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February 21, 2006

In favour of using the letters page

The fiction editor of the New Yorker once got a letter from a reader demanding that Maeve Brennan write a new story for the magazine. The letter was then given to Brennan who was rather aggrieved by it, believing the request to be somewhat impolite. Brennan then wrote a reply, posing as the editor of the magazine, saying that the reader wouldn’t be getting what he was looking for because Miss Brennan was dead. She had shot herself in the back ‘with the aid of a small hand-mirror’ at the foot of the main altar of St Patrick’s Cathedral on Shrove Tuesday. "We will never know why she did what she did, but we think it was because she was drunk and heartsick. She was a very fine person, a very real person, two feet, hands, everything. But it’s too late to do much about that now."

I sympathise with Maeve Brennan and can appreciate her sentiment. In fact there is nothing more I’d like to have written this week than of my own untimely death. Of how, after a lethal cocktail of headache tablets and whiskey complete with a little yellow umbrella, I over-dosed on St. Valentine’s Day morning over my type-writer. The person who discovered me would have found a note instructing that I be buried wearing my best velvet blazer and a list of people who were not to be invited to the funeral. Yes, that is what I would have preferred to have happened but as with many things in life the preferable is not always the practical.

You see recently more and more people have been plucking up the courage to pass comment to me on this particular column. Everyone from People I Know to Strangers have been throwing their two cents in my face. Granted, none of these comments are entirely negative and so one would imagine I should be quite pleased. But I’m not. Allow me to explain it a little more clearly.

These people, the ones passing comment, are reflective of the great Irish public who in the great Irish tradition have an opinion that is deemed worth telling someone however inconsiderate telling that person may be. For example, there are a number of readers out there who have told me they like reading this column when it’s passing social comment. They do not, however and in the strongest of terms, like reading about anything vaguely humble or humorous. They can not understand why someone would want to read about a happening that they weren’t present at.

On the other side of the fence are people of the exact opposite nature in reading habits. They enjoy light humour based on real experiences but can not abide or see the sense in reading about an issue or debate about current affairs. Further more, both sides insist that I immediately stop writing the type of column that they personally don’t like and continue to write the types of column they do like. And while the bee is still in my bonnet, people suggesting subjects for columns is something I just can’t abide, especially when it’s less "suggesting" and more "ordering" and expecting to see their proposal brought to life in the following weeks paper. Or worst still the people who think I should write about something different but, amazingly, have no idea what this different thing is but insist that I should certainly be writing about it.

I like to think of this column as one might a trip to the circus. The clowns may be funny and the putting of ones head into the mouth of a lion may be serious but in general each circus is entirely unpredictable. I am the ringmaster who knows that you can’t please all of the people all of the time but that unfortunately the people themselves don’t know this. As another Irish columnist, John Waters, once said, "I write a column, on a weekly basis, and submit it for publication. If people wish to read it, that’s fine; if they like what they read, that’s great. But if not, no problem. It is not part of my job description to make myself available as an intellectual punch bag for people who have got out of the wrong side of the bed." Again I can appreciate John Water’s sentiment as I did that of Maeve Brennan’s.

The problem with writing a column for a regional paper is that you tend to live amongst a lot of you’re readers and tend to bump into them quite a lot. This arrangement leads to laziness in opinion. Whereas if you were suitably annoyed about something in a national paper this annoyance would push you to go to the effort of writing a letter to that paper as I have done on occasion. Most of the people who have made comments to me wouldn’t be bothered to go to all this effort of putting pen to paper and paper to envelope and envelope to post box. So why then do they feel so compelled to pass comment when they see me walking along minding my own business in daily life?

In my experience I’ve found that people generally find it pleasing to pass comment even though they have not put a lot of thought or effort into what they are saying and, in fact, often just say something for the Hell of it. It never fails to surprise me of how entirely devoid of tact people can be and at the end of the day, despite my best efforts to persuade you other wise, I am only human with feelings too.

Downhill from here by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist

Posted by LiamG at 10:25 PM

February 15, 2006

The Last Picture Show

There’ll be murder. The Whitewater has only gone and pulled its plans for a multiplex cinema in the new shopping complex. Not only that, but they inadvertently caused the closure of Newbridge’s only other picture house, the Oscar Cinema. Newbridge has been left without its trousers on if you get my meaning. And as with any situations involving no trousers – it can be embarrassing. I mean here we are – Newbridge – a town that’s growing like a child who eats all his greens and we don’t even have a cinema. How are we ever going to beat Naas in the rivalry for town that should be capital of County Kildare when they have the only cinema in Kildare? They even screen The Rocky Horror Picture Show every Friday for crying out loud! How can we even hope to compete with that?

The answer, a lot of people seem to be saying, is to just go to Dublin. What’s the big deal, they say? Just drive up to LiffeyValley and shut up, they say. Why are you asking me anyway, they say, I’m only the janitor? It’s like this folks. Imagine the scene. It’s the late eighties. After falling out of trees all morning, all my friends and I want to do is catch the Saturday matinee of "Ferngully: The Last Rainforest" in the Oscar. We swindle a fiver off our parents, walk down the town to the cinema, load up on E colourings and watch a movie. Bing, bam, boom. Just like that. So what is it like for the kids of today? Well after falling out of virtual trees on the Playstation all morning, the Newbridge kids of today have to persuade their parents to jump in the car, spend an hour or so in traffic getting to LiffeyValley, pay roughly fifteen euro for a ticket and a tub of popcorn and spend the next three hours watching Harry Potter. And people expect parents to make this pilgrimage to Dublin every week? Are you out of you’re mind or just fabulously wealthy?

Newbridge needs a cinema like monkeys need bananas. What else are the young people of Newbridge supposed to do? In case you haven’t noticed Newbridge isn’t exactly a metropolis of recreation. I guess young people could take up sports like skating and roller blading but then again they have no skate park and are looked upon as if they have multiple nasty diseases. Maybe they could get involved in the arts but then again the great resources that we have in the Riverbank Arts Centre are being neglected by people who have the power to put them to good use. I guess young people could start a band, as it seems to be the one area that Newbridge serves well. Ironically though that fact is only because of the dedication of the various young singers and musicians who put a lot of effort into organising gig’s for everyone. Apparently the Whitewater proposes to build an 8-screen cinema separate from the complex on what effectively would be a corner site at the Athgarvan road junction. Assuming they get planning permission for that, we’ll be looking at another year or two before that’s even built. Maybe longer, who knows? Without a cinema there won’t be comedy. There won’t be fantasy. There won’t be romance. One things for sure though – there’ll be murder.

Downhill from here by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (pg.6)

Posted by LiamG at 06:52 PM

February 08, 2006

RATS!

"It’s not a rat. It’s a degu." Regardless of whether it’s a mouse, hamster, rat or degu – I inform Paul that I am not putting my hand into that cage. Molly, his daughter, had been on about getting a pet for a long time. A dog I think was the first choice but Paul has a thing about dogs so that was out the window. A rabbit I believe was the next choice but it was decided that they’re pretty boring really. Which brings us to the degu or to be more precise the degus as there’s three of the things.

Posted by LiamG at 09:23 PM

February 01, 2006

The Liam Geraghty Diet

This week I wish to share with you, the fine readers of this fine paper, my own personal diet which rivals the Atkins, the South Beach and the Zone, in most if not all ways. I would also wish to advise all of you considering legal action against myself if or more appropriately, when this diet does not result in you’re body weight decreasing that it’s main test subject, or guinea pig if you will, has been me - Liam Geraghty. And I naturally don’t put on any weight. Baring that in mind it is time to reveal the secrets of my slender yet handsome and some would say manly body. Please make sure you are sitting down and that you are not holding a cup of hot cocoa as the revelations this diet makes may cause you’re hand to release grip of said cup and scorch any nearby puppies and/or babies.

Stage One of Several Stages

Contrary to what popular makers of various character based-cereals would have you believe, a full delicious breakfast cannot be condensed into a small bar dispensed from a sweet machine. It can only be fully appreciated when it’s eaten at a leisurely pace - meaning this: You must, whenever possible, call in sick to work/college/school in order to enjoy the full healthy benefits derived from a leisurely paced breakfast, or the LPB as it is called. The following sub-steps in Stage One of Several Stages will illustrate how to do this.

(1.) Stay in bed for as long as you wish and ignore any alarms that attempt to influence you’re decision to get up. Except for smoke alarms.

(2.) Always begin with a bowl of you’re favourite brand of cornflakes. This will help you wake up.

(3.) Prepare tea and toast.

These are crucial to a proper breakfast and so you must get this sub-step right, e.g. don’t screw it up. Despite popular theory and old wives tales white bread makes for better toast than, say, brown bread. Only scientists who have studied which breads are healthiest to consume eat brown bread. Are you a scientist? I didn’t think so. While you’re white bread is toasting boil the kettle for you’re tea.

Neat tip: As you’re boiling you’re tea, prepare for everything that goes with it - milk, sugar, spoon, character-based mug (eg. Kermit the Frog, Mickey Mouse, etc). Once you have added upwards of one spoonful of sugar and have lathered you’re toast (slightly burnt) with butter (both sides optional but recommended) sit down at a table/couch/video rental store and eat. At this point you may wish to flick through you’re favourite newspaper looking for that column of whose writer, you can tell by their photo by-line, has a slender yet handsome and some would sat manly body.

Stage Two of Several Stages, (although less stages than if you started reading at Stage One but more stages than if you had started reading at, say, Stage Three)

The exciting, yet ultimately disappointing, Stage Two deals with lunch. Lunch is like the word "genre." It covers a broad range of foods (unlike the word "genre" which covers a broad range of films) and therefore offers you scope to be a little bit adventurous but not in the way that Indiana Jones was adventurous. Unless of course you’re lunch, let’s say a sandwich and a glass of milk, were at the heart of a temple which you had to infiltrate with the help of you’re oriental side-kick and possibly a nightclub singer played by Kate Capshaw.

Lunch is also a good time to try that new restaurant you’ve been meaning to try but just haven’t got the time or money or street smarts to find in a city that’s too big anyway.

Stage Three of Several Stages, (a stage which was nominated for several stage of the year awards but won none of them and is pretty darn bitter about it)

 Dinner, some say, is rather like breakfast and lunch only it is eaten at a later time of the day. Recommended dinner dishes include Roast Potatoes and Turkey, Roast Potatoes and Chicken and Roast Potatoes in Turkey while easting Chicken although you’re chicken in Turkey may have a slightly blocked nose, headaches and sore throat. Alternatives to cooking your own dinner is to order food from a local food making establishment and have it delivered to your home. Unless of course you live next door to one in which case ordering food and having it delivered to your home would be rather silly now, wouldn’t it?

Stage Four is the conclusion of Several Stages that begun with Stage One, (Fatties in particular like this stage.)

 This stage does not deal with the popular however old-fashioned time known as "Tea Time". It does, none the less, deal with what you should eat in between meals, on the bus and in the middle of the night. Microwave popcorn is a modern and popular choice. Marvel at how a flat bag can magically grow and grow in you’re very own microwave but don’t marvel so much as to get lost in this magical event and not notice how the bag is now on fire. Other suggested "snacks" include apple pie, apple juice, apple sauce, apple flavoured sweets but certainly not apples themselves. So there you have it. Starting from now, why not try out this diet which guarantees (Legal Note: Does not guarantee in the slightest.) that you’ll be looking slimmer in no time!

In fact why start now when you could be told all this information again only in tele-visual format by me in person on your TV with my new DVD - "GET FIT WITH GERAGHTY." Order now and you’ll get a book of food coupons - absolutely free!

 The NATIONALIST has five copies of "GET FIT WITH GERAGHTY" to give away.

Simply answer the following question:

 How many stages are in Liam’s get fit diet?

 (a.) 4

(b.) 64

(c.) 6400

Send you’re answer and contact details to The Kildare Nationalist, Edward St., Newbridge, Co. Kildare.

This is not a wind up.

(Editors note: If it is we'll print Geraghty's home address next week and you can go round and kick some sense into yourself.)

Posted by LiamG at 09:24 PM

The Writer, The Conversation and The Hoax

"The only thing that could spoil a day was people. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself." Ernest Hemingway said that and I quite agree. This week I was talking with a person when I referenced myself as a writer in the conversation. You’re not a writer, said this person - you’re a journalist. Never in the history of this business has a journo been so offended as I was to be called a journalist. I doubt the title rarely upsets the likes of John Waters or Paul Howard. It upset me mainly because I like to think of myself as a writer. A writer first. Then a journalist.

Then again, who could blame this person for their remark when my fiction is largely kept in an old green binder hidden beneath a pile of comics at the end of my bed. I guess I keep it hidden because it feels more personal than anything I’ve ever written for a newspaper or a magazine. Even though what you’re reading now is fact, somehow the lives of the characters in my short-stories appear more real to me. Strange that. Of course, I’ll be honest too. Apart from the pure satisfaction of writing itself, I’m somewhat taken with the outlandish romantic notions of what being a writer is. These notions see me huddled up over a typewriter banging out pages. Reading them. Scrunching them up into paper balls and throwing them at the wall. Then writing a masterpiece of a sentence and smoking like Michelle Pieffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys. God, they smoked a lot in that film. Then I’d have to exile myself from Ireland, as all the great writers do. I’d move to Paris. Find myself a little apartment. Drink whiskey. Write. Drink a little more. Write a little more. I’d probably befriend a prostitute. Yes. That’s exactly what I’d do. Befriend a prostitute.

Of course, there are others out there who would do much more in order to climb the literary ladder. Take for example a one JT Leroy who took centre stage in one of the most intriguing literary mysteries in recent times. JT was a young rent-boy who made a break from a terrible life in West Virginia and ended up in San Francisco where he became a drug addict. Yet JT was saved from all this by a couple named Laura Albert and Geoffrey Knoop. After seeing a shrink, JT managed to turn his horrendous youth into a thriving career as a writer. He published three critically acclaimed works of fiction noted for their stark portrayal of child prostitution and drug use. All this time JT won over friendships and trust with celebrities and well-known authors like Dave Eggers who offered him financial assistance when he announced that he had been infected with HIV. Who could blame the now 25yr old JT for being a tad reclusive? Whenever he appeared in public he was always wearing a wig and sunglasses. But as it turns out this young man wearing a wig and sunglasses is not a man at all.

In fact JT Leroy didn’t even exist in the first place. Laura Albert and Geoffrey Knoop, the couple who had apparently rescued JT from his terrible life, were behind his creation. Knoop had his half-sister take on the role of JT whenever he needed JT to appear in public (with the wig and sunglasses of course) and quite amazingly almost all of San Francisco had been duped. That is until someone recognised her. Accounts vary to why the couple would do such a thing. One source I’ve read suggests that the couple we’re unfulfilled rock musicians who concocted the character of JT Leroy to gain access first to literary circles and, later, to celebrities. I’m fascinated that people would go to such lengths. As you can imagine there were a lot of angry people in the aftermath of that hoax.

It reminds me of a "picture-novella" I once read called "It’s A Good Life, If You Don’t Weaken" by Seth. The blurb on the book suggested it was an auto-biographically piece and Seth was given much acclaim and praise having put his story down so wonderfully. Only trouble was that, again, it wasn’t auto-biographical at all. Several years later Seth just announced it was entirely fiction and he just fancied calling it auto-biographical much to his original adoring critics scorn. I guess for me, I’ll keep my fiction to myself for a little while longer.

Of course, it all comes back to what Hemmingway said really. "The only thing that could spoil a day was people. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself." Much later that day after that horrid conversation where I had been called a journalist and not a writer, I received two messages from people who may be as good as spring itself in cheering me up. One was from Kerrie who texted me saying "I got caught reading you’re article in work. Damn you Geraghty! I shake my fists at you!" The other text pleased me the most though. It was sent to my phone by a one "Daffy" at 2.30am and read "I have just been in Tesco, reading you’re column for free. I was ejected before I could finish it. How does it end, for the love of Sonic, TELL ME!" Yes. I do believe I’ll be content with the column. For now anyway.

Downhill from here by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (pg.6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:21 PM

How to Argue in the Pub and Lose

There’s nothing like an argument between friends in a pub. "Sonic the Hedgehog," says Hank, "is infinitely better than Mario in every way." I grimace at the aforementioned statement. How could you, I say, a connoisseur of computer games, someone whose blessed in the knowledge of console history come out with a declaration like that? "It’s true," replies Hank as I take a sip from the cold glass of Jack Daniels and coke in front of me. Mario, I announce, over his entire gaming history, has produced consistently good quality games while Sega’s freakishly discoloured hedgehog has been frequently hit and miss. Hanks eyes narrow as he opens his mouth and takes a deep breath. "Hit and miss!? From the Megadrive to the Dreamcast and beyond Sonic has produced great games." Name some, I say.

My first mistake. Hank is an intricate archive of gaming data and he proceeds to name what is probably the entire Sonic the Hedgehog back catalogue. He looks feverish as names pour out of his mouth. He grins. "Now then," he says. "Name a good Mario game." This should be easy, I think to myself. Right, there’s the original Super Mario Bros on the Nintendo. A recognised classic. Super Mario Bros 2. "Super Mario Bros 2?" Hank butts in, "That was awful." It bloody well wasn’t awful, I object. "Yes. Yes it was awful and in fact you’ve told me before that it’s awful." I certainly never said Mario 2 was awful, I say, quickly trying to remember if in fact I ever did say that. He could be bluffing. If I admit I think its an awful game he’ll have me. No, I most definitely did not say any such thing, I reply and make for the bar to collect my thoughts. I’ll need another drink if I’m to stay sharp in the next round.

Right, I say, Mario Kart. Mario Kart is one of the best games ever. The original Super Nintendo version was great, the N64 version was great, the GameCube version was, eh, well sort of rubbish but the Nintendo DS version is great too. All great Mario games. "Sonic had a racing game too," interjects Hank. Oh yes, how could I forget Sonic R. Oh what a masterpiece that was. It was like carbon-copy of Mario Kart. "At least it made sense," Hank says. "You raced as Sonic and actually ran along the tracks not in a kart like Mario." Oh that’s rich! Sonic runs, I say, because the whole point of Sonic is that he runs ridiculously fast. Mario is a hero of the common man and hence uses an automobile to race in. The argument rages on until Keara joins us.

We’re sitting in a dark corner upstairs in Coffey’s. There’s a big match on downstairs so every so often we can hear people bursting into blazing fits of shouting or ecstatic whoops of joy. "Sorry I’m late," Keara says. "Did you know that You’ve Got Mail was on tonight Liam?" This probably requires a little explaining. You see much I’m scorned for saying so You’ve Got Mail is my favourite movie of all time. It is pure perfection. The story is wonderful - Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan falling in love via e-mail. The location is various bookstores, cafes and streets around beautiful New York in the summer and autumn seasons. The music is great. The entire film is so utterly charming that I watch it regularly. It is, in a word, comforting. I did know it was on, I say to Keara, but I have it on video and am considering purchasing it on DVD. "I watched some of it tonight," Keara says. Oh yes? What did you think? "Liam, it’s awful," she says as I ‘m taking a swig from my glass and nearly end up spewing it out again in a clichéd fashion. Me being told You’ve Got Mail is awful is a lot like a small kid being told Santa doesn’t exist. It bursts the only bubble of magic you have left in this rotten world. Another rousing pub argument is narrowly avoided when Scan arrives.

He looks down at the drinks on our table. "You see that three quarters full pint of Bud there," he says. "That represents what you’re column used to be." He points to the next drink. "And you see that empty glass of whisky? That represents you’re column now." Ah, where would I be without metaphors involving drinks glasses at various stages of consumption. I begin chatting away to Scan and one thing leads to another and I end up this wagering this very column on the spelling of a word. It’s the kind of bet you only make when you’re nicely inebriated. The word in question is "abbreviation." Scan reckons it’s spelt with two b’s while I am convinced it’s only one. I’m so convinced of this that I say Scan can write next weeks column (being this one) if I’m wrong.

We both agree that we’ll have to seek some independent adjudicators so we decide that we’ll ring three of our associates. Bare in mind it’s around midnight when we ring and ask each of them to look up "abbreviation" in their nearest dictionary. It turns out I am wrong. I should have really guessed I would be, I mean after all, they pay someone to spell-check my columns. Man of my word, I reluctantly tell Scan he can write this weeks column and that he should e-mail it to me in the next day or two. Deadline looming I text asking where his version of the column is to which he replies "I forgot to write it! Don’t worry, I’ll manage to swindle you out of next weeks edition and I’ll fill it full slander and defame people." I chuckle quietly to myself. That’s exactly what I do.

Downhill from here by Liam Geraghty appears every week in the Kildare Nationalist (pg.6)

Posted by LiamG at 09:16 PM

Who needs 2005 anyway?

Posted by LiamG at 09:09 PM