Hey, Can We Like Totally Sue These Guys Dude?

I mean it's a very moving story and everything but what ever happened to 'firsties', eh?

Signs that I’m Getting Old

1. Now when I look at a pretty girl on the street and think “I could have a daughter her age!”, it doesn’t even freak me out any more.

2. The last time I went for a haircut the barber spontaneously offered to trim my eyebrows.

3. The times when a good dump is the highlight of my day are happening way too often.

4. When I do that quick mental cost-benefit assessment before going out to drink heavily, the balance more often seems to be in the negative.

5. I’m not an angry driver any more.

6. I’m genuinely worried about the possibility of losing my job and having to find another.

7. Younger Spanish people are starting to address me with the ‘usted’ form.

8. Although I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, I’ve stopped fretting about it.

9. I can finally admit to myself that I’ve always hated nightclubs.

10. I eat slower and savor the food more. Actually quality seems to be trumping quantity in most aspects of my life.

11. I never did teach myself how to juggle. And before you say anything, there’s no fucking way I’m starting now.



I'll keep adding to this post but feel free to post your own contributions in the comments section.

Finding Our Inner Yobs

Lung the Elder and I do like to think of ourselves as a pair of semi-intellectuals and on those evenings when we are in our cups, the banter can typically drift from economics to politics to science to cinema to history and back to economics again (via women).

However, there comes a time when one must drop one’s frontal lobes into a warm jar of formaldehyde and get back in touch with that dribbling, giggling caveman that lives inside all of us males. A couple of weeks ago LtE and I spotted a new movie by Steven Soderbergh called Haywire. It’s basically a brainless international spy romp where a (real) female martial arts expert goes from city to international city beating the living shit out of the smuggest actors that are currently on the scene. Now there are probably two words that shoot into your mind when you hear that description, one of them is likely ‘yeah’ and the other one ‘fuck’ only perhaps not in that order.

And there’s another cool thing that fits perfectly into our fiendish plans. One part of the flick takes place in the backstreets of Barcelona and the other in a Dublin hotel (where Michael Fassbinder gets beaten to death. Yay!) As I live in one of those cities and hail from the other, it’s the perfect excuse. Well gee honey you just HAVE to let me see it!

Oh indeed. This flick has ‘guilty pleasure’ written all over it in scarlet neon strobe letters. It’s going to be so, so bad and yet so damn good. A delicious greasy oozing cheeseburger of a movie that you know you shouldn’t consume but you’re going to anyway and laughing manically all the way with gherkins between your teeth and ketchup dripping down your chin.

So the plan is Wednesday, get a couple of beers in beforehand to numb any critical sensibility that might cause some undesired trash resistance. Then the movie, then some junk food diner where we can talk about our favourite bits like a pair of sugar-crazed eleven year olds.

This is going to be so much fun.

*Postscript - It turns out that Michael Fassbinder doesn't actually get beaten to death in a Dublin hotel but instead shakes off his mortal coil with a bullet in his head. So I do apologize and take it all back - except for the "Yay!" bit.