Prodigal Macken

All photos courtesy of the beautiful lift fearing Karin Albinsson

I don't know if you know this about me, but I was once a performance artist. Just once. (I mean, I'm so private about my life, what with blogging, constant forceborking and the stupendous words that I string together when I... *groan*... "tweet".) Well now, when I say a performance artist, I was more of a tool for a performance artist to appropriate his work through me. Shortly after I completed this piece I was invited to test out some performative work at a performance art showcase and I froze. Intrigued as I am by performance art, it is, in fact, the art form which instigates the most violent responses of anger, frustration and irritation in me too. There's a level of attention expected from it - that is a societal and cultural attention - which is depicted through courtesy, decorum and consideration. There's a constant anxiety within me of being considerate when making work, of if i am making someone uncomfortable that it is for a legitimate reason. Self satisfying as creating art can be, I have sat through 30minute performances where a person preaches their opinion at me whilst doing something ridiculous to satisfy their exhibitionist desires, and I am trapped, out of politeness, to listen to them, as they present me with ill informed, under researched, casual opinions which I am supposed to accept as an unpleasant artistic comment on the world. AND. TO. THAT. I. politely. FUME. FOR. HOURS. AFTERWARDS.

Although, when I list my favourite artists, to a majority they are surprisingly not painters, but rather performance artists. When done (to a level that I consider) well and WITH CONSIDERATION, even if that consideration is towards being inconsiderate, it can be wonderful (obviously entirely objectively OF COURSE! cough). Qasim Riza Shaheen is one such artist. I once got an opportunity to paint his portrait in a hotel in Dublin. There's a presence that Qasim has, an insatiable one. Not only is he a handsome figure, but there are such gentle qualities to his character that encouraged me to become confessional, and speak about my admiration for some performance artists. Obviously, I've toyed with performance through a more commonly accepted forum, that of cabaret, but somehow, I found myself on a plane on my way to the mac in Birmingham to take part in Qasim's most recent show there entitled Prodigal Son; Traces of a disciple astray.

After two days of extensive discussion and workshopping I found myself performing, in an emergency exit hallway, at the back of a theatre. It included 5 records from the 1960s each telling a different nursery rhyme/fairytale. In a simultaneously exhilarated and cripplingly terrified state, I found myself repeatedly performing five poses over the course of the six minute nursery rhyme for over 30 people, one on one over a period of three and a half hours. The vulnerability I feel when I perform ordinarily was magnified as it became a consensual one-on-one dialogue between the viewer and myself. A camera was placed where they were seated, and the public could not see me, but could only view the responses of the viewer which were projected throughout the building on large plasma screens. The vulnerability I felt was mirrored, if not surpassed by them, as they became self conscious of the voyeuristic role in which they had placed themselves. I had a sense of responsibility of wanting them to feel comfortable, to enjoy the experience, to enjoy looking at me.... It sounds pathetic when I type that out. I wonder why I desire to be looked at so much. vee vee vee vee VANITY. (WELL that was an embarrassing tangent!?!) What resulted were fits of giggles, awkward whistling, many smiles, outrageous displays of awkward hand movements, one come-on, and a large graze on my right arm where some skin used to be.

I'm still trying to figure out what all of this means. It wasn't my own piece, and Qasim had his own intentions for it, but it did become my own experience with each viewer, and the environment and memory and pain and joy that I brought to the space was my own. I'm unconvinced I can be a performance artist. But I am intrigued. And I'm heartened by the positivity this experience brought me. If I do something in future that is in the medium of performance art, it's not that I want it to be a pleasant experience, but I want it to be a significant one.

Qasim's work will be on show at the QUEER NOTIONS FESTIVAL this week. I strongly recommend you have a look at his work. It's booful.

SHE'S THINKING - OUT OF BOREDOM. This won't turn out well.

As I swivel my life away in an office chair awaiting training in something I will never use, amidst dramatic sighs, and soft silent wails, I like to consider the level of dialogue which swivels simultaneously within my cranium. I'm at an impasse, you see. An impasse of being idle, yet receiving monetary embellishments for this lack of activity. UNTIL THE END OF THE YEAR. When they uttered this extended temporary fact to me, of course!, I should have rejoiced! Hurrrrrah!!! FREE MONEY YOU SAAAAY! Free money to sit in a swivel chair and gaze at a computer screen and learn about things through witty links on twitter, and watch Samantha Ronson turn the girls ghey, and eventually read newspapers when the witticism and the gateway lesbianism-ism becomes tiresome.

As I was writing this initial self indulgent paragraph, (primarily as a method to make the time pass via public moaning, of course) a 21 year old Romanian woman, who cleans the offices here at my temp job, was asking me if I had any children or a husband (she has two - children, not husbands - only one of those), she was then talking to me about the fact that she is the only one in her family who has a job. I'm here. WRITING A BLOG. Getting paid to become frustrated and have an existential crisis, and she's hoovering around my self indulgent feet.

I've been most pensive since I became "aware"/read as; "started up a twitter account". The addition of reading the newspaper, particularly at a crucially volatile point within Irish politics and economics is that I've realised I'm a spa. ("Finally," I hear Samantha Ronson tweet.)

Now many of my closest humans have often told me this. MANY. REPEATEDLY. And this new clarity, awareness, and time wasting drivel i'm typa-typa-typing is proving them quite right. I've always had a sense of the greater good for myself you see, inside this ROUNDY young lady lies all the cliches of one Leona Lewis (minus the talent of course, and perhaps with a more colourful use of language - soz Leona). Many pipe dreams I have, horrendously embarrassing pipe dreams, never really involving the impending training on Oracle (an accountancy programme) through which i am now living... I've always expected more for myself. Even though I barely have the stamina to fully commit to the book Freakonomics in favour of the trashy erotical delights of one Immodesty Blaize's second book "AMBITION", (oh baby...), and yet here I am, 7 years an artist, 5 years an administrator(soon to be adept in accounts, BABES), 1 year a cabaret performer, 1 win at a sean-nós festival under my diaphragm (I was 9 and, at that point, had never smoked...) and never having championed myself as a human bean bearing a political opinion. However, perhaps, with all of these *cough* astouuuundiiiiing achievements under mine diaphragm, if i had been more committed to training into things like Oracle, and maintaining a job, which paid me, I'd possess NOT ONLY no debt, but also, perhaps, independence to the degree of not living with ME MA. Much as I covet the earth for bestowing me with the most wonderful woman in the whole universe as my mother, I feel, at 27, somewhat ashamed to be living at home.

I blame the pipe dreams (what does that even meeeeean! - A pipe dream is a fantastic hope or plan that is generally regarded as being nearly impossible to achieve, originating in the 19th century as an allusion to the dreams experienced by smokers of opium pipes. - oooh, thank you Google!) So, essentially, I need to give up the opium and become comfortable with being miserable in order to obtain possessions such as a home, and perhaps a kitten, maybe some self respect too, so that I stop blogging.

buryuckes

I went to my first ever burlesque show in London last night. I was zooper cited. And even wore a hat! A vee pretty green hat with a netted veil.. A NETTED VEIL!

Billing itself as a nightclub with daily cabaret, comedy and burlesque, something was immediately disjointed as I entered the club. Mirrored walls, black chandeliers, suits - (not nice vintage dapper suits mind you, CORPORATE SUITS) - an all female bar staff very slow to serve, all in matching Agent Provocateur panties (I COULD SEE THEIR BUM BUMS), and upon serving you informing you that a bottle of beer was £6 - as of today's currency conversion that is €6.85 in Irish euro money for 330mls of beer!!! I was not best impressed. Even one of the headline acts was saying that this was more of an Ann Summers strand of Burlesque....

ANN SUMMERS STRAND I ASK YOU!

I then discovered whilst auditioning for performers/bar wenches they were not interested in anyone over a size ten. There was an air of insecurity about the place that was palpable. I felt insecure. I overheard one of those extremely distasteful conversations in the loos where two women compliment each other through outrageous displays of a lack of self respect - "I do yoga for hours to even try to get a body like yours!", "Oh but I wish I had hair like yours mine is so limp", "YOU'RE ALL BORING" - oh that last quote might have been me...

There's a depressing self consciousness to so many beautiful women that I find, not only distasteful, but wasteful, irritating and entirely unnecessary. Of course I fall victim to many moments of doubt about myself, but then I GET OVER MYSELF, recall that I do not have a second nose on my forehead and get on with my unhealthy, hedonistic, joy filled life. For me, it's nightclubs such as this which fully endorse and support this mindset.

Later in the night, I discovered that City Burlesque was formerly a "table-dancing club", and it made a lot of sense.... there was nothing remotely empowering, intriguing, subversive or new about this club, and it would be AT BEST described as a contemporary version of a Playboy club, most notably grasping on to the values of those 1950s clubs in relation to objectifying the female through social norms of beauty with talent being listed as a nice pair of tits and how you've dieted yourself to the point of looking like a boy.

Now I left early out of irritation, and with the exception of Lydia Darling, Miss Banbury Cross, and from what I hear Luna Rosa, who are all of major merit in their own light... Lydia Darling was prevented from using fire in her show and seemed puzzled as to how to adapt her performance through creative limitations...it was all very depressing. They were there to be pretty. That seems to be enough to impress them, but it certainly wasn't enough for me. AND DID I MENTION THE PRICE OF THE BEER? Incidentally, the sad appearance of a young Winehouse woman was also pretty upsetting. BUT LETS NEVER SPEAK OF THAT AGAIN.
Yes, I'm talking to you THE SUN.

Work of Fiction - The Next Top Áine Macken

Sooooooo I'm not sure you're aware, but, I, Áine Macken, have appalling taste in television. When I say appalling I obviously mean in relation to the judgement of others as to what I allow unfold before my eyes whilst ballooning into a blimp, when really I should be lunging to validate my burlesque career so that I'm no longer referred to as brave but rather as sexy... (give that lil tangent a wave! hi bitter tangent, are we feeling a little insecure this morning, hush now and take your clothes off, twill be very brave of you).... This appalling taste includes any Next Top Anything, the delightfully obsessive cocoon of big brother, Tyra Banks and her upper lip, expanding my vocabulary through watching Lauren Conrad dispense wisdom (MARRY ME.)..., however I'm not so fond of the singing ones, my distaste is akin to my morning breath for their DISARMING and HEARTBREAKING tales of bore involving their failed careers, dead family members, and crossed eyes, and the SONGS, oh do be silent and dispense wisdom in a condescending fashion like my two favers up there.

When I accidentally stumbled upon "Work of Art - The Next Great Artist.", (yes, it was whilst going to stream The Real L Word... I'M NOT ASHAMED), I thought... ooooh! OVERLAP, my serious life, and my boldie avoiding serious life combining in a reality televisual tantric orgasm of splendour! Wonderful! Well letmetellyouthis! Not only did this assist in future blimpage, but it ALSO, yes also, contributed to the fact that i am AGING, by furrowing my brow and having further necessity for those anti wrinkle creams my mother keeps giving me. How very dare you Bravo, how very dare you indeed.

Launched by Sarah Jessica Parker, (Yes, CARRIE, squeeeee, screeeeeam, everybody paint your nails, start getting-to-wonder, be a sexy horse, neigh for me.) as she is EXECUTIVE PRODUCER of the show.... widely known as a conceptual artist Sarah Jessica Parkers work lies mostly in dealing with socio-economic... oh no, wait, she has NOTHING to DO WITH ART, except for maybe having extortionate amounts of money to buy it, (which if you're reading this Carrie, which I'm sure you are, I have plenty of paintings for sale... CALL ME!)...

We are introduced to an array of KOOKEE KARACKTERS, lots of shexshy wimmin, a couple of weirdos (see below); some anti establishment i'm-a-builder-but-i'm-just-magically-good-at-art-stop-judging-me-or-i-will-flatten-you-with-my-expansive-chipped-shoulder, already 'established' artists, and a host of dubious judges from the art world in New York.

(now I'm most aware I'm a huge weirdo, and I adore weirdos, I did sense a sensationalist aspect to the "weirdo" here though, where it seemed somewhat exploitative and unconscious, particularly in relation to Nao, a literally shit artist, not that she's literally shitting, just simulating shitting of course, CANT GO TOO FAR.)

What irked me though, as I was indeed quite substantially irked, was that their final sentence upon awarding an artist as being the 'winner' from each challenge was that China Chow, the host, would repeat weekly "You really made a true work of Art". Now, though I did admire some of the art on display, (well when I say some, I actually mean only one artist, that being Peregrine Honig, (featured below)

she does some delicately touching and twisted imagery of which I am most fond. Check her oot.) UNFORTUNATELY FOR MY LOOKS, to a majority it was largely underwhelming, half baked, insincere work, and the eventual winners own work was condescending to the extent of my having to wince when hearing him assert his opinion on our socio economic condition through repetitive use of the word CRAAAAZY. Growl.

I'll stick to the High Art in Reality Television of Project Runway then... what would Tim say? THANK YOU MOOD.

Pen Pal Pear Project

My work is involved in the Pen Pal Pear project at the Little Ghost Gallery in Kilkenny, opening this Friday the 6th of August to coincide with the Kilkenny Arts Festival.

This was a project where selected artists were combined in a visual pen pal partnership. We were encouraged by Anne Keenan and Mick Minogue (who run the gallery) not to do google searches, or email, or phone the other artist, and to literally post imagery to each other in order to create a piece for the eventual show.

I was placed with artist Stacey Shine, whose delicate insightful drawings dropped into my letterbox like little droplets of joy. I struggled a lot with the project as, though the materials with which we work are somewhat similar, I thought our concepts were vastly different.

It was when she sent me this image, that something began to resonate and I could see a language and dialogue with which we could begin to visually combine.

She didn't send me details of what was happening in the work. And this, for me, meant I could view it as an objective source, i.e. as a viewer, but the fact that I could respond to it, as an artist, meant that the project began to escalate. I addressed it as a young boy, smiling strangely and carrying a log. I found it curious and the children's illustrational style to it almost gave it that sumptuous play of being disturbing, which is integral to my own work.

My own work operates mostly within the tension between flattering portraiture, sincere emotion, the difficulty of depicting that through a liquid substance and to a majority, all of my source imagery originates from internet imagery. I'm interested in extremes, I'm interested in the horrific, I'm interested in the titillating nature of the eroticised image, I'm interested in genedered imagery... you would think all of these interests would make me interesting... at least my vocabulary is vast... at least I HAVE THAT.

Well, anywho, if you're INTERESTED! (yep, she uuuused it again) in seeing how we combined our work to create a finished cohesive piece - it actually only fell into place when we met up in Café Irie on Thomas Street and worked through everything we'd sent to each other - after the initial weird, oooh are you Stacey? moment... my first blind date!... the show runs until the 14th of August. (Incidentally it turns out that little boy carrying a log was a female construction worker from the second world war. Excellent!)

Here are two examples of pieces we sent to each other that may OR MAY NOT be in the show...;

Murder she rode... Ridey Angela Landsbury WHOO KNOO?

Bunny's Hutch and Mackey being INAPPROPRIATE

I suppose bloggling forces you to be opinionated about certain things, to write out your ideas, and to eventually allow people to read these ideas... makes me feel a lirrul exposed, but sure who gives a fuck about my feelings.

Fast approaching is the first anniversary of my first ever 'burlesque' performance. I suppose what I do could be classified a lot more as cabaret, but I think I'm fascinated with burlesque, and not just for all the bootiful boobulars, but for the glamour, potency, subversion, titillation and intelligence that comes with it as an art form. It toys with the objectifying eye and subverts yet celebrates it. It's a duplicitous confusing form of performance, which, for me, makes it all the more sumptuous and intriguing.

Something I've always struggled with is my consistent inner dialogue of whether to suppress my narcissism and to maintain, nurture, and add fuel to my flaws. I really love this quote from Luce Irigaray, MY TOP FAVE PHILOSOPHER BABES; (I think she'd appreciate that eloquent introduction)

"...more than other senses, the eye objectifies and masters. it sets at a distance, maintains the distance. in our culture, the predominance of the look over smell, taste, touch, hearing, has brought about an improverishment of bodily relations...the moment domin ates the look dominates, the body loses its materiality”

There's something about the experience of performing that is equal parts objectifying and subverting, exposing and hiding, glamourising and de-mystifying yourself. It's simultaneously the most exhilarated and terrified I've ever been. I agonize and question myself and my motivations for putting myself in this position, I curse myself for not being thinner, not making my face look nicer, I CURSE FACEBOOK PHOTO TAGS. But I'm also weirdly impressed with myself for being so brazen... for just saying fuck it so I'm a bit fat, I'm still ridey!

I'm going to be introducing a brand new performance at Bunny's Hutch in Panti Bar on Capel Street on Tuesday the 3rd of August, that, for me, expresses all these discomforts, subversions, and sumptuous elements of narcissism, over indulgence and PROPRIETY with which I struggle. Come seeeeeee. The Hutch, for me, is one of the most interesting new platforms for young performers to test out new ideas, and it's potential has been far surpassed by the wonder of the displays of talent there each week. It's bahrillo, totally free, and I'm in love with it, and with Bunny.

She's beyooooteeeful! LOOK!

MORAN MACKEY BIRTHDAY FESTIVAL 2010

GUSHING BIRTHDAY LOVE

I am most honoured to share a birthday with this young man. A fine pair of arms he has, young Padraig Moran, quite the penchant for midweek pints and midnight charlies, and oh, yes, the best writer I know. (Don't tell him I said that though, his big head may spread to my boobs. I'm keeping it high brow don't chew know...) Here are some ridiculous posters I made for him as a thank you for him filling me to the BRIM with meat, and I don't mean in a sexy way, I mean in a BBQ way - YOU DISGUST ME. Do have a goo at his blog by clicking on his name up there. It's mah fave.

Still moderately inebriated and having experienced the worst hangover in my existence, (I SHAKE AND I SHAKE BUT IT WON'T COME OFFFFFFFFF). I can safely say that my birthday was THE MOST WONDERFUL DAY, including midnight crowd surfing, two morning Mc Weeney fries(or is it frys? oh lots of sausies and puddin's anyways, nom nom), missed flower deliveries, wearing life jackets (swooning at Lorna Mc Weeney's HUFF in a lifejacket), canal cruising in aforementioned lifejackets, bar bee que ing with copious champagne, a disconappy costume change, THE WORLDS MOST WONDERFUL CABARET SHOW, and dance dance dancing till I pass pass passed out.

A huge great thanky warmy snuzzley spooney hug first and foremost to the wonderful Mimi Rouge, then of course, Peter Dunne, Fanci Shmancy, Ian Finnerty(THAT CAKE OHHH THE CAKE!), Richard Conway, Lisa Connell, Ciarán Rua, Stephen Quinn, Neil Watkins, Paddy Fagan, the Frenchies for my Spicey Flower, Lorcan Devaney for that tremendous cáca milis, Gerry Leeleeeleeee for coming all the way over and creating such a lifelike image of me in his fancy dress gown, Lorna Mc Weeney for treating me like a Mc Queenie, and of course Not Forgetting Padraig Moran, whom I FORGOT to sing Happy Birthday to as I was far too busy singing it TO MYSELF in a breathy Marilyn accent(Hi FEAR! taaaanks for reminding me!) Obviously it was amazing to have so many of my lovely friends there too, and I weeally approssiotod it SO I DID. thankthankthanks. kay i'll shurrup now. x

Full photos here;

http://bit.ly/d7upX9

aaaaaaaaaaand HERE;

http://bit.ly/d7hDVT

and here's a few of my most faves if you're too lazy to click the linkies!

GAZE After Party

Mimi by Laughlin McKee

Gaze After Party Presents; OVER THE RAINBOW

Here's imagery of ONLY SOME the ridey DJs you can expect at The Academy this Friday the 30th of July. Just looking at them is almost enough. but dancing for them too. WELL NOW. That's something we'll all enjoy. a little too much perhaps. Great exercise is dancing anywho. cough. What do you mean I'm blushing BLOG? YOU DON'T KNOW ME.

Photo of the beautiful Peter Fingleton (Expect to hear his choons after 1am) provided by the wonderful and always insatiably stylish Eimear Fitzmaurice and all the rest are by the good Peter himself.

Una Mullally is Deejaying at 12.30am

See Ian's delightful bop from 11pm

Conor Beho will be rocking my britney pants off from 10.15

Check out Deejays SWISHITUP too, they throw jewels and glitter out to the crowd, and I've been very impressed by their tune-age at recent CaKe slots.

There's concessions for anyone with a GAZE film ticket stubb, and there'll be a series of Drag and burlesque performances which I'll post up more aboot later in the week.

MACKEY MONSTER

BEHOLD the Magnificent MIMI ROUGE.

I am most honoured to call her my STAGE MOM/MONKAT/one of my most FAVES in the world. And she has really humbled me by organising a magnificent birthday party for me to coincide with the next PARTIE MONSTER. This Saturday the 24th of July in The Sugar Club, which happens, luckily (I'm a very lucky girly) to be my birthday... In her words, she is taking inspiration from me... START EATING PIES QUICK. No no, what this means is that other than a stomping club night there will also be a mini cabaret including;

HEIDI KONNT, OSCILLATE WILDLY, ALTER EGO, LISA DONEGAL

AND MORE TO BE ANNOUNCED.

Expect subversive, raunchy, shocking and titillating performances from some of my ABSOLUTE FAVES. weeeeeeeee!

Then on to the Dancey bit;

A LIST OF DELICIOUS DJ'S PLAYING A COCKTAIL OF MUSIQUE! MIMI ROUGE/PETER FINGLETON/IAN FINNERTY/RICHARD J CONWAY/FANCI SCHMANCY/PUTRID DUNNE

A few people have asked me about dress code;

If it is an evening taking inspiration from Mackey (now i know that sounds narcissistic but IT ACTUALLY WASN'T ME who came up with the theme!! GOD THIS BLOGGING KEEPS GETTING MORE EMBARRASSING) but for me that means kinda retro glam sexy absurd, plenty of cleavage PLENTY of eyeliner and LOTS OF SMILES... but as long as you're happy and feel gorgeous that's good enough for me!!!!!!!! And if you're there that's the very best bit. x

Here's a foo outfits i've sported at partie monsters of old...; mostly boobs and facepaint if we're honest...

check out www.cantleavenow.com and

www.sharpshock.com for real inspiration and INCREDIBLE PHOTOGRAPHY from two of my most beautiful friends Peter Fingleton and Fionn Kidney. who are responsible for the majority of the photies i post on this here ramblestation.... and they're fucking RIDES too.

áit AIT - a love story

I go all smooshy swooshy, but not in a ROMCOM way, when i speak about áit AIT. The first time I met Mags and Ciarán they had come to my mid year MA show in Temple Bar Gallery & Studios. Quite the dapper pair they were. They remind me of the comforting scent of cinnamon and almonds. Each time I encounter them, I feel at ease, entertained with eloquent rants (-see Ciarán), and ready for a glass of red wine the size of my face. (Usually it's white, but this is the impact they have on me!! life changing as you can see.) Anyways, luckily they mistook my work for something remotely intelligent and kindly invited me to exhibit my work at their new club night. And such began my love affair with a night club.

There's a certain energy about áit AIT that I've always admired. They're creative and intelligent, they have ethics when it comes to only playing what they deem as good music (at times this can unfortunately involve part of The Little Mermaid soundtrack, but we forgive them as they're so ruddy ruvery) their tremendous bakery skills, but personally I believe it's the welcoming environment they create each month that involves them getting such a dedicated and wholehearted following. Always welcoming, Ciarán Rua ensures he is roaming with his wee smiley head, and has a mischievous glint in his eye in the knowledge that his plotted surprises of the evening are afoot. They theme each month, more of a source of entertainment and inspiration for themselves, as to what surprises to plot really, rather than a dress code like SUCH incrediballs nights as PARTIE MONSTER, which I'll speak about later, and at length, with equal amounts of gush... there is an element of 'cool' to the evening at áit AIT. by that i mean hip happening. and BY THAT by that i mean i sound like a spa. but how and ever. WHAT I'M REALLY trying to SAY, is that the gays that go dress well, have very specific music tastes and look really beautiful. Of course, once everyone gets a bit wibbly after a few shandies they look even better as they're now shiney from sweaty dancing and spilled pints, or in the case of Will St Legers birthday a bottle of prosecco showering the crowd...

In my personal experience of Gay Dublin (Gublin if you will), it was the first experience I had of feeling comfortable in a Gubbly environ (if i will, oh i will, gubbling all over, babes), I mean, the music was good, the people were sexy, the dancing was ridiculous, and I felt simultaneously at ease, overexcited, and RANDY, but sure, I'm always randy, so there's no change there really. It was my introduction to a world of alternative nights with merit to their musicality and creativity to their methods of orchestrating entertainment, all inevitably leading to the alco you see before you on this here bloglington.

Anywhoodle, the next one is fast approaching. (I'll be DJing, which is nice for me.) This Friday, which happens to be my birthday EVE. which means at midnight I expect champagne to be showered over me. Kaythanksbuy!

delicate... delicacies. sensitivity. and humans i cherish

AhhhhhnyOk I'll BE HONEST. I may have imbibed a smidgeen. I maaay have danced like a spa. I may have danced like a spa with the worlds SMILEYest man. His name is Alan and I love him forever. These are all not unusual though, the spa holeyness, the imbibery, the falling in love, as you well know, if you well know me, which i'm sure you well do, as i can't well even imagine anyone who doesn't know me having any remote desire to read my drivel. Oooh tangent. Anywho, What is moderately unusual is my crazed rages, my stomping around in my shoes (filled with holes), my impatience and my oversensitivity.

Mother Macken is unwell you see. She suffered from a very serious case of bowel cancer and commenced the six month poopy trip of chemotherapy on Wednesday. She's wonderful. I. However. Am a Mess. Oh I'm disgustingly going with that whole confessional Blogosphere monstrosity I hear people (myself) shake their head at. Yes I'm shaking my head at myself. I'll have the F.E.A.R. about posting this, wont I? Why do I keep asking you questions blogroll? WHO KNOWS. I'm probably mostly pensive and confessional due to the blood alcohol content being at an unfortunate level STILL. I SHOULD PROBABLY JUST STRETCH BACK INTO ABSURDITY WHERE I'M MOST COMFORTABLE, that, and CAPS Lock, caps is my primary source of comedy.... That, my friends, is the secret to comedy... to make funny make BIG. Arint you lolling all over me? oh lols hols. Where did it all go wrong with my comedic career?

Anyway. Apologies, mostly to young Lorna Mc Weenerschnitzel above. She bore the brunt of it. I'm taking offense to everything. OFFENDED. I've strictly instructed her not to read this though, as she'll be grammatically horrified with me. I suspect she's already aware of my dubious relationship with the caps lock. She bought my Mammy flowers once did Lorna Mc Weeney. That was nice of her.

Now everybody hug me, tell me it's all going to be OK, and lettuce never speak of this post again.

PHOTO BY Rory (with the Story) Nugent. From last night with Alan Mc Smiley. Thanks Rory, you made me not look like a mess which was nice of you. You're a nice man you are. With lovely shoes.

Mothering Sunday Mornings, Foxy Knoxies, and Elderly Asian Ladyvillians

PHOTO COURTESY OF THE WONDEROUS Peter Fingleton.

Currently hidden in my little bedroom with a tummy growl, growl growling for some delightful special K... (if only i could complete that two week challenge I'd finally be skinny FOR ONCE AND FOR ALL) ...but the mother macken has visitors. And SO, I will forge on, and growl and RANT, and rave, (bedrave to THIS) but ALSO, on to my general concerns of this Saturday the 17th of July. I'm worried about Amanda Knox you see. She has CUT HER HAIR. She's also receiving Fan Mail. She's been imprisoned for my entire life span, AND SHE'S FOXY, according to the media, this makes the story extra salacious. Trial by media comes to mind, but I'm pleased we got to know her opinion on the World Cup. At least there's that.

Now my sleep was pestered by a terrifying asian woman brandishing a gun filled with firework bullets that she was shooting at me. Strewn across that gun was a black and white cat. Obviously this relates to me reading the Amanda Knox article before bedlington. But also, due to the fact that I suffer from chronic FMS (fear of Missing Something) it was an anxiety dream relating directly to the monstrosity that I was not out enjoying MY LIFE, but rather was tappa tappa typing to this here blog which I'm sure no one will be reading, at least it's taking me away from my hunger though.

Luckily, anxiety dreams shall be suspended due to the fact that i shall be going to Mother this evening. Located in the bowels of a tremendous hidden gem of copper alley, with it's steel brandished podium separators, ornate wallpaper, covenous low ceilings, and glamorous humans, each week I feel as though I'm stepping into an episode of Dynasty, combined with the good old days when RíRá's Monday Evening Strictly Handbag would see me FORGET ABOUT ALCOHOL in favour of Dancing and drinking pints of water. Wholesome Mack.

Oh visitors are gone! For Cereal. I'm not really a very dedicated blogger am I? This is all a ploy to sustain hunger.

MY FAVES being Fuzzy.

Experimenting WITH THE WONDROUS WORLD OF BLOGLINGTON, I decided to Google me most faves and add drunk to their name in the image search. As you do. I could say it's in reference to THE UNSTAGED PORTRAIT, in relation to my art. And I'm sure, subconciously it is. But MOSTLY. I'm doing it FOR THE FUNSIES. Which is why I do most things. Except when I watch reeling in the years, that is for my forays into masochism.

intriguingly when i started to go for the slightly hipper portion of my faves, the drunken photography became more evasive? do cool people not get wibbly on whiskey? THAT IS MY QUESTION. and so the hip people are absent. I won't mention them. I'm quite comfortable and confident with my exceptional lack of THE COOL, so it's juuuuust fuhhhine. Thanks for mentioning you think i'm super cool though babes. nice of you! have you been drinking?

See I'm already being significant in the BLOGOSPHERE.