Local Rivalries

On Saturday, I did something I have not done in about five years. I spontaneously decided to go home to see my family in Longford.

My original plan was to watch Spartak play the league leaders, feel sorry for myself over the injury I received on Thursday, go to a party out in Bray, perhaps catching the last DART back into town to meet some other friends. Instead, I caught the 1700 bus to Longford.

On the journey home, I remembered that my local GAA team, Fr Manning Gaels, were playing our local rivals Dromard in a League game. It was almost a year since my last game, and with quite a few old friends playing, anticipation grew.

Dromard and Drumlish have quite a bitter rivalry. I am not ashamed in whole-heartedly participating. An Intermediate team when the Gaels first burst on the scene in 1996, our two clubs had little competition and so relations were good.

Many people around home forget that Dromard GAA club placed a huge sign just out our village wishing us well in our first County Final in 1996. Dromard had quite the crop of young players, however, and soon became a Senior team. In many ways, Dromard were similar to ourselves, but a few years behind.

Having won three Championships in 1996, 1997 and 1998, with a very successful Leinster Club Championship run in 1998 behind us, we drew Dromard in the first round of the 1999 Championship. None of us considered them a threat. We had a magnificent team and were playing our best football. For the first twenty minutes of that match we destroyed them, but did not score as much as we should. They slowly got into the game, picking up points in determined fashion. Late in the second half, a fantastic goal by Donie Conefrey gave them the lead.

We could not respond, despite our star forward, Padraic Davis, hitting the post with a vicious shot in added time, injuring himself in the process.

With no back-door, "the Windies" were eliminated, Dromard going on to win the Championship. Exacerbating the problem, there is no public house in the parish of Dromard. Their traditional post-match haunt? Gallagher's pub in Drumlish, of course!

A bitter rivalry ensued, and nearly every game between ourselves is packed with excitement, passion, big hits and heated tempers. Quite often, there is no shortage of skill either. Sunday was no exception.

I will admit immediately that we robbed Dromard, by far the better team for most of the game. First to the breaking ball, their stronger support play, fluid movement and better use of possession was in stark contrast to us. We kicked frees straight to them, wasted promising bouts of possession, and failed to track their free-ranging wingbacks. At one point, we were ten points to the bad; seven points down with about ten minutes remaining.

And then we started to play.

Like the champions of old, we refused to lie down, bringing them back to a four-point lead. Dromard promptly went down the field and scored a magnificent point. Gaelic footballers will tell you that most games have one score that is the most significant in the game, be it a goal which starts a comeback, or a point which breaks the pattern of the game. Dromard's point had that look and they thought so. They had not scored for some time, and momentum appeared to be swinging back their way.

Not a bit of it.

From a quick free in, Fitzy got a fist to it and steered it into the net. Two points down, two minutes to go, the game was there for us for the first time. Another point narrowed the margin further and from another high ball, Fitzy palmed it down to Davis, who buried the ball into the net.

What a feeling! I danced, I laughed, I roared, I punched, I gloated. I told the Dromard goalkeeper, having spent the whole game taking an infuriating amount of time on the kickouts while they were ahead, to relax. Why the sudden panic? I doubt he heard me.

I may be the better soccer player, but there is no game on this planet to rival a GAA match between to two decent neighbouring parish teams. I cannot wait for the next one, whenever I finally get to it...

At Least I Tried

Near misses are becoming my specialty. I almost whored myself to the bastions of global capitalism, but the money was not enough. I almost found my ideal woman, but it was not to be. I almost finished my PhD, but the algorithm did not work. I almost went to Paris this weekend, but the flights were too expensive.

Today, I almost became a concerned citizen.

Standing at the doorway of a small newsagent on Wicklow Street, I scanned the magazine rack for this week's The Economist. The display was sadly devoid. Turning to leave, I became aware of a small commotion within the shop.

A glance inside revealed a few agitated Oriental shop assistants behind the counter and a young local girl with a few small children. The young mother moved slowly towards the entrance. One small boy, perhaps three years of age, held two bottles of Coke and a sandwich.

Feigning innocence, the mother turned to acknowledge the annoyed gibberish of the shop assistants and muttered to her son

"Run outside. Go on, run off!"

Her son duly obliged and she followed like the dutiful mother she was. Annoyed at this brazen theft, an assistant followed them past me.

Somewhat ashamed at my lack of interference, I wandered further, bringing my Grail Quest in vain to the remaining newsagents at the end of the street. Annoyed at my failure as both a consumer and a citizen, I doubled-back to Suffolk Street for lunch.

The Garda van remained unnoticed until I walked past it.

In the three minutes since I had left the shop, a huge crowd had gathered around it, including a number of uniformed Gardai and a backup car. A quick glance up the street showed another Garda car turning onto the street.

Rubbernecking was rife, and the street had come to a standstill. I observed shapes moving at the end of an open alley beside a restaurant a few door down from the shop. A Garda badge on a shirt flashed briefly. All the bystanders attention was consumed by this ten-foot-wide gap. I assumed the woman and her children had fled up there.

It struck me like a bolt of Zeusian inspiration from the clear blue sky. This woman's casual use of her tiny children to steal had angered me. Her racism-laced deception and contempt galled. I would tell the Gardai what I had seen. I no longer cared about the inconvenience. I felt it was the right thing to do.

Alas, all the officers had disappeared. Undeterred, I decided to enter the shop and tell the assistants what I had seen. Upon reaching the counter, a Garda officer entered.

He did not look happy.

I learned that the woman does this every day. Frustrated and annoyed, the staff hit the panic button. Assuming it was an armed robbery, all nearby Gardai converged on the area. Annoyed at the false alarm, they explained this as calmly as they could manage, requesting the normal phone number be used for future incidents.

At this point, I realised my worth as a witness had dwindled to worthless, and promptly left, leaving the staff and Gardai to reach an understanding by themselves.

Still, at least I tried.

Girls Can Be Nice Though

As a counterpoint to an earlier rant, I feel this post is very necessary.

Most of my friends fly off to Paris early this morning without me. They are back on Monday. I wanted to go, but could not justify missing more classes. Whatever would my poor students do without me? Besides I scheduled assessments for this week.

Knowing of my plight, two girls I know were planning to meet tomorrow. They have asked me to join them.

I think it is a very kind and considerate gesture. One is a current datemate, and the other is an ex-student who became a datemate. They met through me and are surely both sick of the sight of me.

Such is typical of these two. I am not surprised they are friendly.

To top it all, they are superbly antonymical: their personalities are cool and their friends are hot.

The Cinema

I love the cinema. I usually go very regularly (usually around three times a month), but lately I have never quite managed it, due to football, a lack of desirable films, and other miscellanous reasons.

Tonight I return to form. I am going to see "Garden State" again. A fantastic film, I am bringing companions. As yet, our fellowship has not been fully determined, but I am one of them. Our task is not without its dangers.

The UGC has a perilous beauty, like the fey forests of old: the snack area on the second floor.

The long and multi-coloured wall of sweets beckons as you pass like a siren, beguiling wretched disaccharide-dependants such as your humble narrator, singing in the cracklingly dulcet chorus of carbonated-drinks dispensers, scoop-filled popcorn tubs providing a rhythmical percussion.

I may find the will to resist, but will I really want to?

Song Lyrics 3

You say you're not sure,
Though it makes good sense for you to live together.
Still you bought a toy that can reach the places he never goes.

Pulp - Do You Remember the First Time?

And a taste of honey is worse than none at all

Smokey Robinson - I Second that Emotion

Then he looked at me directly, with a gaze that could dissect me,
And he asked me in a whisper, "Have you got any sisters?"

Christy Moore - The Reel in the Flickering Light

If I hadn't seen such riches I could live with being poor.

James - Sit Down

I like to watch her sway.
She's luck before I'm going away.

Porno for Pyros - Kimberly Austin

Will there be another race
To come along and take over for us?
Maybe martians could do
Better than we've done?

Porno for Pyros - Pets

Women are Crazy

Now, seriously.

You are.

I don't know what kind of twisted rules system you female types use to run your brain, but it ain't logic.

Let's take Valentine's Day. It is completely made up. You women don't care. It's a "special day" for doing "special things" with your "special someone."

Don't get me wrong. When it comes to doing special things to special someones, I'm as game as anyone. Probably more than most, in fact. Having a special day smacks of limitations. Why can't the 4th of February or the 11th of October be "special"?

In fact, if I could only qualify two of the words "things", "someone" and "day" in the above sentence, it wouldn't take long to decide the loser.

Another example? Anniversaries.

This word derives from anno, the latin word for "year."

A "year."

Not "six months."

I am not a heartless man. I think an acknowledgement of the first six months of a relationship is healthy. I would be disappointed if it was not celebrated. It is an important markstone. But once you have had a year together, I think we should respect the word.

I could choose many more examples. I will choose one.

Relative psychology.

We men know you are weird, and strange, and alien. We find it incredibly alluring. I can't think of anything worse than meeting a beautiful woman who acts and thinks like a man. It would be awful.

All men have a bewildered look, instantly recognisable through constant usage, for describing to their friends the latest inscrutable act or comment from "Herself." We just accept that your mindset is different to ours. We actually like these differences.

You women are so crazy, you don't see how crazy you really are. You want us to think like you and embrace your craziness! That's alone is pretty crazy.

I could go on and on, but I think now is a good place to stop.

Tragedy is Better Drama

An interesting point came up in a conversation recently.

Some background is necessary before I begin. I had self-confidence problems until very recently. The details of this are irrelevant to this discussion, suffice to say I am working on it. I am much more positive and confident than I used to be.

My song lyrics quotes garnered justifiable criticism from my friends for being downcast and negative. It was suggested that I was slipping back into my harshly negative ways.

Fortunately, while this was not the case, a discussion on negativity and positivity in literature was prompted. The question is simple:

Why is it that nearly all great drama is tragic?

Before I answer this, I want to understand the question. This is a trick I learned from studying Mathematics in University. Before you can fully understand an answer to a question, you first need to fully understand the question.

I am also aware that some of my more literary acquaintances vehemently disagree. This is a good thing. Discussion and debate are good for the soul.

So what exactly do I mean when I say that "nearly all great drama is tragic?"

At its essence, there are two types of drama: tragedy, those with a sad ending, and comedy, those with a happy ending. Thus is the classic symbol for drama two harlequin masks, one with a smiling face (comedy) and one with a scowling face (tragedy). These two words have changed in meaning today, but I will use the original definitions in this writing.

Of course, what constitutes a comedy and a tragedy can change as cultural values alter over time. The Merchant of Venice was originally a comedy, but I seriously doubt anyone today would consider its ending to be happy.

Given the above, we could rewrite the question as "Why are sad endings more dramatic?" Is it a case of base schadenfreude? Are humans still malicious enough to consider the fall of the greater better than the rise of the lesser?

It is an interesting question. I can only presume these questions have been asked and answer by much greater minds than I. Such things border on the philosophical, and Aristotle postulated that the viewing of tragedy was cathartic to the human psyche.

I do not know enough of philosophy or psychology to truly have an opinion on that comment, but I do have some thoughts on the big question.

So why is it that nearly all great drama is tragic?

I have pondered for some time on this. I still do not have an explanation with which I am fully satisfied. I think Aristotle's idea has merit. It facilitates, however implausibly, the excusing of our failures. Watching a man like Hamlet deteriorate gives us hope. We think to ourselves

"Here is a great man, heir to the throne of Denmark. Even a man such as he can destroy everything. My failings are much less in comparison."

I believe this is a more complex issue though.

Life is harsh. It is cruel. We all know this. While we crave happy endings to tales, tracks and tape, we instinctively accept it is escapism.

Tragedy hits us harder since it is more familiar. We can often empathise with it. As Othello is consumed with rage, frustration and a lust for vengeance, we see ourselves doing the same.

We do not live in a Hollywood film. The special someone is married, or "just wants to be friends." The lying cheater gets the promotion, getting away with stealing the credit for your work. In your one big chance for sporting success, you fail.

While this knowledge can be cathartic, it is also more real. We see it happen every day. Escapism is short term, so it does not endure. In the film Awakenings, Leonard Lowe reverts to catatonia, arguably worse off.

Perhaps this is why I have always loved "Chasing Amy" so much. A genuinely funny film about a ludicrous situation, no-one can question its comedic status. Provocative and edgy, the final few minutes floored me. We do not get our ending because some things cannot be forgiven or undone.

I am sure there is a large body of literary thought on this topic, but I am unaware of it. I would be interested to know what the experts think.

My Starsky and Hutch Movie Moment

In a generous display of gratitude for some computer help rendered, a datemate offered to cook the two of us dinner yesterday before we hit the town for the night.

Upon our arrival, we entered the living room with attached kitchenette. Standing behind the counter, preoccupied with culinary tasks, stood her very attractive friend. Pleasantries were exchanged. Dinner was about twenty minutes away.

After perhaps fifteen minutes, a bottle of wine was opened. I was persuaded to have a small glass. Emerging from behind the counter to reveal a very-mini-skirt, her legs walked across the room to hand me a glass of wine.

My friend reported that I barely batted an eyelid as I "graciously accepted the glass with studied nonchalance."

Poker anyone?

One of My Students

One of my students uttered the following to me in class last week. It is much more entertaining when quoted without context:

In a minute Mick, I need to get rid of the cock first.

A motion was proposed that this not be mentioned here, but I felt I owed it to the Internet...

A Blog Entry on a Sunday?

What on Earth is happening?

Alas, Violet Hill Drive is still broadbandless. Neither am I at home. I am at my desk in Trinity trying to reinstall Windows 98 on a friend's laptop.

Having wrestled with USB key drivers to enable file backup, copied the relevant files to my USB key and then my hard disk and circumvented the fact that I do not currently possess a bootable CD, I am almost ready to nuke the hard-drive and create a fresh install.

Fingers crossed.

Scoring Goals

I love to score goals. Unfortunately, it is not a common occurence.

It was not always so. As a younger man, I found the net with effortless ease. It was a fulfilling time. Alas, it did not last. My prolific touch abandoned me.

Jaded by my pathetic whines, my friends sought to lend aid and advice. I did not take enough chances, I did not put myself into shooting positions, I did not shoot nearly enough, I needed more confidence. Some even questioned my desire. Whispered rumours suggested it was all an act. I had no real desire to get on the scoresheet, desiring instead the self-inflicted psychological flagellation.

The drought is over. The rains came two weeks ago.

In a hastily arranged fixture in the last few minutes against a rival team, the ball was at my feet at the edge of the box beyond the back four with no offside.

I let fly.

I do not talk about getting goals as much now. My friends have even noticed me changing off the subject at times. I am much happier. It feels natural, and I can sense a few more on the horizon.

Another Defeat

Spartak Dynamo Premier Saturday team lost to Dundrum Athletic last night. The score was 2-1. I was playing at left fullback. I played average, but I have played much better.

It is very disheartening. Almost every game lost this year by the second team was by a single goal. Our run since Christmas is appalling. We lost our best player, Frank McNamee, to a broken leg just before Christmas and have seriously struggled since, especially up front.

Spartak Dynamo

I am a huge football fan, and I follow nearly all types. I play for a soccer club here in Dublin called Spartak Dynamo. Fr. Manning Gaels is my local GAA club back in Drumlish, Co. Longford. As for the NFL, I am probably a bit too detached to follow one team but have always had a soft spot for the Jets and the 49ers. I have a natural affinity for the Patriots style of "team before individuals." I consider their success a good omen for the sport.

My father was a very talented soccer player. Alas, while not as naturally gifted as he was, I definitely inherited his passion for the game. I joined Spartak just after Christmas in 2002. My position was originally centre-midfield.

These days I play in lots of positions, though usually at fullback or wingback, generally for the second team. Recently, however, I have played at centre-half for the first team.

This season we are playing terrible. All three Spartak teams are down near the bottom, and wins are scarce. There are various reasons for this (and now is not the time for the discussion).

I think I will start to blog our games however.

Mick the Chef

Well, it is four days since everyone ate my lasagne and my rice dish. Since no-one has died or even complained of stomach-ache, I feel confident in declaring it a success.

I had ten people over for dinner on Friday night. I cooked two huge lasagne. Concerned by quantity, my chicken, mushroom, ham and soy sauce dish, served with rice and grated cheese, was added to the fare, circumventing the problem of having a wheat-intolerant guest.

By tradition, the guests supplied the dessert. A huge tub of ice-cream and a fantastic chocolate pavlova served with fresh cream and raspberries duly arrived. Copious amounts of alcohol was drank, and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves.

The highlight of the night was discovering that the pavlova was conceived at 0500 that morning. Her intent was to bring nothing. Unfortunately, she realised the consequences of this, and allowing me to hold something over her forever was too much to bear. She hauled herself out of bed at the ungodly hour, and the baking commenced.

Upon hearing her logic, my friend nodded in assent and remarked "Mick, you are a walking no-win situation."

Once we had eaten, the brutal assault on the wine began as did the inevitable character assassinations. We all had a tremendous night, and I certainly hope to repeat it soon.

Another Name

Add this one to the list from the previous post.

A Walking No-Win Situation

I must admit, I am extremely proud of this one!

Economics in One Lesson

The suspense is over, my economics book got the nod.

Economics in One Lesson is a strange book. It will not teach you economics. It is easy to read. It is not socialist. Essentially a free-market polemic on governmental regulation, it attacks rent-control, minimum wage laws and government credit, amongst others.

Henry Hazlitt first penned this text in 1946. It has not aged. The title is very apt: his central thesis is a single concept, applied to many different situations.

The art of economics consists in looking not merely at the immediate but at the longer effects of any act or policy; it consists in tracing the consequences of that policy not merely for one group but for all groups.

My economic stance is still in flux. When I was younger (and admittedly ignorant and naive) I had strong socialist tendencies. These days, I am much more of a free-marketer in the classical sense, not this selfish and short-sighted help-the-rich-man attitude that most right-wingers have today. I do not believe in 'pork' from governments. I am appalled by the attempted repeal of the estate tax in the US.

As to my stance on this book, I have not decided. It is definitely worth reading. Only a few chapters in, I am not in a position to judge the authors arguments. I will post some thoughts upon its completion.

Blazing Saddles

I learned something shocking today about this classic comedy by Mel Brooks.

Most of my students have never heard of it.

Right now, many of you are asking yourselves why I would know this. What does Blazing Saddles have to do with computers, Michael? Were you dossing in class again? There was a lot of Aphrodite-blessed females in the class, wasn't there Mick?

In my defense, my reference was relevant. I was discussing security, and how pointless it is when easily bypassed - just like the Le Petomane Thruway toll booth in Blazing Saddles. Such a toll booth was set up somewhere in the US. Unsurprisingly, people just drove around it.

I finally managed to find one knowledgeable student. He had heard of it. He had not seen it. I felt vindicated anyway.

All of you students who read this blog, consider this an order: watch Blazing Saddles. It is appallingly politically incorrect (which makes it even funnier) and undeniably silly, but hilariously funny nevertheless.

I wish I could sit here and write more about it, but I have a class starting in a minute.

Questions about how the Godfather is relevant to database design will not be entertained. Questions about the gender statistics will be entertained even less.

A New Read

Well I finally finished Foucault's Pendulum yesterday.

It was heaving going, but it had a lot of interesting points to make.

Now I have a new problem. I am not sure what book I want to read now. I have a number of options, such as Quicksilver by Neal Stephenson, Dracula (again) by Bram Stoker, and a few more books which are lying on the desk beside my bed.

Stephenson is excellent, so he is the definite favourite.

The Laboratory of the Mind, ladies and gentlemen, a leader in suspense-provision.