It’s a movie: Wiener-Dog

wiener-dog-movie-1A man said to me today, “Y’now, it’s Pierce Brosnan. He’s not a woman.” I kind of understood what he meant but at the same time I backed away with the speed of a prom queen in a slasher movie. So, this is not to be confused with the excellent documentary “Weiner,” about Anthony Weiner’s penis. This story of poor Wiener-Dog or as they say in Irlanda Cú-Sausage is an anxiety-filled ride taking in all that exists in Todd Solondz’s’s’s universe including dysfunctional families, some more dysfunctional families and eventually dys family ain’t no fun. Actually, they are. Greta Gerwig fulfils her role as indie darling by playing an indie darling doing her best to hide behind that indie darling. Most actors would look affected if they played the parts Gerwig does, but she seems to perfectly inhabit any character’s awkward angst with world-weary knuckle chewing. She seems at home with the inevitability of things going wrong as if a win is something other people achieve. The Culkin who is not that Culkin looks like he has been dragged screaming from some fountain of youth. Surely those kids are in their 70s by now. wienerAlso, Ellen Burstyn appears in the final act as kind of an end-of-days version of her end-of-days character in “Requiem for a Dream.” Everything in Todd Solondz’s Universe is supposed to jar and this film seems a bit lighter than say “Happiness.” Later as I walked my own helmeted dog while handing off strangers and screaming at traffic, I thought about “Wiener-Dog.” In a Solondz movie, you miss a lot. So, what the fuck was that bit about? Why was that guy’s brother into THAT extremely violent video game? What was his wife scared of? Why did they do what they did at the end so many fucking times? Why is Tracy Letts in everything, yet I can’t remember what? Finally, in my 40s I have now learned that I have always thought Julie Delpy was Julie Delphy. Not as easy to put into a dishwasher. How dumb am I? The film is owned by Danny DeVito who really has gone past all that 80s and 90s stuff and become a brilliant actor. Wonder what Rhea Perlman is up to? I miss her. As for Arnold, well.

VERDICT: Great date movie if the relationship is going nowhere fast

NOTE: Do not confuse this movie with “Wiener Dog Nationals” and vice-versa!

Roads to nowhere

“How can it feel, this wrong?”

Two versions of the same song. Portishead and Gone is Gone doing “Roads.” Mastodon’s Troy Sanders may not have Beth Gibbon’s beauteous voice, but when a song is this strong, it’s hard to do a bad job of it. Makes you want to curl into a ball and chew on Xanax, which is never a bad thing. I have stomach cramps today, so I think this is a song about that, because how can it feel, how can it feel, this wrong?

Michael Viney Nightmares: The first

hboschEyes! Eyes! Eyes! Eyes! Eyes on nature!

I came across an odd looking three-cornered leek beside a small stream in Slievemore, on Achill. I didn’t realise they bloomed in February. Loki Laufeyson, Port Oriel.
Also called three-cornered garlic, it migrated to Achill during the last ice age.

I was walking on Gurteen beach when I came upon significant numbers of Velella and another jelly, probably Pelagia. I don’t remember seeing these in midwinter. The water does seem a little warmer than in other years. Well to me anyway. That’s the only opinion I can take. Isiah Whitlock Jr, Baltimore, Co. Cork.
Strandings of both jellyfishies are more usual in Autumn. Their late arrival may well be due to rising ocean temperatures.

Is it unusual to have sweet peas in my garden on February 1st? Is it? Is it? They were always finished by mid-September, but I’m looking through my net curtain and they’re still there. Edward Woodstock, The Duchy, Co. Dublin.
We have had unusual autumn and winter weather. Enjoy it if you can. If not, well.


We would be extremely grateful if you could identify the creatures in a photograph that I took last autumn using only a camera. Alfred Stieglitz, Hoboken, New Ross, Co. Wexford.
They are caterpillars of the scalloped oak moth. Do not touch them in spring as they tend to be poisonous when their attitude is not right. They shed their body weight in April and demand long walks of their owners. Nothing a quick swipe with a newspaper won’t cure.

I have two nesting boxes in the garden, yet neither of them has ever been used. I have moved them away from the feeding tray, but still to no avail. Ali Al-Habsi, The High Cross, Dundalk, Co. Louth.
Jesus Christ Ali. Nesting boxes should NOT be placed in direct sunlight and should be sheltered from prevailing winds in some cover. Do NOT get them wet and for God sake do NOT feed them after midnight. Otherwise it is a matter of luck if bird-like creatures may choose them. It’s all about luck really.


I noticed that the playground in Bushy Park in Terenure (pictured)  is ring-fenced by dark green Rentokil boxes. Surely rodent-control measures like this can have a knock-on effect on wildlife in the park. Harold Bishop, Harold’s Cross, Melbourne.
Is that where you live? Do you need help? DM me.

When we came across a common toad in our garden last year I thought we might be mistaken. I came across it again this year. Maddy Albright, Prague, Czech Republic.
Is there an actual question here, Maddy? Or are you just telling me stuff? Maddy?

I’m very lonely. Anne Francis Frank, Frankfurtplasse, Frankfurt, France.
Anne, I’m very lonely too. Don’t despair.

Every morning I feed this fox (photo attached) who visits my garden, but despite a diet of cheese, table scraps like bread and wine, I’ve noticed that his droppings are everywhere and can be rather large. Don Osmond, Ogden, Utah.
For real, Donnie? Fuck off Donny. Idiot.giraffefuckers


I watched rooks collecting acorns from an oak tree. The acorns on the ground have peck marks. What other birds eat acorns? Mr Thos Oakenshield, Durin, Co. Carlow.
Eh, Jays, wood pigeons, great spotted woodpeckers. I dunno, cats, dinosaurs, rainbows, barristers, baristas, Bobby Vinton. Who cares?

I watched a grey squirrel on a yew tree eat his way through the berries that the mistle thrush usually has to himself until the redwings arrive. Dr J. Ndmarychain, East Kilbride, Scotlandlandland.
Really? Did you? And you felt you needed to tell everybody? Well, thanks. You have performed a service to humanity that will be unequaled. The Geneva Convention, the Paris Peace treaty? Fuck them. Nothing compared to you. Do I sound sarcastic? Fuck this, I’m out of here. I think Nathan Fake is playing.

Rosemary? No.The president? No.

Seems like we need this guy more than ever. The biggest worry at the moment is that the Tangerine Ballbag will slow down and get off the cameras for a while, thereby causing the resistance to lose impetus. Fight this generation of scum. Politics is for other munkis, but a lot of shit head politicians all around the world have been ignoring protests for a while now and have figured out that they can get away with not all, but a lot. The Annoying Orange in the White House has taken this in and due to hisunparalleled narcissism must remain in the public eye. Everything is tainted now. Stretch sees the Clementine Fucktard many times a day now. Soon he will be on giant posters in town squares. Fuck this guy. Fuck these fascists. Fuck all y’all. Don’t go to sleep.

Hong Kong Phooey for President of the self-styled ‘greatest country on Earth.’ Blah!

The music that made me sicker: Bonjovi – Slippery When Wet


Bonjovi, circa 1986. Naked. NSFW


A man in a white van deliberately killed a pigeon in front of me yesterday, swerving to connect with the ignorant bird. I put my paws over my eyes to avoid the blood and feathers, forgetting that I too was in traffic and therefore smashing into a miniature family, whose dismissive looks made me realise that they hadn’t suffered any mortal wounds.

I thought of that white van guy, so popularised during the hysterical media years of the Irlanda Celtic Tiger as a man who liked to drive in a white van, stop and eat a full Irlanda breakfast roll. I forget the economic implications of his type as I wasn’t really listening. Maybe he was showing off to the friend in the passenger seat, bragging about his ability to both swerve and off rodent birds. I felt sad for my fellow animal. No one deserves to die because a man’s penis is too small.

This slightly macho behaviour brought me back to my early days when as an 11-year old munki, I saw a musical video where what seemed to be hairdressers or coked up afghan hounds called Bonjovi took to a foggy stage and high-jinked a song called, “You Give Love a Bad Name.” I was instantly intrigued. This is what it meant to be a man I guessed. Immediately I grew my hair into unmanageable split ends and pondered whether a bullet smashing through my arteries would indeed lead me to question someone’s shitty attitude toward love.

Back then I was in love with everybody. Love was all around me. Susannah Hoffs hadn’t yet turned up on my doorstop. Still hasn’t. Every girl who walked by was a potential mate. The year previous my munki penis exploded one night and frightened me so much that I asked for random adult help with the facts of life, which I know now is that your paycheck belongs to someone else. Something Tommy knew only too well in the physically impossible “Livin on a Prayer.” But back then in aul Irlanda, the facts of life were taught as a mish-mash of gentle winks; nudges; black magic; don’t touch that or that; treat women like you would treat your sister; don’t treat your sister like you would treat those ‘women’; gay people only exist in America and for God sake don’t bring a baby into this house until you have a mortgage.

Confused and unfortunately not alone,  I followed this Bonjovi thing to its logical conclusion. From constant listening to Slippery When Wet, I innocently dreamed of a life in ‘sunny’ New Jersey. The sex sounds in “Social disease” made me want to go out find a girl and get whatever disease she had, just so I could hit the streets (of my small village) wearing ripped jeans with a silk scarf, a mullet, a loaded tennis racket on my back and admittedly a very itchy scrotal sac.

Back then I thought that all sexy ladies were no doubt blonde, sported tight denim shorts and had sass coming out of their ass. Years later I learned that denim shorts were the evil refuge of line-dancing motherfuckers both male and female who mated regularly on the slippery floors of my local nightclub. Their children now wander around killing pigeons for sport, think abortion only happens on ferries and believe racism is close to cleanliness or godliness. Can’t remember which.

The peculiarities in the image Bonjovi projected were that once you got past the L’Oreal beauty of Jon Bonjovi and the “Joan-Jett-with-a-penis” Richie Sambora, the rest of the band were kinda odd-looking. Drummer Tico Torres looked liked everyone’s Dad or at least the most masculine looking of the Pink Ladies. But it was mad keyboardist David Bryan that I used to find intriguing. He seemed to be a from different planet, almost like a different animal. Bryan had that haunted look of a poodle who was doing something not appropriate to his species, an unhappy Bontempi playing shaggy dog who doesn’t want his paw on the keys. No, he wants his water dish. AND Breakfast. Good boy.

Also weird lyrical confusion in “Livin on a Prayer,” as probably mentioned elsewhere, Gina tells Tommy that we have to hold on to what we got, it doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not. Then later tells him that we’ll make it I SWEAR. Which is it Gina? Which? Fuck sake Gina, get it sorted. Meanwhile, Jon’s back seat seems to be a cesspool of bodily fluids of the good times he had with the good ol girls. Later he seems to move on to just banging prostitutes, but y’know with love in his heart.

Anyways, the demented strains of keyboards at the beginning of this album led me into a world that within months I easily figured how to get out of. As a young child I realised this keyboard solo to be the work not of Satan but a buffoned, narcissistic, arsehole Labradoodle. On a school trip I wandered into a small record shop in the blue-slate mine town of Bangor, North Wales and picked up a cassette of Metallica’s “Ride the Lightning.” I stood in a luminescent cave with headphones on with a look of absolute horror as white skinned creatures crawled down the walls and thought, ‘what the fuck have I been doing listening to fucking Bonjovi!??’

The following day after the death of the pigeon, I accidentally killed a small beautiful Blue Tit. For a moment I felt a surge of adrenaline. I knew that feeling Richie Sambora and Jon felt when writing those songs. Balls brimming with the fluid of the Gods, cowboy boots filled with no socks, wet brains with rawk music sparking and setting fires and an optimism that some good ol boys from New Jersey to Tokyo could look the world straight in the eyes and say “I’ve been to a million places, and I’ve rocked them all!”

Then I looked at the emulsified beautiful bird, frowned and felt like shit for the rest of the day.

You Bee Theres or Bees Squarepusher


Going to a Squarepusher gig can cause your brain to melt. Not only do you deal with Tom Jenkinson’s insane bass and electronic jazz, you also have to deal with what can only be described as some of the most horrible human beings in existence. It’s not just Squarepusher gigs, it’s also Aphex Twin, Autechre etc. People who have to shout at you that they are off their faces. “Fuckin madouofi,” “Fucking mental headsaboppin,” “Fuckin shittinmasel” are examples that a sweaty slightly overweight boy will scream into my munki face as I am trying to listen to the beautiful music, with my theoretical brown cigarette and possible invisible beret sorta hangin on the side of my head being kept on by the static my munki fur has created. I stare at the sweaty child and think to myself ‘sames all over unfortunately.’ Tis a thing. Manys the musical performance ruined by youthful exuberance and the annoying ability to cheer a breakbeat stuck in a two-hour performance as if, yeah, that’s the point where things go all mentals like. (eg Autechre gigs) Fuck off I say, fuck off. I love this beautiful violent music for robots bdsm or whatever its reasons. So, after being disappointed by a fair bit of Squarepusher’s recent stuff, Damogen Furies has blown my head straight off that I shouted at the man selling the newspaper at the traffic light, “Fuckin shittinmasel” and waved my fingers in an odd variation that unnerved him and irritated him in equal measure. I felt like an asshole, but this is such a headfucking good album. It is like being in one of those awful Hannibal movies and having said doctor open your skull and widdle your brains around with a hand-held blender, while banging a way on a moog with his other hand. What an irresponsible asshole that man was, and the amount of movies they made about him. Shocking. Anyway, from the opening “Stor Eiglass,” an uplifting slice of madness right through to the epic “D Frozent Aac,” you are dragged along a choppy dizzy slice of acid, dragging you through the history of electronic music. Some seconds, you are with the Future Sound of London, other moments the Orb, Autechre…on and on. It is apocalyptic and uplifting; loud, obnoxious and beautiful. The best thing he has done and by far the most coherently mental. A joyous bunch of beats and abrasive noise, with a wondrous finale. Fuckin shittinmasel without the aid of BO.

In fact, this album has made me appreciate the SQ stuff I wasn’t so into recently.

Also, below vijeo is interactive, and demented. Not here though. Go to Squarepusher’s cave and in Chrome for the love of jesus and the holy gawds. Enjoy.