Plastic Fantastic

The news that yet another multinational manufacturing plant is closing didn’t come as a surprise to me, but the fact that this one manufactured fake boobs did.

Go read Ann Marie Hourihane’s article all about it/them – not only does it use the word ‘breast’ at least twenty times, it’s also quite relevant and very amusing.

And while we’re at it, have a gander at the fate of the man who decided exploitation would be a fun way to save his business.  The only sad thing about this story is the fact that it’s probably the only recorded instance of exploitation not being profitable.

Yipppeeeee!!! Film Festival Time!!

Pardon my unbridled enthusiasm, but given that it is ‘that‘ time of year again, not only are the cinemas full of decent films for once, but there’s a whole festival full of them headed our direction.

In the past I’ve been lucky enough to attend the festival launch parties, and even turned down a job at the festival a few years ago for reasons which arguably I still regret, but that’s a story for another day. Ultimately I’ve never (and yes, this is pathetic) gotten a chance to fully embrace the festival. Honestly, it’s not going to happen this year either, given that my version of embracing would mean taking the week off work, buying a season ticket, and seeing about sleeping in the lobby of the savoy for the duration!

However, I have picked up a select number of tickets so far, limited by aforementioned constraints of having to go to work and thus not having a season ticket.

So far, my seat at the gala screening of There Will Be Blood has been secured, along with the 3D screening of (the latest/directors/shplah cut of) Blade Runner, the obligatory Surprise Film at the end of the week, and Love in the Age of Cholera.

Honestly that last choice is the one I’m most anxious about. Much as I love films, I honestly worry any time a genuinely great novel ends up on the silver screen. Love in the Age of Cholera also happens to be one of my very favourite books, ever, and as such I’m more than a little bit scared of seeing what will be done with it. Having said that, my giddiness about the whole festival is currently distracting me from this anxiety so I’m going to run with this optimistic blur and hope that it at least does the book justice.

One more time: Yippeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!

1890-BAD-PARENT

My latest plan to revolutionise the world we live in was inspired largely by the ryanair flight (through hades) I endured at the weekend.

Admittedly the flight itself was fine, with the notable exception of the sleazy creeps at the back of the plane who, as members of a number of golf clubs, felt it was their god given right to openly and actively harass the air hostess throughout.

As we started our descent into Dublin, a young girl (around ten years old) sitting in the row ahead of me (and on the far side of the plane) started getting very upset. My guess at this point was an ear-poppage issue given that kids tend to be more susceptible to that kind of thing. But she got more and more upset, and the whimpering turned to crying, and eventually to outbursts of “Mammy I’m not well”.

So far, so standard.

Mammy’s response did, however, leave more than a little to be desired.

Says she, parent of none, etc. I’m sure there are regulations against questioning anyone’s parenting skills when your own are yet to be stretched to their limits, but in the full and frank knowledge that no doubt I will ruin my own children’s lives in a hundred or more ways, I have to say that if I ever did the following I would have to actively request that my children be removed from my care.

Mammy turns to daughter and says “for god’s sake would you shut up”

To a ten year old. Who is feeling increasingly sick, probably on her second ever flight, and who really needs someone to tell her it will all be okay.

Daughter gets more hysterical when ‘mammy’ persists in what is presumably a ‘tough love’ tactic. Which then begins to include smacking for good measure.

The highlight was when the poor créatúr, at this point having emptied her guts into a selection of quality Ryanair sickbags, replaced her cries of “Mammy I don’t feel well” to “Please mammy stop screaming at me”.

Where do you look? Whatever about random frazzled parents in shopping centres who snap when they just can’t take it anymore, when you’re all stuck in a small confined space for another forty minutes, what are the other few hundred people supposed to say (to each other?) while mammy dearest does the worst job imaginable of comforting a child?

Which leads me to my scheme: A nice little 1890 number, ‘How’s my parenting?’. Because really, who has social services on speed dial?

I’m thinking something like the bumper stickers you see all over North America…

It may not be a particularly practical plan, but there must be some merit in the concept of saying “Seriously lady, just give the poor girl a hug”. It’s not like us Irish are the type to interfere and say that to the woman’s face…

This is just brilliant…

As, for the record, is this. Just in general.

Rubbish day for everything

You may have seen an ad on TV a while ago for some ‘new and amazing’ credit card which talks about the smart/stupid balance in the universe. If you’re into the cosmic balance thing then somewhere in the world today a lot of good stuff happened. I really hope tomorrow the papers are full of these good news stories tomorrow but somehow I can’t see that happening.

I’m not even going to start listing them. There’s no point. Anyone with their eyes open today must have noticed all of it.

So in resigning myself to the doldrums I’m watching World Trade Centre at the end of the day. A life affirming movie about courage.  Or something.

Proud parenting done right

‘Proud’ parents tend to be insufferable. Bob Quinn got it right. Maith thú.

Living in a nicely insulated box of cotton wool

Right, here it is.

A 16 year old attacked a man and a woman, on Middle Abbey Street, because the woman in question had short hair and he assumed they were both men, and thus gay.

The ‘teen’ was drunk, and alone, and this was his first hate crime, so his defence lawyer is calling for leniency.  That’s not quite the wording being used, in fact there’s no mention of hate crimes anywhere, but I suppose that shouldn’t come as a surprise. What with ‘actual’ equality being a notion totally alien to most of our wonderful modern society.

Martina Devlin’s article today in the same paper – about the Obama vs. Hilary battle – makes an interesting point, one so interesting that I plan on quoting directly from it for fear that you may not follow the link:

‘Iron my shirt, iron my shirt,” some men chanted at Hillary Clinton as she campaigned in New Hampshire this week. It was a boorish attempt to bully her — to bully all ambitious women — back into the kitchen.

Hillary laughed. Presumably she’s heard worse. But there wasn’t much of an outcry about the incident. If they’d catcalled “polish my shoes, boy” to Barack Obama, the hecklers would have faced jail.

Questioned about it afterwards, Hillary said: “As has been abundantly demonstrated, I am also running to break through the highest and hardest glass ceiling.”

Higher and harder than the race ceiling, sky high and rock hard though it undoubtedly is? I suspect so.

The US election is going to be fascinating to watch, but it’s hard not to think the democratic candidacy will not come down to a question of which is less acceptable, a black president, or a female one. I dread to think what the answer to that one might be.

Hermitàge

Yes, I took December off, and I’m perfectly happy with that decision. Didn’t everyone take December off? (Insert rant here about excessive Dáil break(s))

It has taken me a while to find what I’d like to start my new year of ranting off with – Mary White very nearly pushed me over the edge – but I’ve got it now, and so, I’m back…