Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Book Review: The Rebel Sell

Joseph Heath and Andrew Potter The Rebel Sell: Why the Culture Can’t Be Jammed (Harper Collins, 2004)


The Rebel Sell authors set themselves the task of attacking an idea of counter culture they see at the heart of social movements, so is that why the cover has a summit protester in gun sight?

Potter and Heath are right that counter cultural rebellion can sometimes suck energy away from making "concrete improvements in people's lives," providing excuses for not engaging mass society but their counter cultural imagination is limited to MTV, Adbusters, a host of mainstream Hollywood movies, the authors' own dashed ex-punk background, Kurt Cobain 's suicide notes and anything mall rat in between.

Despite their stated central preoccupation they ignore well articulated differences between “sub cultures” and “counter cultures.” You see sub cultures hang under the mainstream's belly, dependent on it and lacking a real critique. Counter cultures at least try to foster alternative values and ways of being to replace a dominant culture - so one contains at least some revolutionary purpose, the other doesn't. This failure to distinguish gives the authors an easy job of ripping into a series of piss poor straw men.

There is no discussion of the very real and needed role of counter cultural forms in political movements. How could they have overlooked the IWW's folk song tradition, the working man's clubs of the UK and Ireland or the foot ball leagues and community groups of pre-Nazi German social democracy - were these too just "pseudo rebellions" to be ignored?

Alongside historic blind sight, they completely skip the well trod over subjective reasons for engagement in counter cultures. Still note how an awful lot of school yard bullying stopped once they and their nerdy friends went punk. Counter cultures can be a very ordinary thing, a form of self defence or demarcation of space. Think of struggles around silly work uniform rules or piss ant fussy supervisors having their authority eroded by a shop floor black humor.

Really the book does contain some great pop culture writing, but the attempt to weave it into a general theory of counter culture falls a little flat even if their reason for writing it comes from a decent impulse: movements that define themselves by being on the margins of society, will stay there.

Much of the weight of their book is just a re-hash of Thomas Frank's quip that "ever since the 1960's hip has been the native tongue of advertising." The authors claim to "shatter central myths" turns out to be just restating the obvious with much weaker conclusions. They themselves do not want to "eliminate the game, but level the playing field" and so call for traditional social democratic measures to over come market failures. They even suggest bans on cosmetic surgery, ignoring how thwarted society really is by contemporary forms of alienation in their call for a rewind to the '50's.

Face it anything that opens with the claim that Adbusters selling Blackspot sneakers was a “turning point for western civilization” is bound to piss you off along the way. With sky scrapers of argumentation erected on foundations of sand, the Rebel Sell smacks of a pair of grad student academic enfant terribles - the perfect stuff for drunken conversations, mindlessly frustrating yet deeply challenging to your own steadfast opinion.

CHECK EM OUT>>
Adam Curtis’ documentary The Century of the Self (on google video..) which looks at the harnessing of new lifestyles created in the 1960’s to brands that sell dreams over products and Thomas Frank’s book The Conquest of Cool, the original political economy of hip.

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Monday, September 24, 2007

IBM Virtual Strike: Knowledge Workers Upping The Ante

For all those geeks out there who have Second Life accounts, here's your chance to picket IBM in the virtual world of Second Life. Since the Euro-Mayday Net Parade in 2005, where scattered workers unable to participate in the traditional parade could design avators with short biographies of themselves that were added to a huge animated march, these sort of online collective acts of mobilised petitioning have become much more common.

This is the first I've heard of one specific to one workplace. The action arises from negotiations over a new internal collective agreement at the works, after a majority of IBM employees asked for a small pay increased the company snapped back by canceling benefits related to productivity, meaning a loss of 1,000 Euros for individual workers.

(Photo: There's a load of this stuff out there using Lego to illustrate far from childhood fantasical spaceships and medieval scenes, there's even an animated Lego rave. This particular image comes from the savage Theory.org.uk website.)


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Monday, May 07, 2007

Marijuana March: All This Canna-biz In Toronto

"All day up on green, inhale smoke every time I breathe, talking junk when I hit the seed I love that smoke and a bag of weed, might attack that White Widow, dirty bud the hydro - too many people buy the homegrown, It'd wanna be bum to make my mind blow. Thick lumps start to change me, head in the clouds paranoid and lazy, everything about me starts to faze me, never thought weed would drive me crazy, up late and I start to lose my temper..." - Mark One/Sizzla (Feat Virus Syndicate) "I Got Too."

Pot activists in Toronto continued their campaign for legislation of that much vaunted plant yesterday as the city's annual Freedom Festival gathered in front of the legislature at Queen's Park. Mainstream media reports of the event settled on an attendance figure of a massive 20,000. A huge majority of these didn't even bother to join the Marijuana March that eventually wormed its way down Bloor St and back again. Staying behind instead for the direct business of mass spliffage on the grass.

The main stage tossed out pop-metal along Linkin Park lines, a suitable soundtrack for the teenage, lank haired and stoned. The crowd was mostly middle-class, rarely stretching further than their early 20s and there weren't many obvious worshipers of dead Ethiopian dictators around either but plenty of bongoloids getting their primal drumming on, college students flicking hacky sacks in circles, the spaced staring off under trees or clutches sharing over-sized decorative bongs.

The numbers are hardly surprising with the Freedom Festival and Marijuana March organisers under-taking a massive promotional effort year after year for this "cultural pro-testival." The logo of the organisers, which cleverly uses the CN Tower as a leaf in a cannabis plant, was flapping on posters stapled to poles across the city for weeks before hand.

The event has a massive appeal, drunk people shout at you about it from cars roaring past the night before and you could find it without having any idea of the city, given the crowd flow to and from it. Fake cannabis leafs draped around them, cash just handed over for temporary braidings of their hair or t-shirts with terrible visual puns boasting of drug usage and cannabis culture cliches. You're shooting fish in a barrel really.

The parade was grand marshaled by the so-called "Prince of Pot" Marc Emery, head of the Marijuana Party and publisher of Cannabis Culture magazine. Arrested over 20 times in the course of his campaigning he is wanted for extradition by the US for sending seeds across the border, in online sales some claim have netted him over five million dollars. He claims he simply introduced a business plan into the Canadian cannabis world,"a retail revolution so we could earn lots of money to fund a peaceful revolution to change the way the world thinks about marijuana."

Apart from a rebellious stature gained from appeal to a culture centred around cannabis, he's really not much of a figure to care about. A few google searches reveal a traditional captialist libertarian, who according to Wikipedia favours the abolition of public education in favour of private tutorship. In true shock jock style his comments about older people are far more reprehensible, basically funding for their health care should be cut off and they should be left to die.

There's a clear tension in Toronto's well developed movement to "free the weed," with some campaigners trying to establish activity outside the "official" Freedom Festival, so April 20th now figures strongly as an alternative date within the cannabis culture calendar here. Set aside by more radical liberationists as a day of smokers pride with the numerical representation of the date matching the 4:20 police code for a cannabis possession offence. Last 4:20 A crew calling themselves the Toronto Hash Mob (as in flash mob) assembled out of no where in the downtown area in an "out yourself" smoke out. Police officers looked on and promised no arrests , with some major debate sparked in the letters pages of the alternative press on decriminalization or legalization.

One participant writing in NOW! magazine, itself a sponsor of yesterday's Freedom Festival described, the consternation the move caused in the canna-biz world of hemp stores, head shops and cafes. "There's a big fear that our unsanctioned actions will feed bathhouse-style raids. Some café owners even beg us not to come back to their establishments post-rally."

The 1981 Bathhouse raids, where the police raided four gay bathhouses leading to the mass arrests of 300 men, spurred the queer community into a series of protests that eventually stabilised as the annual Pride parade. Many seeking a change in the status of cannabis see a similar "pride" strategy as a suitable template for shifting state policy. Toronto now has its own openly stoned culture. Head shops like Roach-a-rama in Kensington Market boast a "pot-io" and a cafe calling itself the Hot Box where the owners allow stoners to smoke on the premises.

The main Freedom festival is affair is now simply that, a festival complete with a small year round staff and sub contracted workers such as security people, paramedics and technicians required by the law coming in during the event. Over the years there has been a string of corporate sponsors including PizzaPizza, a massive fast food franchise present across Ontario.

The festival's website even invites advertisers to "market your brand to core consumers; 80/20 male/female, ages 17 to 35, lower to upper income, socially, progressively, environmentally, and politically aware" and "acquire market intelligence." And of course many advertiser do come on and advertise, like Budbabes.ca - a soft porn site specialising in annual calendars featuring semi-nude, fluoro-goths caressing cannabis paraphernalia or suggestively biting into apples being used as improvised pipes.

Its like a very privatised Gay Pride with a raft of companies saddling up to get in on profits to be made after a status change for the plant or from over-priced cannabis culture kitsch today. There certainly is a very valid argument for a change in the status of cannabis in many countries but for a plant whose past and present intertwines with issues of race and class few of these are to the fore of a cannabis liberation movement dominated by would be entrepreneurs and cannabis devotees fawning all over their own radical stonage.

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Thursday, May 03, 2007

Murmours of the Past In The Dublin Docklands.

[murmour] is one of those interesting considerations of urban space that sprung up from the civic imagination of Torontonians. Starting as a project to document the experiences of people living in Kensington - a market area full of stalls and wafting with dope smoke from the few open cafes in the city that challenge legislation directly to allow patrons to smoke over a coffee. Through gathering murmours and voices from residents they document the ambiance of a place itself.

Kensington now can be thought of as some mini-Amsterdam fused with the anti-vicious circle mentality of Brighton and cross referenced with just about every hippy clothing store and vintage outlet you've ever come across. Beneath its counter-cultural glare, a marked working class experience and large immigrant population co-exist in an area with traditionally low rents.

As part of the Bealtaine festival [murmour] are swooping down on the Docklands development to record people's stories for an interactive, illustrated audio visualization of the development. In a PDF media package the project aim is making stories heard because once heard "these stories change the way people think about that place and about the city." The site they produced after visiting Leith, Edinburgh gives some idea of the likely end result.

People are invited to take their mobile phones for a walk and ring the numbers on signs mounted where the stories were gathered to hear them recited at their point of origin. Some how all of this is related to a festival for the elderly, "Ah in my day there was none of this ringing traffic sign bollix..."

A dedicated [murmour] site for their documentation of a modern Dublin oral folk history is now online.

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Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Electric Picnic: Georges St Arcade Comes To Laois

I’ve warbled on about the the topic of boutique musical festivals before and I still see little point in pouring the sort of praise some have been dishing out about last weekend’s Electric Picnic. While you don't have the drunken laddish twattery that characterises Oxegen , another twattery goes uncommented upon such as the flouncing foppish types that passed our encampment shouting 'where are all the scumbags' on the Friday evening or the bongloid morons pounding out an arrhythmic beat until 9am after failing to reach transcendence in the Body and Soul arena.

In Century of the Self Adam Curtis outlines how corporations in the period after the 1960’s began to incorporate the recalcitrant identities being formed in the counter culture into their brand identities. Brands became bridges to lifestyles, if any CEO represented this cultural change towards the rebellious consumer it was Virgin’s Richard Branson. What a perfect image it was when walking past the mopey Bloc Party set, the Virgin balloon was lit in the distance, the crown on this great Georges St arcade come to Laois.

The Friday was slow and chilled out with Spankrock starting my weekend with a set that sounded like Curtis Mayfield being fucked by dancehall, in a partying hip hop set that veered well into areas explored by Diplo. Mogwai meanwhile failed to satisfy expectations built by friends over the years, perhaps they really are more of a closed room sort of band as their intensity failed to reach the back of the tent. Massive Attack were quite simply boring, with a lack of mid way speaker stacks in the main arena sound failed to carry. A crowd anxious to move to the front eliminated opportunities for sitting and chilling but their rendition of that last song was incredibly discordant and refreshing.

Saturday started well with Dancepig delivering a smooth set of electro on the Saturday morning, with Hystereo providing a complementary follow up. The delay to the Skatalites set disappointed many, but eventually provided a distractingly breezy set of summer ska to wile away an hour in a drunken sway meaning I missed Krafty Kut’s set in the Bodytonic arena. Shadow’s set was the most controversial of the weekend, with opinion predictably divided right down the middle. Tearing along all hyped up and bouncy his MC implored the dancefloor to move and shift its ass it did. Comments about it ranged from the ridiculous accusations of playing pop shite to accusing Shadow of not playing proper hip hop, music of a black origin is only acceptable apparently if it delivers lyrical rhetoric on ghetto life. This was pure and simple jump up, block rocking party music - if you expected different, tough!

The crowd for Numan looked disinterested in everything except 'Cars'. Walking in as Gang of Four battered a microwave to pieces with a mic stand was my own highlight and lowlight. A highlight because as they rampaged into ‘Damaged Goods’ and a low light because I’d missed most of their set, while bands half their age look pathetically over-blown and pantomimic on stage, Gang of Four owned the place having never played into the overblown hysterics of rock to begin with. Seeing Andy Weatherhall allowed me to collect both Loneswordsmen in a forthnight, but his set languished along miserably. It was all no surprises and I left half way through. 2ManyDjs equally failed to surprise and delivered on-cue street from their released mixes to an exuberant crowd.

Pendulum were an odd start for the Sunday morning, the early drunks or the late night manglers however were not the only ones to get into them as they piled on the drum n bass to a huge crowd with the introduction of Rage Against the Machine to their 'Voodoo' mix ripping the roof off. Respect goes to Coldcut for banging out the Killercoke message in their visuals despite Aiken banning any of the 'ethical' stands from selling any thing other than River Rock. Anyway I’ve yet to figure out what’s ethical about an organic burger without salad wrapped in a cheap bundy costing 7e. Other than that their set was poor, too unhinged and slightly more dependent on Let Us Play’s chilled atmosphere than hoped, 'Atomic Moog' stormed it though.

The Rapture held no interest for me, leaving their drunk student music three songs in I headed over to Saul Williams. There the crowd were electric despite the DJ being too high in the mix and his vocals only audible in a narrow corridor in front of the stage. The cancellation of his set at the Big Tree was as traumatic as having to wipe my arse with my socks the night before. One for the toilet rim, and one for the anal rim as the saying now goes.

New Order stuck me as just another shambolic stadium rock band while I was middling impressed with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs who’s performance was yards ahead of what I had seen at ATP. Convinced to stay for Groove Armada by friends I had a compulsive moment that led me over to stand between Cut Chemist and Mdslktr. Hovering between the two I was eventually drawn to the Foggy Notions tent where this Berlin outfit Mdslktr were truly rocking the shop in a full on banging rave up that took hold of a clearly mashed crowd.

Later Garnier took the piss for twenty minutes, building up records to drag the crowd along before winding them back down again. If this hadn’t been the last set of the festival and therefore compulsive to dance to most people would have been straight out of there. His mid set break was a classic moment of inspired DJ-ing, brilliantly judging the crowd he allowed a moments respite before slowly introducing some drum and bass and taking it skywards in an overall mediocre gig.

Entering into the festival site you pass this set of trees with photographed flowers pinned on to trees, in a way that’s emblematic of the festival. The organisers take a fairly typical set of woodland fields and temporarily erect these monuments to alternative ethical lifestyles within them, its all caring and sharing, good buzzes all round. Cynical as ever, lets face it - the water situation was appalling, there were no signs marking it anywhere and thats not to mention the toilets. After Garnier two us were refused entry to the main arena at 1.50 am to get water. Told to go down to the camps to get it we spend twenty minutes with no luck.

Eventually we asked a guy from Tir na gCasta who forewarned us that the only water available was mank. Right he was, what we eventually found came from these stainless steel wash basins being used as urinals by every drunk punter in the place and only dispensing this disgusting chlorine packed water. I know of three people who were turned away from the welfare tent when looking for water. One at about 5am on the first night, eventually he was given a bottle of the staffs water on the level of courteous disobedience towards policy and could only mutter about the bad old days of the early rave scene.

An equally obvious effort to embed Electric Picnic into the repertoires of alternative Ireland was the use of Tir na gCasta after their return from the summer teknival circuit as a chill out area tucked away in the woods. Forbidden to play any of their usual speedy free techno rubbish instead they churned out chilled reggae with the occasional glimpses of fifties pop till the wee hours. This was an almost perfectly co-ordinated artificial rave to add that further deepening of the picnic’s atmosphere. The area was a perfect zone to relax all weekend, far better than the conceited tripe of the main Body and Soul arena.

Until the last night of course, when word had spread too far and every party animal in the site had came down, leading to an all round cramped paranoia the highlight of which was the holding of knive to someone’s chest beside the decks before security arrived. DS were heavily factored into most people's weekends, with nearly every circle of friends I came across having a tale of a bust. One was busted by a guy in an 'enjoy cocaine' tshirt while another group had their grass confiscated by an officer feigning blindness! The DS prescence is higher than ever on the gig circuit, the lessons are to never deal or accept offers from anyone you don't know, keep your stash hidden in the tent and smoke the gange out of sight as one whiff can get a gang of mates done for possesion

The Tir na gCasta crew added a lot to the weekend, another sound system that returned from the continent also set up in the car park on the saturday night for a rave. Some more of their associates were responsible for erecting the psychotic merry go round that blazed flames near the Bodytonic and woke me up with its didgeridoo calling of the tribes everyday at noon. All it needed was Spiral Tribe kick drum and we were in crusty raver hell. The permanently K-holed mo-hawked guy involved with them was thrown out of the Bodytonic arena at the same time on two different days, collapsing at the feet of security on the second day he danced in a cross legged position with a soother in his mouth before the cops escorted him off.

A high police prescence did much to eliminate the need for heavy security numbers like at Oxegen but when they did emerge they were fierce prickish on Monday morning. Waiting for our driver to collect us I heard one fat peroxide cow shout ahead to the rest of her team who were concentrating ther effort on moving one particular guy to 'fucking bash him and get him out.' I kept my head down and continued to scavenge the ruins of the weekend, eventually coming home with 30 cans and much new camping equipment.

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Monday, August 21, 2006

Legal High Review: All Pepped Up.

The hand wringing and moral babbling around the sale of mushrooms in Dublin has died down, but for some reason the Village this week ventured back into the head shops of Temple Bar to report that a new range of legal highs are on the market. These new highs are better shelved away under the title of party drugs, reliant not on the herbal extracts typifing other concoctions, instead they are based on existing synthetic chemicals. Some stoners like to think that god made weed so that makes it ok. He also made nettles, but I don't wipe my arse with them - usually in my book when it comes to drugs man made products have the edge.

On sale under various brand names such as Jaxx and PEP, what most of this new generation have in common is the stimulant BZP. Ranked alongside cocaine, E and hash in the states, BZP has so far escaped the attention of legislators in most of Europe. First imported from New Zealand, where the government has embarked on what it calls a 'drug harm minimisation solution,' recent legislation faciltitated the creation of a category D that allows scope for the regulation of substances like BZP. Substances that so far have shown little evidence of dodgy effects on users and if marketed properly could go some way to undermining traditional drug markets.

Its worth remembering how many of the skater and alternative shops in Temple Bar had to carry signs saying 'we do not sell magic mushrooms' as the last press witch hunt led to floods of rural kids coming up to the city looking for a legal buzz. The press plays a double game with these things, scare mongering among the parents but equally they advertise new opportunities for the experimental. Having a picked up the Village the Friday before Mantua, a headline opened before me promising an experience 'like ecstasy but cleaner,' throwing back my coffee I was down to the Head Shop in a jiffy, clamouring to get my hands on this anticipated miracle.

Head shops perplex me. Based on the triple market of kids who want the paraphrenalia and not the stuff; recreational party goers out for the weekend and psychonauts who accompanied by a bongo and Carlos Castaneda are intent on exploring the inner realms of what their mind rightly keeps locked away. Rooting around the Head Shop carries the attention of a lanky long hair behind the counter. Wearing some sci-fi shirt himself, its his turn to look me up and down for some referent snippet and ask that most annoying question "how can I help you?"
"Well I'm just looking around..."
Straight to the chase he interupts "Are you after a particular effect?"
"MDMA" I hesitantly volunteer, knowing full well that there can be nothing but a snigger trapped behind his facial hair as he conspires future opportunities to sell people like me turf. After throwing €12 across the table for two pre-packaged capsules, I hand over my passport for an age ID, and as a fumbling joke about the Village coverage being a brilliant ad fails I leave the shop.

Dishing out over €40 to try salvia divinorum from a similar shop a number of years ago burnt me rightly, so my experiences with legal drugs have fallen down between the cracks of gags from the Brasseye "cake" episode. If they are legal then they must consist of 'made up psychoactive chemicals' and be bugger all use to any of us. This wasn't the case with LSD prior to 1967, or that evil most foul Ketamine in the UK more recently and we don't need to mention mushrooms again. Sometimes things slip through the cracks and BZP is one of these things. The Mantua festival provided the ideal scenario to test the hype, having a can of Bavaria 8.6 and a bottle of Buckfast prior to dropping hardly constituted the most scientific of conditions. But you can be sure they are the eternal independent variables of any Irish party and if not now and there, then where was I going to try these little orange capsules?

You can be sure there is something in these PEP pills that approximates a relatively mild E. Its a rushing sped up sensation that sends you leaping into a lip biting hard dancing mode but not before a mild burping nausea comes over you as your body digests the substance. These are so good that you even get that horrible emphatic effect that sends you motoring off into rambling discussions with those unfortunate enough to step into your path of spewed emotional vomit.

From the first moment it feels like you are spiralling towards a comedown that never happens. The clock seems to have moved a tad too slow and you just return to whatever sober or twisted state you were in about an hour before taking the drug. There is this lingering vague pscyhedleic and monged cloud hanging around your head for a while, it's a chilled skagged effect that means you should keep some good friends close by as the serotonin starts to play games with your head. The next morning left me with a massive sense of disassociation and deja vu that could be associated with any combination of the other variables at hand that night. There was this fresh exhaustion and a need to sleep that I've never associated with any of my previous late night acelerated escapades and its an experience that registers with what other users have described about these PEPX pills.

Elsewhere: As always, the best places on the net for honest advice on drugs is the vaults of Erowid and the drugs forum on Urban75. A google search also showed up this Ministry of Sound review of PEPX, meanwhile the Guardian has this to say. Thumped has also picked up on these PEP pills, where they are being explored as an option for the Electric Picnic. The consensus there seems to be that 'pills are way more fun, probably the same cost.'
This consensus is dramatically challenged by the experiences of users over on PlanB. Some Aussie students writing for a college mag subjected a batch of these new legal highs to a fine review as well. Beware as it seems most of the particular brands the head shop in town sell are available far cheaper online ( 1 ). Meanwhile if you are interested there is an interesting talk on featuring an American group called 'Law Enforcement Against Prohibition' next week in Merchants Quay.

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Sunday, August 13, 2006

This Never-ending Bebo Hysteria

This Bebo hysteria remains as resistent as a viral chest Infection in a house of stoners and is every bit as irritating. For a number of months now media outlets have been churning out a revised and updated version of the original internet and paedophelia scare mongerings. This time the hysteria hinged on social networking sites like Bebo and Myspace.

For a while it died down, but this morning Roger Greene's Media Matter's shamelessly rooted around the bottom of the bag and dragged it all back up again as a filler slot on a clearly cream crackered show. Many of those summoned to discuss social networking sites clearly have no notion of the forms of interaction governing such sites. Instead they parachute themselves in pretending to be 13 year olds with fake accounts, before preceeding to stalk kids in pursuit of the phantom child molesters caustically satirised by
that Brasseye special.

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Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Beware The MCD Hoover.

The MCD hoover must be on over drive and surely about to choke on its own stupidity? Threads on Boards.ie linked to the recent consumer backlash over security and crowd disturbances at Oxegen are only the latest parts of the net to be disappeared. Various net hosts have been back ing down in the face of what can only be percieved as an onslaught of brand protection, exposing the more vicious side of the music business.

Pantone247 shares a lot of my concerns about the upcoming launch of supposedly alternative Dublin station Phantom Fm which now has its lips firmly puckered on the asses of half of the main players in the Irish music scene, including MCD:

"...and here's the news, exciting, happy, fun, yet safe and ordered, time had at wonderful, super, special, Oxegen festival, fans rejoiced and celebrated our glorious leader Denis Desmond and his infinite wisdom... in other news evil communist Aiken promotors festival cum death camp Electric Picnic is predicted to be not as good as superb, amazing, Oxegen festival..."

Simpering away in the background of all this reaction to MCD's remarkable campaign to silence dissent among a makret it usually expects to big up its events, is a ridiculously high pattern of class prejudice and snobbery that is rife on the net and especially amongst the supposed cultured ones inhabiting a variety of online communities that pops up at any given opportunity, with most of the debates homing in around wheter security, MCD or those unruly "scumbag" fuckers should be taking the wrap over it all. And they say class is dead? No surprises here though.

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Saturday, July 15, 2006

Oxegen, Poxegen: The Modern Rock and Roll Experience.

There’s a long standing tradition of music festivals in Ireland, from the Fleadh’s of yore with their bizarre intersection of trad and hippy folk revivalists, to the self organised beauty of the anti-nuclear festivals at Carnsore or the hilarity of a Dylan gig at Slane that broke out in a riot. The most romanticised of recent Irish festivals is the Semple Stadium Feiles, when sprawling night time chaos descended across a quite Irish town leading to jammed Liveline phonelines for about a week after and infuriated auld ones tearing the nation’s youth a new arsehole with verbal condemnation.

The tightening of planning legislation around festivals as a result of the chaotic nature of the Feiles led to a tragic respite from the multi-day festival from 1997 onwards. With a generation lacking any similar major rites of passage, the massive Slane one day events reigned supreme and there was always some fucker of a mate’s older brother to regale you with boastful tales of pissing, shitting and shagging all over Thurles in contrast to the placid state of Slane. But lets see these thirty something suckers dance now cos we've been pissing ourselves and getting our stomachs pumped at our own Feile - OXEGEN - or so Denis Desmond's main man Brian ‘Biggie' Spollen would have us believe.

Full rant and more discussion at Indymedia with a full set of photos..

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Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Not surprised but still . . .

Living in the a new building in an old working class area brings a few things. Issolation from the rest of the community and abuse from the kids. Everyone who lives around here knows this. We will always be blow-ins. But not only will we not be accepted ito the community the way these new buildings are built creates a lack of communication.

The other day on my way home I was biking past the School Street flats and noticed a group of kids in front of me. There were seven of them, six that looked no older then nine and then one that was pushing twelve. Since it was almost midnight I noticed them and was not surprised that they started to shout abuse as I cylced by.

They started chasing me shouting "hey miss give us your bike" I wasn't too concerned since I can outbike a few kids, yet they didn't give up and next thing I was at home. There was an neighbour about to open the door, I thought I was safe. As the mysterious neighbour opened the door for me the kids caught up to me and started to pull on the carrier.

I'm used to kids messing, shouting random things but one look into these kids eyes and I realised they were high and not messing. I got the bike back but after the handle bars got bent back and my lock stolen. All along the neighour held the door and didn't offer to help. When I got the bike back and watched the kid run down the road with my lock the nighbour dropped the door and walked away without a word.

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Sunday, May 07, 2006

Racism In Ireland?

Just a normal day in any Spar or Centra in dublin, the Polish security gaurd getting loads of abuse off some Dublin lad. This time is starts a a young age. A eight year old kid is asked by the security to take his bike outside the shop. Fair enough eh, well not when there is a question of nation at heart. "Where you from?" shouts the youth, when he gets Howth as a reply he goes off on if if he is from Howth then why can't he speak english.

A mate of mine from Toronto wrote a good blog about this years ago about being Asian in Toronto. She always gets "where you from ?" Scarbrough (the east end of the city) is not what people are looking for. Even though this particular girl was born in Toronto and has less of a Filipino accent then I do, the assumption is that she is from elsewhere. In liberal Toronto although the underline assumption is racist the face value of the question is kind and just out of interest.

The difference here in Ireland is the face value. I get asked all the time where I'm from and D8 is not what they are looking for, but I'm white and have english as my first language. If you are not white even if you have been here your whole life, or you come from an Eastern European country expect the interaction to be loaded with hate.

To be from a non english speaking country here really does put you at a lower level. I would argue that it puts you at the level of women in alot of ways. You get talked down to and get abuse for things that the same person would never dream of saying to a Dublin lad. If you are not from ireland in the traditional sence then you will always be an outsider. This is a country where if your family moved counties at one point you will always be a blow in.

Blow ins may never be seen as fully intergrated memebers of the community but I wonder if they are seen as stealing peoples jobs. Stealing jobs. Such an interesting concept. As Ciaran said last night "how can they be stolen if they are not yours in the first place?" If someone else goes for a job and gets it, they didnt' steal it from you, especially if you didn't even apply.

The class question here is that these "foriegners" will do the same job for less money. This is how a job is stolen, someone can out bid you. But what is missed in this is that we are not working under a bartering wage system. If jobs are not providing the wage and security that are intially advertised this is not a matter of race but rather a matter that should bring workers solidarity. Once again the bosses have figured away to lower their expenences, screw over workers and the best part is that they have a scapegoat and the people are buying to it, the permenant blow-ins.

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Tuesday, January 03, 2006

Crawling Up The Walls.

So are you looking? Are the walls creeping in on you, as well? I was out tonight. The lack of a structure was driving me bezerk over the elimination of purpose that was Xmas. Doing Equality Studies as a night time course leaves me with so much contaminated time - moments where I should already be in a course lecture, or moments I should be reading course handouts . Whatever the anti-dote to relaxing that besets the frontal lope in these seconds. Xmas is a nice one. The fire is lit, if not in reality, at least in memory, the comfort is provided, through insular packages of chocolate, white cards lashed on scribbled with the juices of ink that peculiarises the gift to you. And enough, less than engrossing, but palatable TV is presented to you. What a plate - do consume it!

Laterly, I do think I/we're living in peculiar times. Smithfield, in my memory goads me back to the dead end of anonymous journeys from the Heuston to town, via the Jarvis abattoir of sense. It was where the cider was stabbed open with the thirst of the most abused after feeblily buying their allowance of two bottles per person in front of Lidl tills. A friend told me the other day - how she recently took this photo of veiled Muslim devotee's playing ping pong on an open, concrete table top set up in the Smithfield Square/Market. How changed.

Tonight I went into Isoldes Tower. Grogans, which remains part of this narrative strikes me as a funny place, art work stick out on the wall, and you wonder how the bidding goes - I mean can I mount there? And if someone can stick a price sticker on the exit sign that's always a hint - I mean wasn't Jim Royles son's band inspired by such aluminum? I don't want to engage in cryptic blogging, so here's the insurmountable moment - d'others were in there. And after an Xmas of absorption in mindrot, there was the phone call summoning me back to the job. Out I goes, to Isoldes, in the end up - something to undermine the nowt.

Apparently, I look like an Italian squatter - which leads to a discussion about Czechtech with a Czech, and an immersion into the politics of multiculturalism in Dublin - because there ain't going to be a lot of it until the drink one is mellowed out. We leave and after a night of her trying to calm a boyfriend besieged by a guy claiming she was "working the bar for drinks" - we have a pounding as the harrassing drunk bloke gave the Italian - not a beating, but a cleverly placed punch in the face on the walk away from the club, not an invitation to fight - but a bang - a thank you very much man. The Italian boyfriend is pumping blood. I'd been talking to him earlier in the night. His dad had been in the Diaz school in Genoa when all of that went wrong, he was from the south of Italy and owt Berlusconi way needed to go down. We were chatting, hanging out, and I could see a fight brew all night.

Sure, I know - but aren't you exasperated too? "Weeeeeeeeeeeeeee.....DA PEOPLE" - sincerely have a drink problem, we all know that - but there's something more afresh going on than just pished ribaldry on the streets. The walls are closing in on us. Fucking hell, street violence needs examining - its the ultimate parameter, we are not well. A hidden injury of class it maybe - but we need to come to terms with the Tiger, cos we aint' doing well. Apparently in Maynooth someone is doing research into the rise in violence and the possible links to patterns matching economic data. That'd be interesting. After all I'd be sober tonight, were I not in work tomorrow.



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Tuesday, December 06, 2005

21st Century Indulgences, Chugging and Corporate Ch Ch- ing.

The social welfare office is a bleak place to find yourself on a summer’s afternoon. It's decrepit decor of ruddy orange plastic chairs and ratty gray carpets, scarred with cigarette burns from anxious claimants testify to a lack of state investment and care . With every text and fag leaving another dent in a miserly bank balance, attempting to navigate signing on for the first time is more obstacle course than a walk in the park.

The anonymous voice at the other end of the line to the Citizen’s Information Centre was upfront and helpful, but nothing prepared me for the scowl awaiting as I finally came up to the spittle covered screen separating me from the vision that was the permed, middle aged, cardigan woman, and with the potential to emancipate me from my Koka noodle hell and put me back in the realm of fresh veg. Cardigan woman tells me her computer system operates two tax years in the past, so it’ll be my mid-twenties by the time I can use up the accumulated PRSI credits from my patch work quilt of jobs. Forms and forms later, and after jumping dolphin like deftly through reams of hoops - I'm left to await confirmation of my SWA. A letter arrives a few weeks later: my summer is to be lived out on 13.50EUR a week. With so much privatized knowledge of miraculous scamming of the welfare system collected among my social networks, how the hell did it come to pass that I let it slip I was co-habiting with another minimum wage slave?

Skipping every good gig of the summer and forward a few weeks I’m scrounging the job websites for the ideal posting - the sort of employment where I can persist with my disdain for work and internet addiction, greeting the world with lethargy and hangover’s rather than service and cheer. It’s at this point that chugging comes in. At once every urban area's new social pariah, the industry of charity mugging grows at a frantic rate as the most visible method of fund-raising. For most of us awareness around chugging extends little beyond the daily shared avoidance strategies used when passing the fuckers. They approach with grins like five year olds all giddied up to the eye-balls on skittles, meanwhile their eyes betray their smiles, its clear they really just want the ground to open up and swallow them, while you promptly lapse into the same hackneyed tricks; pretending to send a text message, using your IPod to short circuit your hearing or just storming past as if they don’t even exist.

I’d been through the interview process for chugging once or twice before, for groups like Concern and Amnesty International, both of whom have in house fund raising operations paying over the odds of €14 per hour. A double team presents itself, one young and in training to take over the interview process, the other older and in control. Given the predisposition for slightly hippy-ish clothing and woolly jumpers, the NGO sector should be thankful the League of Gentlemen never caught wind of the potential for Legs Akimbo style farce. Subject to a hardly probing set of questions on motivations for wanting the job, I found myself getting into a rhythm about wanting to save the world, knowing I am doing something useful with my life before hitting a brick wall when asked to talk at random about something I’m passionate about, a natural surliness ensured this was as far as I got.

It’s Friday, 11am and mid-August, when a rather excitable character rings me offering me an interview at 6pm for a chugging role to start the following Monday. I make my way out to a small office for an agency in lower Rathmines, I'm told I already have the job before being rushed through the interview routine for bureaucratic purposes, by a stressed indie-boy in his late twenties. Three days later I’m rushed into a one day training session with a slightly overweight, rugby player turned charity sweet talker. I was to be transformed over night into a salesman familiar with the routine of “Stop! Pitch! Ask!” This was the corporate newspeak covering up the old routine of sales targets, a PLC-ing of charities, disguised among a chummy, “we're a gang, and a what do a gang have? Balls” mentality, clearly designed to sap away any individual intuition that this charity talk was a load of tosh and you were standing on the precipice of the world of cold selling. After eight hours of repeating sales routines, the next day I was bibbed up and out on the street and hoping no one I know would pass by.

Amidst a drought of employment a flat-mate ended up pushing these notorious charity scratch cards on a commission only basis for 1 Euro out of every 2 Euro made. This was really stretching the definition of charity with the money going to a well known private alcoholic’s clinic. On sunny days, we sat perched in Temple Bar and watched with a clinical coldness as his levels of aggression increased over the months, before climaxing in brazenly following people from one end of Temple Bar to the other. Thankfully chuggers fuck off when politely asked to. After all, charities don't want to tarnish their brand with harassing figures desperate to pay rent.

Looking into it, chugging is a world with many nebulous traditions clashing. For the major charities it's simple. The donations they receive on an ongoing basis through direct debit allow for clean, efficient and long term budgeting as we had it drilled into our heads in training. Chugging is a method of direct sales and promotion rolled into one, lessons learnt from corporate promotion teams on visibility and engagement and on how to push a product in the face of a youth demographic. As one fund-raising company routinely points out: “while the average age of a donor on a charity database is 55, the average age of a person who decides to give regularly during a face to face communication is 29.” The model was developed in the early 1990's by the Austrian Andreas Leitner who had previously engaged in cold calling on telephones, before spreading the method to Germany, Switzerland and Italy, before hitting the UK with the company Dialogue Direct, last year it turned over €4 million.

On one hand you have charities seeking to raise money motivated by global or local concerns, and on the other you have private companies offering a service on a commission basis. Last year in the UK an estimated 690,000 people were persuaded by "chuggers" to give financial support to a charity, according to figures from the Public Fundraising Regulatory Association. At an average fee of £50 per sign-up, that suggests £34.5 million of donations going as income to the businesses. The big five are the Dialog Group Ltd, which runs the Face 2 Face Fundraising and Dialogue Direct agencies, Push Ltd, Gift Fundraising Ltd, Caring Together Ltd and Fruitful Fundraising UK Ltd. These are the commission sucking companies who's prominence has unleashed the current wave of anti-chuggger backlash prompting some of the more major charities to set up in house companies to do the work directly.

Feeding people my hook line of “excuse me, but do you know where the little people live?" Before rapidly proceeding into my spiel. The other option was pretending to be a tree, dancing or singing and fucked if I was doing that. There was a surprising lack of ignorance on the Dublin streets, there were in fact no blunt “fuck offs” and only a handful of goth kids muttering “get a real job” at a safe distance before tossing off to waste their mammies money on Marilon Manson shirts in Asha. Our location for the day was in and around the Central Bank, a turf much contested by the several homeless tappers who saw us preying on their market of soppy alternative types and American tourists hanging around Temple Bar, many of whom walked into my ploy forcing me to fob them off by immediately asking for money. This was selling a modern form of indulgences: this truly was a parallel world of “this week we have a special offer on children between the ages of five and ten suffering from polio, ten of whom you can cure for minimum of €19 a month. Take out a tax efficient subscription of €21 a month and that'll school eleven young girls left orphaned by parents with HIV, suit you sir? Well, step over here where you can purge your consciousness of guilt, and renounce your social responsibility all in one foul swipe of your signature and a series of numbers sent to your bank?”

The ad for the job sold it as “crazy or random” with the possibility of “work outdoors and do something different” and “make a real difference to your world” ensuring a constant flow inwards of young people seeking temporary work outside the humdrum of the McJob circus, while keeping some what in line with their own ill-defined sense of social justice. The others on team were indie types, or mushroom munching, psy-trance types clutching their Carlos Castaneda before heading off traveling again to some vaguely world music soundtrack. Judging from constant on-line advertising, there is a huge staff turnover in the “chugging” world. I did one day on the job, it was emotional prostitution, with a face physically aching from so much fake smiling. And then there was the weather, I’d been told in training that save for a hurricane Katrina style cataclysm we were never permitted to leave the out doors.

The buddy buddy-bullshit from the Carlos Castaneda reading team leader was nudging me to stay late, auto-reduce my hourly rate to somewhere dangerously below the minimum wage while keeping up the companies commission and I'm sure his own bonus. With such profits at stake and charity as the best motivational tool, its no surprise to hear that in New Zealand, there are claims that some chuggers are asked to pay a bond to cover an donors who pull out before a month before taking up employment. The next day when my alarm clock went off, I rolled over and went back to sleep - it was clear I needed to get off the streets and start pissing the general public off from a call centre instead.


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Sunday, November 27, 2005

€2:85 For A Tepid Chocolate?

With original reporting coming to dominate over the action reports of old, Indymedia is getting better and better. On the quality of Starbucks, I was in there myself the othe day, after scanning the overhead menu for the cheapest item, I got served this middling sized cup of hot chocolate that was more tepid than hot with a great dollop of UHT cream mounted on the top of it for added authenticity. It tasted like frothy piss to be honest, except it had a €2.85 price tag, which is beyond excessive. A worry I have with Starbucks is that it will become a marker for prices across the scity, with other cafes using it as a watermark for their own prices.

One thing I can't understand is why there would be queues outside the door for such shite beverages. The bloke I was with paid out €1.20 for a pack of mature cheese and red onion crisps, with an advertising tag splashed across the front. "It's not easy to make proper cheese and onion, sometimes we weep trying." Fucking hell, why tell us bunch of paddies its so difficult to make a pack of Tayto when we practically shit them. As for the taste, it was like eating a compressed cheesy puff, with the sort of sizzling effect of sucking on a Meanie or any other similiar 10c pack of E numbers .

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Thursday, November 03, 2005

Mind Numbing Muppets: Mary Camden Has Sinned Again.

Presenting more in this series we call Mind Numbing Muppets - a Soundtracksforthem response from the underbelly of the keyboard to the kaleidoscope of dazzlingly silly cahnts who impose themselves on us via their access to the media.

Number 2: Gillian Evans

That skanky ho Mary Camden has sinned again. For long term viewers of Seventh Heaven, this can't come as much of a shock. Residing in the sort of television universe where the cliff-hanger ending of the first season was a camera close up of Mary's (Jessica Beil) face as she was handed a bottle of beer at a party. Viewers nerves were left painfully taut, fingers bitten to the quick as anticipation mounted as to wheter or not she would take a sip. Of course she did, and a personifcation of evil like no other was born.

The show operates as a thinly disguised public service announcement for the Christian right, it is the Brady Bunch without a hint of the kitsch value. From it's nauseatting opening tune of "where do you go?/when the world don't treat you right/the answer is home" you know you are settling in for an hour of overly wholesome lunacy. The show has been running for the past part of a decade now, for the most part on what seems like auto-pilot. Watching it can be a hugely frustrating affair. Throughout the first season the eldest son Mat provided the tense moments of familial tension with his developing smoking habit that was more Johnny Blue than Afghan Black. The most developed character biography focused around oven chained Annie's flirtation with gange, which of course in a series of flashbacks led to the death of several of her close friends. Her delayed admittance to drug use saw her marriage flounder on the rocks for a good two episodes, as a result the kids for some reason were made live in the garage. Since then moments of crisis have included Ruthie's addiction to bubble-gum, the fact that Simon an apparently health 20 year old is riding young ones left, right and centre. And worse, much worse the fact that Mary Camden who has was cast off to Alaska for developing a non-descript drug problem by her folks has, bless your self in anticipation: filed for divorce against her husband and left her kid to move to England. In a show where the dog Happy is the most rounded character this really is gripping material.

Really, one would really have to hope that the writers of this show are a bunch of college drop out, stoner wasterals lost in this fabric of irony they have pulled over the eyes of the TV networks, the christian right and viewers. But really, I'm left terrified and shaking with the sort of gut pains that only an infestation of maggots can give that - no - this show is for real. It is increasinlgy over stretching itself, with the Camdens house rivalling Home and Away's Pipa's at the height of its use by transitional kids. Two of the "sinners" that currently reside there have developed an odd obsession with the suddenly buxom Ruthie - stalking her on dates, sabataging relationships and eavesdropping on phone calls. But for a show where a 14 year old girl is regularly stalked by two grown men without comment, it really does have an astutely didactic effect. It does exactly what it says on the tin presenting the family as the pivotal social unit in society. Apart from the fact that the Camdens who have blatently closed their eyes to 40 years of birth control have popped a set of twin sprogs who erriely talk in constant unison. If only the writers would transform theses twins into the offspring of Satan spawned in the heart of WASP-ish America, let the local Marilon Manson militia defecate on Rev. Camden's altar then perhaps no more Sunday dinners would be ruined by stumbling across this show on tv and the accompanying desire to slit my throat.

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Saturday, October 29, 2005

A day of fitness

My years living in Ireland have caught up to me, chipper food and pints are a bad combination. I noticed this year the full summer pasted before I realised it had really began. Being a Canadian we believe in a few things, tolerance, layering and seasons. You realise summer is coming and with out consciously thinking about it your foods change, your intake lowers and you disregard your hibernation meal styles for fruit and little else. Living in Ireland has kept me on a constant hibernation diet for the full 12 months. And my physical activity although includes daily biking and the occasional rock climb and swim is actually restricted to running from the cops on the occasional direct action.

The thing is I use to be so fit, in my high school year book this one girl Stephanie wrote to the most athletic person I know. And although my concentrations have been side tracked by politics I still have goals of doing triathlons at some stage of my life. At the rate I was going I was going to have to become a born again athlete in my fifties for that goal to be realised.

So yesterday I took the dreaded first step and went to the gym. There is this gym across the street from my gaff that I have been eyeing the past nine months of living here and now with only three months left to go on the lease I am a proud owner of a St. Catherine’s health club membership.

I put on my surf pants I bought for Thailand and my space invaders t-shirt and I was good to go. I walked into the gym with confidence and looked around with the air of gym knowledge I walked straight towards this piece of machinery that I have never used before and jumped right on. The equipment is the strangest thing that they have at gyms, its kinda like you are cross-country skiing but you can go back and forth. Everything was going ok, I put in my weight, age, length of time and choose the cross training program.

Everything was fine till three mins in when it says peddle backwards. What how do I do that? I stop and awkwardly move my legs in a way that becomes a smooth backwards motion but wait how do I keep my feet attached to the peddles. they keep sliding back, at least when I was going forward they would slide to the stopper in front but this is madness nothing to stop my feet from sliding off this thing, I put all my weight on the peddles hoping that that pressure will keep them in one spot. Then I start to notice I'm sweating; good its working, the calories are flying off I'm getting fit.

But damn it I'm sweating all over this crazy machine and don't have a towel to wipe it off. It had been years since I had been at one of these places and I have forgotten the etiquette of the gym. I see a sign that says sweat towels are mandatory and that they are on sale at reception, but alas I have no cash so I leave traces of my sweat an the hang rails of all the equipment.

Next is the running machine, these things have always scared me, I mean how do you get on and how do you get off. I start slowly hoping to just be cool and not fall on my face. I notice this clip attached to the hand rail. It seems that you clip in on your t and if you fall it will pull out the clip that causes an emergency stop. This safety device seems more dangerous then falling yourself. The string is long so you have to be nearly off the thing before the emergency stop and then with the sudden change in speed you are sure to fall on your face, I put it on anyways and see what the deal is. Twenty mins later I’m well into this running thing, watching Sponge Bob on TV and doing an eleven min mile. In my excitement my pumping arms accidentally hit the control panel and the whole thing shuts down thinking I just fell. The look on my face when I stumble to halt must have been classic.

A gym disaster I am, but its been two days now and who knows where this health surge could lead.

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Man is the new middle east

Men are the original terrorist it would seem. The fear tactics used to protect women from this dark stranger in the alleys or even from the cunning, good looking manipulative man on the streets in the day resembles the paranoia during war times gone past or newer anti-terrorist propaganda. The idea that we need to be on guard 24 hours day and walk around in a constant state of fear places the women as a constant victim as a week vulnerable entity that needs to be in fear of her life and existence. Someone who needs to look around every corner, just counting down to that moment when the ‘predator’ will smell her weakness and attack.

This is not to take away from so many women’s experience of violence but to rather look at where the sexual violent power dynamic lies. It’s in the home, in among friends and partners. This is again not to say that women should be walking around in a state of fear waiting for the moment for there loving partner to turn around and rape then. It’s more to say that we shouldn’t fall into the role of victim walking down the street or at our parties and safety tip for women lists is as damaging to women’s self of self and feminism as the violence that women experience.

The following email is beign forwarded around, of course it was generated in the states the place were fear tatics replace rationla thinking at all levels. It would be like consulting wilderness survival guide to figure out how to deal with paper cuts. So check it out your self . . . very scary




Safety tips for Women

We can now add to the list of victims the retired 77 yr. old TCU professor from Ft Worth whose body was found last week in Oklahoma—and the 11 yr. old in Sarasota, FL. Because of these recent abductions in daylight hours, refresh yourself of these things to do in an emergency situation...This is for you, and for you to share with your wife, your children, everyone you know.

After reading these 9 crucial tips, forward them to someone you care about. It never hurts to be careful in this crazy world we live in.

1. Tip from Tae Kwon Do: The elbow is the strongest point on your body. If you are close enough to use it, do!

2. Learned this from a tourist guide in New Orleans. If a robber asks for your wallet and/or purse, DO NOT HAND IT TO HIM. Toss it away from you....chances are that he is more interested in your wallet and/or purse than you, and he will go for the wallet/purse. RUN LIKE MAD IN THE OTHER DIRECTION!

3. If you are ever thrown into the trunk of a car, kick out the back tail lights and stick your arm out the hole and start waving like crazy. The driver won't see you, but everybody else will. This has saved lives.

4. Women have a tendency to get into their cars after shopping, eating, working, etc., and just sit (doing their checkbook, or making a list, etc. DON'T DO THIS!) The predator will be watching ou, and this is the perfect opportunity for him to get in on the passenger side, put a gun to your head, and tell you where to go. AS SOON AS YOU GET INTO YOUR CAR, LOCK THE DOORS AND LEAVE.

a. If someone is in the car with a gun to your head DO NOT DRIVE OFF, repeat: DO NOT DRIVE OFF! Instead gun the engine and speed into anything, wrecking the car. Your Air Bag will save you. If the person is in the back seat they will get the worst of it. As soon as the car crashes bail out and run. It is better than having them find your
body in a remote location.

5. A few notes about getting into your car in a parking lot, or parking garage:

A.) Be aware: look around you, look into your car, at the passenger side floor, and in the back seat.
B.) If you are parked next to a big van, enter your car from the passenger door. Most serial killers attack their victims by pulling them into their vans while the women are attempting to get into their cars.
C.) Look at the car parked on the driver's side of your vehicle, and the passenger side. If a male is sitting alone in the seat nearest your car, you may want to walk back into the mall, or work, and get a guard/policeman to walk you back out.

IT IS ALWAYS BETTER TO BE SAFE THAN SORRY. (And better paranoid than dead.)

6. ALWAYS take the elevator instead of the stairs. (Stairwells are horrible places to be alone and the perfect crime spot. This is especially true at NIGHT!)

7. If the predator has a gun and you are not under his control, ALWAYS RUN! The predator will only hit you (a running target) 4 in 100 times; And even then, it most likely WILL NOT be a vital organ. RUN, Preferably ! in a zig -zag pattern!

8. As women, we are always trying to be sympathetic: STOP. It may get you raped, or killed. Ted Bundy, the serial killer, was a good-looking, well educated man, who ALWAYS played on the sympathies of unsuspecting women. He walked with a cane, or a limp, and often asked "for help" into his vehicle or with his vehicle, which is when he
abducted his next victim.

************* Here it is *******

9. Another Safety Point: Someone just told me that her friend heard a crying baby on her porch the night before last, and she called the police because it was late and she thought it was weird. The police told her "Whatever you do, DO NOT open the door." The lady then said that it sounded like the baby had crawled near a window, and she was worried that it would crawl to the street and get run over. The policeman said, "We already have a unit on the way, whatever you do, DO NOT open the door." He told her that they think a serial killer has a baby's cry recorded and uses it to coax women out of their homes thinking that someone dropped off a baby. He said they have not verified it, but have had several calls by women saying that they hear baby's cries outside their doors when they're home alone at night.

Please pass this on and DO NOT open the door for a crying baby

----This e-mail should probably be taken seriously because the Crying Baby theory was mentioned on America's Most Wanted this past Saturday when they profiled the serial killer in Louisiana. I'd like you to forward this to all the women you know. It may save a life. A candle is not dimmed by lighting another candle. I was going to send this to the ladies only, but guys, if you love your mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, etc., you may want to pass it onto them, as well. Send this to any woman you know that may need to be reminded that the world we live in has a lot of crazies in it and it's better to be safe than sorry.

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Charting Your Cycle

Last week a group of women and a few token men sat in a lamp lit room on cushions snacking on tea and biscuits and listened to the adventures in menstration, a two women team reading from zines and telling stories of menstration. Your rag, the time of the month, your friend or your period, what ever you happen to say seems to be a mystery to most and a tabboo for many. The event itself was great, but the best part like usual is the discussions in the pub. Thats when the horror stories come out, the phlisophical discussion on to have or not to have the period and the support on our experiences of PMS. And from what I shared and heard there needs to be support groups for our partners almost more then ourselves!!

From my cultural studies feminist mind the most interesting part was the critique of mentration ads over the years. The pertrayal of menstration as something to hide to be ashamed about. Years of advertising that sell products that poisen our bodies and continiuosly tell us that there is something wrong with our bodies something we should be ashamed of and that we should subordinatly bow down to the men in our lives who don't want anything to do with our smells, moods and undaintness.

The duo had made this charts to keep track of your cycle. I never use to pay much attention to these things. But over the years I have begun a much closer relationship with my body, for the first time I have started to keep track of my period and I love it. The idea that you can start understanding the way to feel and can predict the upheaval. For someone who doens't have a 28 day cycle its intrigueing to see the pattern I do have. The women were saying that although your one year cycle might seem all over the place; if you were to chart your cycle for a few years there might be a bigger pattern out there.

So stories of keepers, reusable pads, leaking and mentrual blood art have filtered there way into daily conversations and I say its about time. Its not new for women to talk amonst themselves, yet we often filter our dialogue in groups with men. Yet if we are to reach equality I say that something that is this normal with such regularity among half the population we should be talking and talking loud, till the men in our lives are sharing stories in the adventures of menstration by proxy.

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Friday, October 28, 2005

Why would we marry?

The following is a interview I did with my law and inequality and law proffessor. She is brillant, when I was working at OUThouse she came and did a talk on partnership rights and was ableto express herself in a way that everyone could understand. This interview has already been printed in wsm's newspaper and spread around the internet. Today my flatmate got it in an email from some anarchism list from the states that he is on!!!

Interview with Judy Walsh on a personal capacity

T: Can you explain how marriage and partnership rights are decided regulated in Ireland?

JW: There is a very clear hierarchy in Irish legal system. Marriage is the very privileged family form and that is confined to straight people. At the moment it excludes people who have a different gender identity that hasn’t been recognized.

In terms of what this contract involves, once you sign up for marriage you take on farley extensive obligations towards your partner but you also have a range of benefits confirmed on your largely around tax, social welfare, employment benefits.

T: Can you explain how the policies now around partnership rights as a negative impact for all relationship outside of marriage and not just same sex couples?

JW: Anything outside the marital family unit is treated less favourably so solo parents, people who are heterosexual but are cohabiting or not and are not married are all treated as lesser forms of family then the martial family, the courts have made that very clear. The constitution prescribes special protection for the married family.

In relation to social welfare last year the government introduced legislation to say that gay or lesbian co-habiting couples are not to be treated as couples for the purpose of social welfare.

In most area you find that married couples are benefiting and have the most defined set of rights. If own a property and if you are married your spouse has an automatic share in the property, more over married couples don’t have to pay inheritance tax. If you are not married and you are in the same situation and your partner dies it depends whether you have written a will or not. Your partner is a stranger to the law.

T: Can you talk about the few other inequality when you can’t be married, in terms of children for example?

JW: Sure, children are probably the one is most acute in people’s actual lives.

In terms of parent child relationships, if you are married both parents are automatically the legal guardians of their children. Where the partner of the kid is not married to each other the mother is atomically given custody and rights over the child.

Married fathers are presumed to be automatically good parents and unmarried fathers are seem as having a lesser status. The real problem here is not discrimination based on gender but on martial status.

T: How does this effect same sex couple that have a child?

JW: The biological parent, whether they be a man or women is the guardian. The partner would fall outside the parental unit. There is no provision at the moment to have gay or lesbian partner to be appointed as guardian.

T: When do you see these laws changing so same sex couple are able to get married?

JW: Marriage is somewhere off in the distant future. The Gay and lesbian lobby have various positions, which is not necessarily a bad thing. Many groups that have put in proposals are saying they don’t want marriage per say they just want some form of recognition. For example GLUE who are concerned mostly with people whose partner outside the EU was some form of recognition, for them it’s an urgent issue of being able to be with there partner in the one place.

David Norris drew up a bill to put gay and lesbian relationships on some sort of legal footing and opposite sex no married couples. This was introduced last year but it has been deferred. The government indicated that it would draw up its own proposals. The issue is gaining some political issues, and I can image there will be a larger debate around this fairly soon.

T: Do you think that state should be regulating interpersonal relationships?

JW: There needs to be some form of ground rules to protect people from being exploited from violence and abuse.

Traditionally the state as used marriage for the base of many things, basically maintaining inequalities, privatise responsibility and care. Basically the state subsidise marriage, we give it financial benefits, we need to ask why don’t we subsidize solo parents instead for example. At the moment children are inheriting the poverty of there parents. People talk about meritocracy and I think it’s a joke.

T: What is your utopian vision of relationship formation and regulation

JW: Autonomy and equality as the two core values, where every individual would have autonomy and the right to self-determination, to freely choose the type of relationships they want to form with whom, when etc. Subject there not being able to exploit or abuse someone else.

If each individual had a basic standard of living regardless of gender or martial status, the questions about what happens when you cohabitate with someone or get married become more or less irrelevant.

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Thursday, July 21, 2005

Away from The Box In The Burbs And Into The Dirty Old Town

As long as I've been living in ublin, I've been stuck in some sort of box in the burbs. At first it was the commuter nightmare of Terenure, with no sense of direction sharing a room with a stranger and nothing but vivid memories of sitting on the god awful infamous 17 for three hours a day. After that it was out to a rented squat in Churchtown, where we were isolated in a neighbourhood full of closed gates and electric buzzers. Then there was Dundrum, a taste of mortage hell in an estate that looked like it should be friendly but instead consited of a lot of grey old people in grey houses. Now for the liberties, minutes away from the centre of town and surrounded by shops that seem to have been cloned off Guineys. You go for a coffee and an old woman grins at you through filthy teeth, sharing a joke with you as you top up you coffee with some artificial cream from an aerosal can. What a relief.

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