Yay or Nay, it's all deja vu to me

'Investment, Stability, Growth', 'Austerity, Debt, Unemployment', the rhetoric makes it hard to distinguish the 'yes' from the 'no' side of the argument in Thursday's upcoming Fiscal Treaty referendum. I haven't met anyone who can tell me, with any accuracy or understanding, what they're being asked to vote for or whether they understand that though they're voting for one specific thing, their decision will alter a bunch of other things in our lives.
When I decided to put my thoughts on this subject in my blog, I never thought putting my thoughts in words could be so difficult, either. In fact, I was three quarters the way through my first draft when a drop down window suggested I had 'logged out' and would I like to 'log in' again? I said 'yes', since it seemed the logical thing to do as I had no recollection of 'logging out' in the first place and simply wanted to get back to where I was. But, as these things go, opting for a 'yes' meant I lost everything I had already written.
No-one thought to consider the consequences of their actions when the so-called captains of finance and property development were riding the pig's back with our money and future prospects over the past 15 years but the democratically elected political leaders, in whom we entrusted our future well being, were quick to pledge that trust to bail out the profligate bankers when things got rough. There has even been a subtle change in language. Now 'we' are paying back 'our' debt.
I don't own a house or a car, never mind a holiday home in Croatia or Marbella. I don't have investment properties in a ghost estate in Mullingar or any other 'desirable' site in backwater Ireland. I pay my taxes, live frugally and within my meagre means.
Ireland was a sorry sight in the 1980s. The young and talented fled this country in their droves and settled, often illegally, in the suburbs of New York, San Francisco, Boston or Sydney. They came back in the '90s, lured by the promise of 'investment, stability and growth', slowly but with increasing frequency and, for a while there was growth and a surge of belief in a country that could lift itself out of the quagmire of poverty and destitution. Ireland became synonymous with ingenuity and innovation. Then the rot set in. My mother had a great phrase about people who got 'notions' about themselves. She'd say 'shit hit with a stick, flies high' and, as gravity teaches us, all things will fall.
The notion that if we're 'good' and vote 'yes', we'll be given a bag of sweets and can aspire, in some vague and distant future, to sit at the table again, with the 'big people', is anathema to me. I say, 'where's our pride?' and 'we've done it before, we can do it again.' A 'no' vote guarantees as much uncertainty in our future, I believe 'short term', prospects as a 'yes' vote pretends not to. I think a 'no' vote is more honest.

When is Truth, Fiction or Fiction, Truth?

I believe, as a writer of fiction, that whatever I write, regardless of how close an account it is to a real event, it remains, for all intents and purposes, fiction. Now that's a very broad and some might argue, indefensible statement. How can the reader discern the fact from the fiction, for example?
There is a contradiction inherent in all fiction writing. One one hand, the novice writer is encouraged to stick to what they know and are passionate about and then, write about that or, at least, draw their inspiration from that well. On the other hand, a writer must never get too close or emotional to their own writing since their task, and duty, to the reader, is to help them suspend their disbelief and doubt and find their own 'truth' in the fiction they're reading.
Fiction, the noun, according to most dictionaries, is 'literature in the form of prose, especially novels or short stories, that describes imaginary events and people.' Such a definition might exclude the 'fictional' works of half the world's greatest writers, I think. Few can doubt the fictional nature of Kurt Vonnegut Jr's Slaughterhouse Five, surely, since it relates a story of alien abduction and an alien race called The Tralfamadorians.
At the same time, the hero of the story, Billy Pilgrim, is a young American soldier who, like Vonnegut, survives the bombing of Dresden because he was working, as a POW, in an underground meat locker. Pilgrim, however, unlike the author, begins to experience life out of sequence, frequently revisiting scenes. He also meets the Tralfamadorians along the way.
Could James Joyce have conjured Leopold Bloom from his imagination or any of the other central and incidental characters who populate Ulysses or his book of short stories, Dubliners, had he not been an inhabitant and keen observer of the denizens of his own native city? I think not and I'm sure there are characters in many novels who may cause some disquiet in the lives of real people and acquaintances of the authors.

James Lee Burke, one of my all time favourite authors, frequently draws his characters from his personal experience. Burke is a multi-award winning writer of crime mysteries, best known for his novels involving Dave Robicheaux, some time deputy sheriff of New Iberia parish in Louisiana, full time recovering alcoholic and former NOPD homicide detective. He's also done series involving first, Hackberry Holland, recovering alcoholic and former Congressional candidate, Texas Ranger and public defender turned sheriff of a small, dusty town on the rim of the Tex-Mex border and then his brother, Billy Bob Holland, a public defender and environmental champion, transplanted from Texas to Montana. He's also published a number of historical novels set in the American civil war and all written from a Confederate army perspective. His observations are panoramic and insightful, always erudite and frequently painful in their honesty. Just what you'd expect from a man with an alcoholic and academic past who has worked as a teacher, a journalist, an oil worker and among down and outs in Los Angeles' skid row and who grew up in Louisiana and now lives in Montana. Read the Introduction to 'The Convict and Other Stories.' It's called Jailhouses, English Departments and Electric Chairs. It is a revelation for any aspiring writer that nothing is guaranteed or written in stone, except the writer's own unquenchable thirst to write. 'Jolie Blon's Bounce', one of Burke's most highly acclaimed and successful novels in the Dave Robicheaux series, was turned down more than 100 times before it finally found a publisher.  
I spent more than twenty years working as a journalist when the essential imperative, both legal and moral, was to ensure, as far as we could, what we wrote was factual and truthful. An author has a different objective. It may be their intention to inform; they may desire to entertain but, in my estimation, their real task is to alter the reader's point of view. I don't mean 'opinion'; I mean, literally, point of view. If a writer can give the reader the facility to see something from the point of view of a different person, of another age, another race, even another gender; then they've suspended their disbelief and achieved their own goal.
A popular novelist once told me a very personal story about himself that, while not doing anything wrong, made him look, well, gullible and human and not the worldly wise author of crime fiction he was. He was aware of my role as a journalist but he gave me the story. There was drink taken, I must admit, but the story subsequently appeared in a newspaper. The author was appalled and, frankly, outraged. He never denied it nor did he seek legal redress, as one might expect he might.
Instead, a character appeared in one of his subsequent novels, bearing my name, complete with two 'ts'. That character was a dog, a friendly, if rather dozy golden retriever, if memory serves and its owner bore the name of the third person who witnessed my conversation with the author and his revelations.
What you write becomes fiction when you set it in print, if that is your intent and design. It is the reader who must decide if it's worth reading.

A writer will find inspiration anywhere. They have to look and see, that's all. Then they have to write.

Shades of Nurembourg

Did you read the full text of Cardinal Sean Brady's defence of his position regarding his role in the investigation of Brendan Smyth's appalling record of child sex abuse? 'Only a note taker,' 'no authority over (Fr) Smyth. It all smacks of the pathetic excuses proferred by Nazi party functionaries at the Nurembourg war crime trials. 'I was only following orders,' was a popular refrain back then.
Cardinal Brady had direct knowledge of Smyth's criminal activities and abuse of children. He spoke to his victims and was given the names and addresses of many more. Smyth went on to continue his abuse, north and south of the border and even, for a while, in the United States.
Yet, despite having this knowledge, Brady hides behind lame excuses such as Canon Law, 'those were different times,' 'I was only a note taker,' and he had no power over Brendan Smyth.
Well, excuse me, Cardinal, but as I read it, you had first hand knowledge of a criminal activity and failed to bring it to the attention of the proper authorities. That makes you complicit in the same crime, as far as I can see.
And then there's the victim who did come forward and was put through the most appalling interrogation by the 'note taker' and his accomplices. How dare they put a frightened 14 year old through such an ordeal?
Those were different times, it's true. My father once told me about the first time he encountered the parish priest of a country town where he had just begun to work. The priest backed him up against a wall with his walking stick and demanded to know who he was? If a priest tried that today, he'd have the stick broken across his own back.
There was too much deference shown to the clergy in those days which allowed people like Smyth to abuse their position and the vulnerable under their care. The church's actions in the past usually involved keeping the offending cleric offside and out of the public eye. More often than not, they simply shunted them off to another parish where they'd continue their abusive practices until they were moved on, yet again.
The Nazis kept meticulous records when they filled their death trains with the Jews of Europe and then those 'note takers' had the audacity to claim they hadn't committed any crime but were simply 'following orders.'
If you were aware of a heinous crime like the abuse of children and did nothing to stop it or have the perpetrators and their criminal activities exposed to the civil authorities, the very least you should do is have the moral fibre to admit your mistake and resign your post as this nation's Catholic primate. You lead no-one. Your office is a puff of smoke.

Peats' returns

One of my recent blogs asked the question, Who remembers Even Stevens? and was prompted by the sudden announcement of the appointment of a receiver for Peats Electronics, one of those family run businesses that is as much a part of the cityscape and family lore as the GPO and summer trips to the seaside.
Now, joy of joys, I see Peats will return to business, slimmer but still alive and kicking. Apparently, all round goodwill from creditors, customers and suppliers has prompted them to regroup. Some of the shops have already re-opened and more will open on stream. So all's well etc and how refreshing it is to hear a Lazarine story in these days of crash and burn.

Have you ever seen an alien?

Like everyone these days, I like to watch the Discovery channel when I have a bit of free time. What the hell, you might discover something, eh? But when I was watching daytime tv, I became fascinated by a debate between a former police officer and a sceptic regarding a controversial ufo sighting in Britain in the early '80s. It made for some amusing, passing interest, between flicks, viewing. Later that night, I watched a detailed analysis/denial of that same 'so called' viewing on the Discovery channel. The seceptic dismissed the testimony of a British army Lieutenant Colonel as a trick of the night and blamed it all on a flickering lighthouse, five miles away. The Lieutenant Colonel and the police officer have written a screenplay and a movie appears to be in the offing. Then, one day later, I sat down for a pizza in my local pizzeria and was confronted by yet another ufo/alien sighting.
This one defies description, though. Apparently, as many as seven car loads of witnesses attested to viewing the weirdest sight of their lives - a 12 foot tall alien strolling down a highway in northern Italy. No phones would work; no-one got a photograph and there has been no official outcry. Hardly surprising, since the area of Udine in Northern Italy appears to be an area of particular interest to/for UFOs in the not so distant past.
So check out this report and look into Udine UFO sightings for yourself and let me know what you find...http://www.ufodb.com/ufo_news/ufodbnews.php?code=132

Who remembers Even Stevens?

Who remembers Even Steven's? Even Steven's was a three story retail clothing store on Capel St, back in the late '60s and early '70s. Jimmy Saville, the late Top of the Pops dj, drew headlines when he shopped there in 1968. But for many other people, Even Stevens was an eyesore.


With its floor to roof, colourful psychedelic mural, Even Stevens said 'THE '60S' in a way that was unmatched by any other store in Dublin. As a result, it was a mecca for Ireland's youth, seeking hipsters, kipper ties, velvet jackets and loud, paisley shirts. Walking through the doors of Even Stevens for the first time, was like walking into Aladdin's Cave. London had its Biba; we had Even Stevens.


Every place has its time and Even Stevens closed. There's a shop like Even Stevens in everyone's life. But that doesn't guarantee them longevity. Many of the shops of my youth have disappeared. Few people can remember there was not just one, but three department stores on Sth Gt George's St alone. There was another on the Quays. They were so monolithic, they looked like they'd never go away.


Peats was one of those shops that was always there. In this case, Peats was the place to go if you had a problem with your stereo or your radio or you wanted to upgrade to sound surround, a smart tv and whatever else the growing world of telecommunications could offer you, in a commercial package, for, of course, the domestic market. Now it's closed. Few people registered its departure; just a simple notice posted in the window of the three generation, family firm's Parnell and Dame St shops. Fifty years of being part of the city scape and psyche, gone in a trice and, no doubt, a shed full of debt. So it goes.

A friend of mine was shocked when I told him. He'd just shelled out €2,500 for a state of the art smart tv. He wasn't happy with it. Now he's stuck with it.

You tube, you die...a little

I watched a man drag himself into a Hell of his own design and circumstance and heard someone say, 'we should shoot this for YouTube, it'll go viral'. The man crawled from an alcove of an alleyway in broad daylight, less than 50 metres from Grafton St, one of this city's busiest shopping thoroughfares. In his wake, he left the discarded remains of his 'works'; scorched foil and a throwaway syringe. He was a tall man, ruddy faced and once, considered 'well built'. Now he staggered, bleary eyed and nodding, an open, scabbed, scar over his left eye. He took two steps and then fell flat on his face. We could hear the loud splat where we stood, at the door of a pub, less than 25 metres from where he lay. Then there was silence. His clothes were dark and grimy with dirt. Now as he lay in the lane, his arse was exposed, his jeans having worked their way down his hips, not by design, but circumstance. His body blocked the laneway. It was mid-afternoon and the 'footfall', as the property agents like to say, of pedestrians was frequent. Taxis streamed around the block's one way traffic system to compete for the needs of shoppers and guests in the nearby five star, luxury hotel. Now, they stopped and watched, before completing a three point turn, to go back the way they came. Remarks were made. 'It's a fuckin' disgrace.' 'Someone should call the Guards.' 'He needs an ambulance, not the Guards.' 'I wouldn't touch him with yours.' Then, 'we should shoot this for YouTube. It'll go viral.'
The prone and obliviously half naked man, began to stir. He raised himself enough to crawl on his hands and knees, towards the footpath. One hand reached out to grasp the earthenware pot of an olive tree that stood outside an Italian restaurant in the lane. His other hand steadied him while he eased the pot towards the edge of the footpath. It looked as though he planned to use the plant pot for leverage, to get to his feet. He eased himself up so now he knelt, like a prayerful supplicant. One hand rested lightly on the plant pot. The other fumbled at his waist. Then he began to piss, loudly and copiously, into the plant pot. When he finished, he levered himself upright, until he was standing again. His audience were silent. Some of them turned away. He fixed his trousers and covered his paper white buttocks that looked like two half moons, kissing. He walked away, oblivious and unaware of the scene he'd set, the audience he gathered. His moment of infamy passed unrecorded; just another moment of destitution, forgotten.