky dory. However, when control is taken away, out comes the self esteem monster...revenge.
The well disguised revenge included a "no labels" rule. Simon was in hell. Well, he was in Aldi when he really wanted to be in Superquinn, and let's face it, that's pretty much the same thing. "This is not a relationship, it's a trial", said the Dark Lord. Simon couldn't help but feel like a lab rat. Pessimism, naturally, was order of the day, and sprinkled on the relationship, apologies, "not relationship" at any given opportunity.
Suffice to say, after his fun, the Dark Lord decided that the flight home from said mini break was the ideal moment to terminate the relationship. As I had suggested weeks prior, this would happen at a time when it was least expected by Simon, just to allow the Dark Lord have added kicks.
Simon, once again, had been booted, full force, out of the driver seat. "I just feel, had I not gone back into it the first time I would be totally over the entire issue now", he told me, toying with his fish cakes, which at this point were as cold as his love life. "And now, I'm here, basically hijacked", he said despairingly.
"Well there's only one thing you can do now", I interrupted. "And that is to viciously cut the toxic Dark Lord out of your life, if not for good, for an extended period".
"You know what", my anxiety-ridden friend announced, sounding more powerful than before, "Simon Says Game Over".
And just like that, I realised, I had hardly touched my Tandoori Chicken, which was still mid air on fork, for I was far too busy devouring the contents of Simon's non-labelled mess. It re-enforces the thought that, we are far more interested in stories of doom and gloom that those of hope and happiness.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
One Child Warrants Many Remarks
What is the first thing that comes to mind when I say "only child"? Spoiled? Loner? Selfish parents? Smart parents? These are a few of the remarks I have heard in the past when innocently uttering the words "I'm an only child".
The most common of course is the spoiled remark. Everyone thinks it, and is totally willing to say it without any apprehension - to the face of you, the only child, or more hilariously, to the parents of said child. Would these people turn to a large struggling family and suggest "I bet you're scraping by with all those kids of yours?" I dare to guess, they would not.
If you're the eldest child of the family, there is little to be said, the youngest prompts the nowadays expected "ah, the baby!" and rarely further discussion. Maybe then, the only child shares more with the middle child, as unlikely as that might seem.
The middle child is the opposite of the only child in some ways, though it remains somewhat less spoken of. The odd "ooh the middle child (insert poor him/her sympathetic comment or expression)" occurs, and perhaps due to it being a negative subject, there is more to be said.
So what then, about only children being sad loners? Recently, my suspicion that the only child is in fact a happy loner, has been supported. The connotation with loner is negative, naturally, but why is this the case? Recently, I heard of another only child, aged in his 40s, who had remarkably similar views on the matter of time to oneself.
Patrick, a businessman, is way beyond being a loner. He's married, for one, and has children. When his children strayed the family home and wife packed her suitcase and took off on a "girls weekend", there were no questions being asked. Patrick was happy to put his golf clubs in the car and take off - alone. No invitations to friends or associates. The house didn't feel empty either, he promised. I believed him.
This confirmed my theory (well, as much as any case study can confirm a theory), that the only child is often more suitably equipped, and therefore able to be alone, and more importantly, to be happy about it.
The third and fourth remarks, the "what selfish parents they/you are" (these people are brazen!), and "they/you were the clever ones", are purely a matter of opinion, though in the view of many only children and their parents out there, not an opinion that needs to be discussed.
Why should how many children you choose to deliver be any different to one's decision to become vegetarian, or to purchase ridiculously expensive Prada shoes which remain in their box for all eternity. People: you know who you are - it's not your stomach, it's not your money, and it most certainly isn't your family!
The most common of course is the spoiled remark. Everyone thinks it, and is totally willing to say it without any apprehension - to the face of you, the only child, or more hilariously, to the parents of said child. Would these people turn to a large struggling family and suggest "I bet you're scraping by with all those kids of yours?" I dare to guess, they would not.
If you're the eldest child of the family, there is little to be said, the youngest prompts the nowadays expected "ah, the baby!" and rarely further discussion. Maybe then, the only child shares more with the middle child, as unlikely as that might seem.
The middle child is the opposite of the only child in some ways, though it remains somewhat less spoken of. The odd "ooh the middle child (insert poor him/her sympathetic comment or expression)" occurs, and perhaps due to it being a negative subject, there is more to be said.
So what then, about only children being sad loners? Recently, my suspicion that the only child is in fact a happy loner, has been supported. The connotation with loner is negative, naturally, but why is this the case? Recently, I heard of another only child, aged in his 40s, who had remarkably similar views on the matter of time to oneself.
Patrick, a businessman, is way beyond being a loner. He's married, for one, and has children. When his children strayed the family home and wife packed her suitcase and took off on a "girls weekend", there were no questions being asked. Patrick was happy to put his golf clubs in the car and take off - alone. No invitations to friends or associates. The house didn't feel empty either, he promised. I believed him.
This confirmed my theory (well, as much as any case study can confirm a theory), that the only child is often more suitably equipped, and therefore able to be alone, and more importantly, to be happy about it.
The third and fourth remarks, the "what selfish parents they/you are" (these people are brazen!), and "they/you were the clever ones", are purely a matter of opinion, though in the view of many only children and their parents out there, not an opinion that needs to be discussed.
Why should how many children you choose to deliver be any different to one's decision to become vegetarian, or to purchase ridiculously expensive Prada shoes which remain in their box for all eternity. People: you know who you are - it's not your stomach, it's not your money, and it most certainly isn't your family!
Thursday, May 24, 2007
The Comfort Zone
And so it is polling day again, almost one month since the Dail was dissolved by our President Mary McAleese on the advice of the Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern TD. The sky is grey (normal), the traffic is fierce (normal) and everyone in Ireland is complaining about something (it's in our blood).
Our Taoiseach of ten years, Bertie "Average Joe" Ahern, has spent the majority of his time trying to defend himself (the personal finances crisis of last September has only now lowered its ugly head)--and the reputation of his party, Fianna Fail, against attacks regarding the quite profound state of our health system (Ireland is a developed country, did you know?)
Defending, indeed, is what Bertie has been doing. He has, however, failed to answer questions directly, beating about the bush and charming his way out in a fashion resembling a pop star after excessive media training.
Perhaps, it is this charm that has sent a considerable amount of the Irish population into a love-sick state. Bertie has once again charmed us, and we are putty in his fingers. And like a romantic relationship, we are completely blind to what is truly going on.
It takes someone externally to enable us to realise that we are indeed, acting like a very large bunch of pre-pubescent girls. And we cannot deny, this has occurred, more prominently in the later stages of this year’s election campaign.
The media, not the independent broadcasters, with a tendency to border on bias, but our national public service broadcaster, RTE, and our most popular print institution, the Irish Independent, have been pushing the envelope, and the concept of voting for an alternative government--Fine Gael, coupled with…actually, almost anyone who can pull in the figures will do--upon our public.
No-one needs to be told that when an admired film critic recommends a new picture highly, one is far more likely to flock to the cinema with friends, but is the same true of a political journalist--or in the case of this year, any journalist at all--recommending a certain political party?
Perhaps, there are people of our green island who don’t exactly love the idea of being told a film is a “must-see”, and it is those people, who in many cases don’t know their politics from their polo-neck, will trot to their local polling place and give their vote to Bertie Ahern, the man who can do no wrong, even when he does.
It is, I might suggest, also some of these people, who are fond of the comfort zone, who, upon finding a job whilst isn’t particularly satisfying, though pays a stable wage, will close the door, and in turn their minds, on the potential possibilities change can offer. Some call it sensible, others call it safe.
Change, you see, brings nervousness, though nervousness should almost always be embraced, for as soon as we become satisfied, we become complacent, and complacency can only lead to a decline in success.
The question it comes down to is: “Are you satisfied?”. Are you satisfied that our health system, specifically our resources (unused, ignored) for cystic fibrosis, allow sufferers to live until on average the age of 21. In Northern Ireland, sufferers can live until 33. In the United States a patient can expect to live into their late forties. It is the primitive conditions in our hospitals that kill our Irish children.
Are you satisfied that the person who is supposed to make promises for our votes is instead claiming we should congratulate him on the matter? I have to wonder, does this sound like a man who intends on making improvements?
Unfortunately, being the rebellious and cantankerous nation that we are, the kind who whinge endlessly about politicians, journalists, taxi drivers and the weather, we will give our votes to Ahern instead of the slightly “advantaged” media, and the media, in turn, will move on to rebelling against someone else.
We can be thankful that the publicity stunts, the relentless canvassing and the colossal media coverage has ended, but will we play it safe, and allow Bertie to lead Fianna Fail for another term, a little like Ireland’s highly-rated and highest-paid journalist Kevin Myers remarked, is not entirely different than being the leader of argumentative headhunters in Papua-New-Guinea, or will we take our feet off first base in order to reach second?
Like the clichéd tones of our leader might announce, “only time will tell”.
Our Taoiseach of ten years, Bertie "Average Joe" Ahern, has spent the majority of his time trying to defend himself (the personal finances crisis of last September has only now lowered its ugly head)--and the reputation of his party, Fianna Fail, against attacks regarding the quite profound state of our health system (Ireland is a developed country, did you know?)
Defending, indeed, is what Bertie has been doing. He has, however, failed to answer questions directly, beating about the bush and charming his way out in a fashion resembling a pop star after excessive media training.
Perhaps, it is this charm that has sent a considerable amount of the Irish population into a love-sick state. Bertie has once again charmed us, and we are putty in his fingers. And like a romantic relationship, we are completely blind to what is truly going on.
It takes someone externally to enable us to realise that we are indeed, acting like a very large bunch of pre-pubescent girls. And we cannot deny, this has occurred, more prominently in the later stages of this year’s election campaign.
The media, not the independent broadcasters, with a tendency to border on bias, but our national public service broadcaster, RTE, and our most popular print institution, the Irish Independent, have been pushing the envelope, and the concept of voting for an alternative government--Fine Gael, coupled with…actually, almost anyone who can pull in the figures will do--upon our public.
No-one needs to be told that when an admired film critic recommends a new picture highly, one is far more likely to flock to the cinema with friends, but is the same true of a political journalist--or in the case of this year, any journalist at all--recommending a certain political party?
Perhaps, there are people of our green island who don’t exactly love the idea of being told a film is a “must-see”, and it is those people, who in many cases don’t know their politics from their polo-neck, will trot to their local polling place and give their vote to Bertie Ahern, the man who can do no wrong, even when he does.
It is, I might suggest, also some of these people, who are fond of the comfort zone, who, upon finding a job whilst isn’t particularly satisfying, though pays a stable wage, will close the door, and in turn their minds, on the potential possibilities change can offer. Some call it sensible, others call it safe.
Change, you see, brings nervousness, though nervousness should almost always be embraced, for as soon as we become satisfied, we become complacent, and complacency can only lead to a decline in success.
The question it comes down to is: “Are you satisfied?”. Are you satisfied that our health system, specifically our resources (unused, ignored) for cystic fibrosis, allow sufferers to live until on average the age of 21. In Northern Ireland, sufferers can live until 33. In the United States a patient can expect to live into their late forties. It is the primitive conditions in our hospitals that kill our Irish children.
Are you satisfied that the person who is supposed to make promises for our votes is instead claiming we should congratulate him on the matter? I have to wonder, does this sound like a man who intends on making improvements?
Unfortunately, being the rebellious and cantankerous nation that we are, the kind who whinge endlessly about politicians, journalists, taxi drivers and the weather, we will give our votes to Ahern instead of the slightly “advantaged” media, and the media, in turn, will move on to rebelling against someone else.
We can be thankful that the publicity stunts, the relentless canvassing and the colossal media coverage has ended, but will we play it safe, and allow Bertie to lead Fianna Fail for another term, a little like Ireland’s highly-rated and highest-paid journalist Kevin Myers remarked, is not entirely different than being the leader of argumentative headhunters in Papua-New-Guinea, or will we take our feet off first base in order to reach second?
Like the clichéd tones of our leader might announce, “only time will tell”.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Imaginary Boundaries
Being friends with only one type of person hinders ones growth as a person themselves. Cliques--that’s right, groups of people who refuse to broaden their horizons by letting those who are so-called ‘different’ into their social circles--are cheating themselves out of being bigger, more interesting people.
“Different from what?”, I find myself wondering. Different from normal? What constitutes normal? Does normal mean traditional? Who or what defines traditional? Are there a number of different ‘traditionals’ depending on your social class? Of course, if you even try to suggest to a person that labelling someone or something ‘different’ is completely offensive in itself, you run the risk of being labelled a crazy person.
The same goes for people who label themselves ‘different’--plenty of people do it--but I’ve always wondered, are they labelling themselves to lessen the chances of others doing so? It hurts less to acknowledge parts of ourselves that we’re uncomfortable with than having them pointed out to us by someone else.
Take a look at some of the world’s comedians. Jo Brand has more than once labelled herself fat. It doesn’t stop people calling her such names but it is fair to say that many find it hysterical that she does this herself. For Brand, it means the attention she receives is more “she’s so funny” than “she’s so fat”--surely exactly what is desired, and intended.
Labels are such a big part of life, no matter where in the world you live. People want to be able to identify other people as part of a genre, whether it’s “working-class”, “preppy”, “camp”, “butch”. Why is this? Because we just love familiarity. Why else do we go to see the same movie disguised as a new movie several times every year? Why else do some people become aggravated when a movie dares to do something different?
Whilst it’s fine to acknowledge that most people fit into a genre, surely it’s completely wrong to expect for someone in any genre to replicate all of your connotations with the label. Does a working-class person have to live in a council estate and wear sports clothing? Do “preppy” boys have to date “preppy” girls and play polo? Do gay men have to wear clothes two sizes too small for them and act like women, and do gay women have to pierce their bodies and wear black?
No, they do not. It is indeed a case that people in each of these genres, and others, decide to play polo or to wear black, and once a person sees this of a similar type person on more than two or three occasions, they assign a label. At the same time, when we choose our friends, we look for similarities to ourselves.
We want to be able to share good conversation. We want to have people laugh at our jokes. We want to be able to sit in silence with our friends and for it to be the most comfortable thing in the world. We want not to have to explain ourselves and feel that our friends are working against us when they should be helping us. In truth, we want it all, which is why we are so careful about who we let in.
It would be untrue to say that genres can’t be mixed, and that they can’t compliment each other. But it’s difficult to get along and connect fully with someone who has different beliefs and different ideas of life, and so in our lives, we settle for the same, because we are afraid.
Afraid and lazy, to step out of the box. “What box?”, I find myself wondering. The answer is, there is no box, and there are no boundaries, only those which we set for ourselves.
“Different from what?”, I find myself wondering. Different from normal? What constitutes normal? Does normal mean traditional? Who or what defines traditional? Are there a number of different ‘traditionals’ depending on your social class? Of course, if you even try to suggest to a person that labelling someone or something ‘different’ is completely offensive in itself, you run the risk of being labelled a crazy person.
The same goes for people who label themselves ‘different’--plenty of people do it--but I’ve always wondered, are they labelling themselves to lessen the chances of others doing so? It hurts less to acknowledge parts of ourselves that we’re uncomfortable with than having them pointed out to us by someone else.
Take a look at some of the world’s comedians. Jo Brand has more than once labelled herself fat. It doesn’t stop people calling her such names but it is fair to say that many find it hysterical that she does this herself. For Brand, it means the attention she receives is more “she’s so funny” than “she’s so fat”--surely exactly what is desired, and intended.
Labels are such a big part of life, no matter where in the world you live. People want to be able to identify other people as part of a genre, whether it’s “working-class”, “preppy”, “camp”, “butch”. Why is this? Because we just love familiarity. Why else do we go to see the same movie disguised as a new movie several times every year? Why else do some people become aggravated when a movie dares to do something different?
Whilst it’s fine to acknowledge that most people fit into a genre, surely it’s completely wrong to expect for someone in any genre to replicate all of your connotations with the label. Does a working-class person have to live in a council estate and wear sports clothing? Do “preppy” boys have to date “preppy” girls and play polo? Do gay men have to wear clothes two sizes too small for them and act like women, and do gay women have to pierce their bodies and wear black?
No, they do not. It is indeed a case that people in each of these genres, and others, decide to play polo or to wear black, and once a person sees this of a similar type person on more than two or three occasions, they assign a label. At the same time, when we choose our friends, we look for similarities to ourselves.
We want to be able to share good conversation. We want to have people laugh at our jokes. We want to be able to sit in silence with our friends and for it to be the most comfortable thing in the world. We want not to have to explain ourselves and feel that our friends are working against us when they should be helping us. In truth, we want it all, which is why we are so careful about who we let in.
It would be untrue to say that genres can’t be mixed, and that they can’t compliment each other. But it’s difficult to get along and connect fully with someone who has different beliefs and different ideas of life, and so in our lives, we settle for the same, because we are afraid.
Afraid and lazy, to step out of the box. “What box?”, I find myself wondering. The answer is, there is no box, and there are no boundaries, only those which we set for ourselves.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Affluenza - The 21st Century 20-Something
Once upon a time, it was all about keeping up with the Jones’s. For today’s generation of Irish 20-somethings, however, it’s all about keeping up with the Gilsons, the O’Driscolls and the Davisons.
Unlike their idols, Ireland’s current generation of twenty-somethings have no real interest in working for the money. Having been supplied with all that their little heart’s desire, so much as a thank you to their suppliers—their parents—would be considered a favour.
They spend their days in college, attending sparse lectures and filling the time in between lunching, something the mother’s of these big babies had to wait sometimes up to ten years to devote themselves to.
Add to this a list that reads like a Jennifer Lopez request sheet: a car, nothing less than a VW Golf for him, a petrol-guzzling SUV if you’re anyone; designer clothing (changed seasonally, at very least)—and no, you don’t get away with this one if you’ve “got boys”. Haven’t you heard, whether you’re little Oisinn or Ciaran is a music lover or a sports enthusiast, there’s an image to be portrayed.
There are icons. For the girls there’s the string of Assets models, and for the boys there’s the Irish rugby team, who seem to spend more time in Krystle and Renards than on the actual pitch.
Then there’s Kate Moss and Victoria Beckham and the men who buy them salad. The bottom line is, the twenty-somethings of today are not so much influenced by their neighbours, but by the celebrity idols of their time, the real opinion leaders.
“Kate mixes designer with high street and vintage pieces”, says your darling daughter—meaning she’ll get by on a €10 vintage top, €50 high street jeans, and naturally the designer shoes and bag—Chanel or similar—price: excess of €300 for the shoes, and €500 for the bag.
To her majesty, they’re priceless. “They’re not just shoes, they’re Jimmy Choos”, she says, in an accent that sounds more Orange County than South County.
The social lives of the South County crew are another cause of concern for their parents. While mummy and daddy pay college fees and expenses, their little babies are out having the time of their lives, sipping Cosmopolitans, all the while rubbing shoulders with accomplished thirty-something’s who they aspire to follow, but without the hard graft.
Trips around Europe are entirely essential. Paris, Milan, Moscow, the places that would have been a holiday and a half to their parents are seen as a mere mini-break by these designer-wearing demons.
One might wonder, does providing for your children to such unrealistic extents provide a pedestal for them to fall from when they finally have to do it themselves?
When this time comes around, it will be a great disappointment to realise that MasterCard is not a charity for 25-year-old children who are experiencing “vast social opportunities without the financial resources”.
Perhaps, it is already too late, for the tone of this decades twenty-something has already been set, and it is one of expectance, not acceptance.
Unlike their idols, Ireland’s current generation of twenty-somethings have no real interest in working for the money. Having been supplied with all that their little heart’s desire, so much as a thank you to their suppliers—their parents—would be considered a favour.
They spend their days in college, attending sparse lectures and filling the time in between lunching, something the mother’s of these big babies had to wait sometimes up to ten years to devote themselves to.
Add to this a list that reads like a Jennifer Lopez request sheet: a car, nothing less than a VW Golf for him, a petrol-guzzling SUV if you’re anyone; designer clothing (changed seasonally, at very least)—and no, you don’t get away with this one if you’ve “got boys”. Haven’t you heard, whether you’re little Oisinn or Ciaran is a music lover or a sports enthusiast, there’s an image to be portrayed.
There are icons. For the girls there’s the string of Assets models, and for the boys there’s the Irish rugby team, who seem to spend more time in Krystle and Renards than on the actual pitch.
Then there’s Kate Moss and Victoria Beckham and the men who buy them salad. The bottom line is, the twenty-somethings of today are not so much influenced by their neighbours, but by the celebrity idols of their time, the real opinion leaders.
“Kate mixes designer with high street and vintage pieces”, says your darling daughter—meaning she’ll get by on a €10 vintage top, €50 high street jeans, and naturally the designer shoes and bag—Chanel or similar—price: excess of €300 for the shoes, and €500 for the bag.
To her majesty, they’re priceless. “They’re not just shoes, they’re Jimmy Choos”, she says, in an accent that sounds more Orange County than South County.
The social lives of the South County crew are another cause of concern for their parents. While mummy and daddy pay college fees and expenses, their little babies are out having the time of their lives, sipping Cosmopolitans, all the while rubbing shoulders with accomplished thirty-something’s who they aspire to follow, but without the hard graft.
Trips around Europe are entirely essential. Paris, Milan, Moscow, the places that would have been a holiday and a half to their parents are seen as a mere mini-break by these designer-wearing demons.
One might wonder, does providing for your children to such unrealistic extents provide a pedestal for them to fall from when they finally have to do it themselves?
When this time comes around, it will be a great disappointment to realise that MasterCard is not a charity for 25-year-old children who are experiencing “vast social opportunities without the financial resources”.
Perhaps, it is already too late, for the tone of this decades twenty-something has already been set, and it is one of expectance, not acceptance.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Rebellion Has it’s Reasons to Return
Children and teenagers often rebel when they feel confined by rules, believing that they themselves should be able to make their own decisions, take their own risks, and make their own mistakes. What then, does it signify, when an adult rebels?
Between the ages of 18 and 21, depending on the culture one lives in, we are told that we are now old enough to make our own decisions in life. Finally, we think to ourselves, we can sit in the driver seat and decide for ourselves exactly where it is we go in life, the timeframe in which we undertake our life transformation in, and the location in which it occurs. We choose our choice.
It is no longer required for us to validate our plans via our parents. It is similarly no longer required that we seek approval of the places we wish to spend our time. It is no longer required that we seek approval of the people with whom we wish to spend our time--this perhaps, is the single most deadly change in being in charge of our own lives.
No longer are we drowned in remarks about not getting in with the ‘wrong crowd’, or hanging out in areas which leave a lot to be desired. In place of such remarks we find more subtle forms of communication from those who care about us, and frankly, often know best. The monologue which once drove us crazy with anger is now substituted with a watered down comment or in some cases, a simple shrug or similar nonverbal communication.
It is then that we realise, advice wasn’t so bad after all. Advice. That is what the lectures boiled down to, though at the time, this was not seen, for rebellion had been activated and had created a sort of tunnel vision experienced otherwise only by the narrow-minded and the colossally determined.
What if, rebellion had run its course and ended, perhaps prematurely in one’s teens? Is it a case that this individual is ready for responsibility and by the same token ready to take advice on board in an mature way? Or is it like a sickness that hasn’t quite reached a head, and will leave suspicions of a return later in life?
As a teenager, I would have said the former was true. Today, my opinion has been reformed. Now I believe in individual circumstances. Now I believe it cannot be concluded that rebellion will rear its ugly head once again if it hasn’t enjoyed a full stretch in the time it most commonly occurs.
Though I also acknowledge that if a container has been put on rebellion, this itself is enough to cause mayhem later in life. Perhaps it could be said that it depends on what happens to us in the phases immediately after our teenage years. Maybe it is about allowing the post-teenage freedom phase to run its course, knowing for an extended period that you, and you only, are sitting in the driver seat.
Possibly this is the time where one decides--consciously or otherwise--what they will throw away for good, what they will put away for later, and what they will keep for now.
Between the ages of 18 and 21, depending on the culture one lives in, we are told that we are now old enough to make our own decisions in life. Finally, we think to ourselves, we can sit in the driver seat and decide for ourselves exactly where it is we go in life, the timeframe in which we undertake our life transformation in, and the location in which it occurs. We choose our choice.
It is no longer required for us to validate our plans via our parents. It is similarly no longer required that we seek approval of the places we wish to spend our time. It is no longer required that we seek approval of the people with whom we wish to spend our time--this perhaps, is the single most deadly change in being in charge of our own lives.
No longer are we drowned in remarks about not getting in with the ‘wrong crowd’, or hanging out in areas which leave a lot to be desired. In place of such remarks we find more subtle forms of communication from those who care about us, and frankly, often know best. The monologue which once drove us crazy with anger is now substituted with a watered down comment or in some cases, a simple shrug or similar nonverbal communication.
It is then that we realise, advice wasn’t so bad after all. Advice. That is what the lectures boiled down to, though at the time, this was not seen, for rebellion had been activated and had created a sort of tunnel vision experienced otherwise only by the narrow-minded and the colossally determined.
What if, rebellion had run its course and ended, perhaps prematurely in one’s teens? Is it a case that this individual is ready for responsibility and by the same token ready to take advice on board in an mature way? Or is it like a sickness that hasn’t quite reached a head, and will leave suspicions of a return later in life?
As a teenager, I would have said the former was true. Today, my opinion has been reformed. Now I believe in individual circumstances. Now I believe it cannot be concluded that rebellion will rear its ugly head once again if it hasn’t enjoyed a full stretch in the time it most commonly occurs.
Though I also acknowledge that if a container has been put on rebellion, this itself is enough to cause mayhem later in life. Perhaps it could be said that it depends on what happens to us in the phases immediately after our teenage years. Maybe it is about allowing the post-teenage freedom phase to run its course, knowing for an extended period that you, and you only, are sitting in the driver seat.
Possibly this is the time where one decides--consciously or otherwise--what they will throw away for good, what they will put away for later, and what they will keep for now.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Circles of Communication
As I stood alone with everybody at a low-key leaving party of a friend of a friend, I got to thinking how there are many people I’ve met through the years, friends, lovers and perfect strangers, that I’ve had instantaneous connections with.
Most of my friends today were met through work environments where there was a shared interest. Did interests, age or cultural background have any real effect on the communication between people, I contemplated.
When interests are shared, a discussion is made easier due to the fact that both people are able to make contributions, and stimulate interest from the other person. You don’t need to know anything about each other, yet the conversation shared is enjoyed, and most importantly, it’s comfortable.
So then, is age an issue? Can you possibly enjoy a friendship, relationship or merely a conversation with someone who is years older, or younger, than yourself? Whilst taking into consideration that the age of someone often determines their history, the type of life and perhaps standard of life that they’ve led, and their feelings about society today, people cannot be defined by their age.
Just weeks earlier I sat at a dinner party at a table of nine. Two men and women aged in their 40s, a female in her 30s and two young, free, single 20-something women took their places. My connection with two of the 40-something women developed instantly and kept me entertained, if slightly surprised, for the duration of the evening. Why, out of everyone at the table, had my connection been made with these individuals and not the others?
I figured that I was interested in hearing what these people had to say. They had opinions, they had lives that interested me, and that interested themselves, and they weren’t afraid to talk about them. Details were of the utmost importance, and this was something that I could certainly relate to. I was stimulated.
Cultural backgrounds can bring individuals together in the same way interests do. When history and similarities in the environment we have grown up in are shared, there is a point of conversation. On the other hand, it is interesting to meet non-nationals, as well as people from other cultures. This too can create conversation, sharing alternative experiences and furthering our learning.
What is it, then, that allows us to connect with someone upon meeting? If it’s not age, and it’s not our backgrounds, can we conclude that we have a superior communication experience with those who share our interests? Surely, I thought, it had to be more than that.
Whatever it was, I figured that I had a long list of interests, and no-one in the room to share them with that night at the intimate, low-key party. And so I waited, with just my thoughts, for someone to stimulate me, and like clockwork, a similar-minded soul entered the room.
Whether there was such thing as “the one” or not, I hadn’t yet learned, but I had learned that there were lots of “ones”. And they would crop up every so often, willing to communicate.
Most of my friends today were met through work environments where there was a shared interest. Did interests, age or cultural background have any real effect on the communication between people, I contemplated.
When interests are shared, a discussion is made easier due to the fact that both people are able to make contributions, and stimulate interest from the other person. You don’t need to know anything about each other, yet the conversation shared is enjoyed, and most importantly, it’s comfortable.
So then, is age an issue? Can you possibly enjoy a friendship, relationship or merely a conversation with someone who is years older, or younger, than yourself? Whilst taking into consideration that the age of someone often determines their history, the type of life and perhaps standard of life that they’ve led, and their feelings about society today, people cannot be defined by their age.
Just weeks earlier I sat at a dinner party at a table of nine. Two men and women aged in their 40s, a female in her 30s and two young, free, single 20-something women took their places. My connection with two of the 40-something women developed instantly and kept me entertained, if slightly surprised, for the duration of the evening. Why, out of everyone at the table, had my connection been made with these individuals and not the others?
I figured that I was interested in hearing what these people had to say. They had opinions, they had lives that interested me, and that interested themselves, and they weren’t afraid to talk about them. Details were of the utmost importance, and this was something that I could certainly relate to. I was stimulated.
Cultural backgrounds can bring individuals together in the same way interests do. When history and similarities in the environment we have grown up in are shared, there is a point of conversation. On the other hand, it is interesting to meet non-nationals, as well as people from other cultures. This too can create conversation, sharing alternative experiences and furthering our learning.
What is it, then, that allows us to connect with someone upon meeting? If it’s not age, and it’s not our backgrounds, can we conclude that we have a superior communication experience with those who share our interests? Surely, I thought, it had to be more than that.
Whatever it was, I figured that I had a long list of interests, and no-one in the room to share them with that night at the intimate, low-key party. And so I waited, with just my thoughts, for someone to stimulate me, and like clockwork, a similar-minded soul entered the room.
Whether there was such thing as “the one” or not, I hadn’t yet learned, but I had learned that there were lots of “ones”. And they would crop up every so often, willing to communicate.
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