Alex's Journal 13/06

Uh hello, check two, testing... this thing on?

Alexandre (yeah the Frenchie version) O'Rourke here. Penning down my thoughts with the same kind of lucidity you'd expect from a half-asleep sloth. Figured I'd try and help some guy sell some book about me or something. Seriously, people will write about any old trash these days. I just read an article about how women with big thighs are plenty hot. Those actual words plenty and hot featuring in the title. First off this picture, which pretty much sums up the whole article in a j-peg:

A young arcade goers first love; the inimitable Chun Li

And second of all I wasted, like ten minutes, reading it and let's be honest what difference is the attractiveness of thighs going to make to my life?!

It's all down to those damn internets!

I remember when a server used to be the guy that gave you your drink in a hotel and if you wanted to be entertained you actively had to seek stuff out. But now it's like a big, kinetic strobe frenzy every time you turn on a computer. Flashy, flashy, cat video, flashy, flashy, fail video, flashy, flashy 'How would you like some dick pills?' Big brother is almost definitely watching you and god damn it if he doesn't have a whole bunch of wares he's itching to sell.

I remember buying 411VM VHS cassette tapes for like €20 just to watch an hour of skateboarding back when I was single digit (the phase did not last, imagine...). Thing was you'd watch that thing a trillion times* and it wouldn't even grate on you. Now we have this limitless database of information and we tend to use it to watch 7 second videos, talking dogs and Russian drivers mouthing off at each other.

And don't get me wrong, this isn't some kind of call to arms so everybody starts reading medical journals online, I'm as hypnotised as the next guy. But it did get me to thinking about how we're all building up this useless trivia with no real knowledge behind it. Can't remember exactly where I heard it but some guy recently said on the radio, or a podcast or something, that everyone in the whole world has information at the press of a button but we're all incredibly ignorant. Like Homer Simpson levels.

Where am I going with this?

I don't really know but to be fair you just read a poorly thought out stream-of consciousness-type article written by a fictitious character so...

Anyway weathers nice right now so even if you're full of information and ignorant as all hell (a la moi) why not go outside and try grab some vitamin D. 'Sides you're going to be as wisdom-less as the next guy so you may as well have a better tan.


*rough estimate

Curracloe

Little one for the summer...

Curracloe

The cars looking for parking and granddad saying out past the sand bank are basking sharks. That he used swim with them out in Dungarvan and he gives a wink. Young lads green coming off the waltzers and through the P.A. there’s a seat left on the Future Dance. The roar of holiday money thrown to chippers and arcades, pin balls smashing records. And in the marram grass the big fella is climbing up on the missus, half clothed the big red neck on him. Little men with ice cream snots dripping off the top lip shouting and bawling as a skinny chap in atomic green togs, water to his ankles, wonders the point of it at all. And granddad says they’ve no teeth on them but by Jaysus they’d swally ya whole. And now the big fella, covered in lumpy sweat apologizing to the missus, just gimme a few minutes says he and I’ll be ready again, the sand plastered up his inner thigh tearing the hole off him. Mothers with sun screen palms and everyone trying to make memories, forcing too hard, some. But we lie down and bask in it all, melanomas and our skins not able. And there he is now a little bit further out, shaking with the cold and the waves turning black. The chap in atomic togs swimming with sharks.

VAN CITY

gonna turn this one into a short story but right now it's kinds working as flash fiction.

VAN CITY

The air hostess brought me four party cans, one after another before I dropped two sleeping tablets. Twenty minutes later Beano taps me on the shoulder saying to come to the tail of the plane and look at all the ice. He asks me why I’m stumbling and I give him two sleepers. The nine hour flight to Canada breezes by, us with our heads dog-like at the windows and half closed eyes. Beano starts talking to some contractor who tells us he can set us up with a tree planting company if we ever go to Alberta. He’s slurring his words though, the sleepers coming on strong and him going on about how he’s republican out and out. I interject, try and keep the old boy onside should we ever decide on Alberta. I don’t remember the rest of the journey. Beano and me head to the luggage bay after the landing and he goes:

                “Jaysus boy you were slurring your words some bad back there.”

                The lad on the desk at the hostel asks if we want some dried mushrooms. Mexican he says and scratches his stubble, dandruff in his hair. Just the room I say and Beano says fuck it, takes two stalks worth heads on them like UFOs. There’s no elevator to the rooms, I manage lugging a two year visa worth up the stairs, arms cramped up and raw. Each room has a flag painted on the door, I’m staying in Argentina with a Swede called Leonard. He’s a fifty odd chap, smell of money off him too flicking through pages on a tablet. Hello I say, realising how long it’s been since I used that particular word to greet anyone. Yup, Story, Craic, newly useless. He smiles and puts his head back to the screen, half eaten apple there like a medal. I take another sleeper out of my bag wash it back with a sup of water and my antidepressant. I fire everything into my locker and lie on my bunk the springs moaning with pressure.

                In the morning there’s still no sign of Beano. I head down to the restaurant for a free breakfast, rashers me hole, bacon like a bag of tayto. Fucking bagels and something called wonderbread. The apples are savage though to be fair. The waiter comes over to me and starts going on about bagels with jelly and cream cheese. “Cheers” and he stands there eyeing me like the conversations not done. Okay then he says and fucks off. It’s playoff season and the Canucks are doing well, a pride parade is due next week and its ten years since they caught Robert Pickton. They nabbed him before he had a chance to do his fiftieth prostitute, bits of the rest of them out with the pigs. I walk out onto Granville St, and there’s two hoores boxing the chops off each other by a greyhound bus. I watch from a safe distance, they both look crack hungry, one of them muscled and toned. Square jaw tense as she’s throwing another dig and then I see it, all because her skirts riding up her leg. The little mickey head-banging between her thighs. The cops pull in and break it up, stick the made up fella in the back seat the other one crying out loose teeth.

                Van-fucking-couver sahn.