Saturday, April 9, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Radio Gaga
A texter to the child psychologist on the Sean Moncrief show today revealed that her eleven month old is petrified of the sound of the hoover and the hairdryer and wondered whether the little fella would ever grow out of it.
Now the answer that our friend the child psychologist should have given is that no, your son will not grow out of it and will unfailingly go apeshit at the sound of hoovers and hairdryers for the remainder of his life. But he didn’t.
That the question was composed and sent in the first place, that the host of the show read it out and that the expert constructed an earnest answer is the most succinct yet also the most comprehensive description I have come across of the real crisis that faces the country.
I wonder will Enda and Eamonn include anything in the Programme For Government to eradicate such eejitry.
Now the answer that our friend the child psychologist should have given is that no, your son will not grow out of it and will unfailingly go apeshit at the sound of hoovers and hairdryers for the remainder of his life. But he didn’t.
That the question was composed and sent in the first place, that the host of the show read it out and that the expert constructed an earnest answer is the most succinct yet also the most comprehensive description I have come across of the real crisis that faces the country.
I wonder will Enda and Eamonn include anything in the Programme For Government to eradicate such eejitry.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Enough Said
There was a discussion of wedding gifts and wedding gift etiquette on a radio show hosted by Fiona Looney a few days ago. Looney asked a caller if she would be insulted to receive a wedding present of €50. Her reply was “well it’s ten of one half dozen of the other to me to be honest”.
And the thought occurred to me that here we had the perfect “stepping off point” for this whole concept of participatory radio. The optimum moment to lift the siege; to return the medium to its founding premise; entertainment.
I thought that subsequent to the ten of one half dozen the other comment that we would hear a solemn voiceover (James Earl Jones or Morgan Freeman perhaps) saying something to the effect of “ This is a public service announcement; in the interests of decency all the phone lines are now closed. Until further notice”.
Such an announcement never came. On goes the torment.
If ten of one half dozen of the other can't put it to bed then for the love of God what will?
And the thought occurred to me that here we had the perfect “stepping off point” for this whole concept of participatory radio. The optimum moment to lift the siege; to return the medium to its founding premise; entertainment.
I thought that subsequent to the ten of one half dozen the other comment that we would hear a solemn voiceover (James Earl Jones or Morgan Freeman perhaps) saying something to the effect of “ This is a public service announcement; in the interests of decency all the phone lines are now closed. Until further notice”.
Such an announcement never came. On goes the torment.
If ten of one half dozen of the other can't put it to bed then for the love of God what will?
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Calling All Randoms
So I'm looking through our fairly extensive library of family photographs and begin to notice the number of randoms dotted throughout the collection. Randoms of course being innocent bystanders, entirely unconnected strangers who just happened to be in the shot, in the background mostly, unwittingly captured in the crosshairs.
And you would have to wonder if the randoms know the pivotal role they occupy in the compendium of our collective memory. Because some of these are nice shots, ones you go back to again and again; and with each visit there is the random commanding an ever increasing slice of the spotlight.
In particularly wistful moments you might wonder about their name, where they live, how many kids they might have, what line of work they might be in. Think how nice it would be to let them know how important they have become over the years, how they've soldered themselves to your collective identity, become subsumed within the family mythology, how you've warmed to them indeed look forward to their unchanging, reassuring image.
There is a lot you can deduce from the photo but wouldn’t it be great to get an update. I mean, Jesus what are they doing right now, where are they doing it, what if they’re dead? Not so much closure as full disclosure. Spill, who the hell are you?
It’s a dilemma I have recently begun putting my mind to solving and the result is randomsreunited.com. The owner of the shot posts it and visitors have the opportunity to identify themselves thereby ending years of conjecture and speculation.
The site operates on the same principle as lost dog or cat websites. Post the photo with a few details surrounding the circumstances of the shot and wait for the randoms to come to you. Let’s face it these people are already part of the family so why not bring them in from the cold?
Who knows the possibilities once the ice is broken, you might have more in common than you imagine, after all there’s probably a good reason you were only a few feet away from each other for that landmark moment all those years ago. You probably share the same values and outlook on life.
“Seamus I’d like you to meet Gunther. He got caught in the background of a snap we took in the Louvre one summer and has been staring down at us from the mantelpiece for over ten years now till eventually I said to Dympna; feck this I need to know. Turns out he’s even more passionate about preserving the otter’s natural habitat than I am, if that's possible.”
Give it a go, I mean what can possibly go wrong?
And you would have to wonder if the randoms know the pivotal role they occupy in the compendium of our collective memory. Because some of these are nice shots, ones you go back to again and again; and with each visit there is the random commanding an ever increasing slice of the spotlight.
In particularly wistful moments you might wonder about their name, where they live, how many kids they might have, what line of work they might be in. Think how nice it would be to let them know how important they have become over the years, how they've soldered themselves to your collective identity, become subsumed within the family mythology, how you've warmed to them indeed look forward to their unchanging, reassuring image.
There is a lot you can deduce from the photo but wouldn’t it be great to get an update. I mean, Jesus what are they doing right now, where are they doing it, what if they’re dead? Not so much closure as full disclosure. Spill, who the hell are you?
It’s a dilemma I have recently begun putting my mind to solving and the result is randomsreunited.com. The owner of the shot posts it and visitors have the opportunity to identify themselves thereby ending years of conjecture and speculation.
The site operates on the same principle as lost dog or cat websites. Post the photo with a few details surrounding the circumstances of the shot and wait for the randoms to come to you. Let’s face it these people are already part of the family so why not bring them in from the cold?
Who knows the possibilities once the ice is broken, you might have more in common than you imagine, after all there’s probably a good reason you were only a few feet away from each other for that landmark moment all those years ago. You probably share the same values and outlook on life.
“Seamus I’d like you to meet Gunther. He got caught in the background of a snap we took in the Louvre one summer and has been staring down at us from the mantelpiece for over ten years now till eventually I said to Dympna; feck this I need to know. Turns out he’s even more passionate about preserving the otter’s natural habitat than I am, if that's possible.”
Give it a go, I mean what can possibly go wrong?
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
They're All In Bed, Quick, Stick On The Good Stuff
So here I am on a Wednesday night trying to stay awake for Other Voices, the only decent programme RTE have managed to produce since the Cuban missile crisis.
And just in case too many people might get to bear witness to this fine show they have decided to air it at quarter to midnight on a Wednesday night. Which sounds like the work of some demented fucker until you consider that this is a marked improvement on last year when it was aired simultaneously on a Friday night with Later with Jools Holland on BBC1.
So let's be thankful for that particular small mercy. Baby steps out there in Montrose, don't do anything too rash. You want to drip feed those improvements, the last thing we want is to be swamped with enhancements to our standard of living, snowed under, buried beneath an avalanche of common sense, not knowing which way is up. Spoilt rotten. That would never work.
Of course I soldier on trying to ignore the obvious implication of this scheduling decision; that anyone with a mild interest in live music of any quality is a student, an alcoholic, unemployed, a drug addict or some combination thereof who couldn't possibly need to be out of bed at any point before noon of a Thursday.
Or maybe that's it; an elaborate conspiracy to keep the dissidents exactly where they want them; in the scratcher out of harm's way while they run Celebrity Come Dine With Me, Operation Transformation and Killinafuckinskully on a loop in prime time and I not noticing a thing over in the corner getting myself jacked up on speed to be able to stay up and watch Mad Men. Bastards.
And just in case too many people might get to bear witness to this fine show they have decided to air it at quarter to midnight on a Wednesday night. Which sounds like the work of some demented fucker until you consider that this is a marked improvement on last year when it was aired simultaneously on a Friday night with Later with Jools Holland on BBC1.
So let's be thankful for that particular small mercy. Baby steps out there in Montrose, don't do anything too rash. You want to drip feed those improvements, the last thing we want is to be swamped with enhancements to our standard of living, snowed under, buried beneath an avalanche of common sense, not knowing which way is up. Spoilt rotten. That would never work.
Of course I soldier on trying to ignore the obvious implication of this scheduling decision; that anyone with a mild interest in live music of any quality is a student, an alcoholic, unemployed, a drug addict or some combination thereof who couldn't possibly need to be out of bed at any point before noon of a Thursday.
Or maybe that's it; an elaborate conspiracy to keep the dissidents exactly where they want them; in the scratcher out of harm's way while they run Celebrity Come Dine With Me, Operation Transformation and Killinafuckinskully on a loop in prime time and I not noticing a thing over in the corner getting myself jacked up on speed to be able to stay up and watch Mad Men. Bastards.
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