Generation

When an eight year old boy uses the word ‘cool’ in the context of creating a new superhero, it’s not the easiest thing in the world to establish what exactly he means. According to the Oxford English Dictionary cool has few possible definitions. It’s unlikely Little Timmy means restrained or relaxed pertaining to Jazz (especially modern Jazz.)

So I figured it had to be either of a fairly low temperature or fashionably attractive or impressive. But without having the etymological tome to hand it was kind of hard for me to get one of these explanations across clearly.

The explanation with regards to heat was easy enough to get across; the other left me at a bit of a loss for words. How do you explain ‘cool’ so that it is clear you mean 'of personality'. I wracked my memory banks trying to come up with something that epitomised the hip laidback variant of the word. I came up with the Fonz.

Yes, when trying to define ‘cool ‘I went to the fall back of 1970’s sitcom Happy Days, Arthur Fonzarelli. While I didn’t have the leather jacket and the slick backed hair I did go so far as to stick my thumbs up and go ‘AAayyy.’ Of course to a group of eight and nine year olds I may as well have been talking Portuguese.

They had obviously never heard of the Henry Winkler character that was last relevant in 1982. Even back then he was never really cool. He was only made to look cool because he hung around with people like Richie Cunningham.

I wish I could say this was the first time that one of my pop culture analogies had gone over the heads of the young people I work with in Fighting Words. They would so miss the humour in this blog.

One young boy wanted a synonym for antennae on an insect. He didn’t like 'feelers' as an alternative so I suggested ‘zogabons.’ He thought I was making it up. He had never heard of Zig and Zag. An older girl told me “I was so retro,” because I had a book about Dawson’s Creek in my hand. It was “so 90’s.”

I guess it happens to us all. When we realise we aren’t as ‘cool’ as we used to be. That rock/pop music isn’t supposed to be for us anymore. Despite our efforts to still buy Q and NME magazine, there is the realisation that we have all said at least once “it’s not as good as it was in my day.”

I don’t want to be one of those people who talk about ‘kids of today’ and how ‘in my day’ but I just don’t get kids of today. In my day Beverly Hills 90210 was about Brandon and Brenda Walsh and the Karate Kid was played by Ralph Macchio...Hillary Swank at a push.

That said I’m ok with getting older. Being young was never that great anyway and I reckon I’ll look good with grey hair. I just go with the mid 30’s punches and if I ever get in a situation where I’m a little lost I just ask one question. WWFD? What would Fonzie do?

Flummoxed

Sometimes things go awry, as is their wont, and you just want to shout at someone. Ranting and raving seems like the only logical solution to your problem. A perceived injustice has entered your world and calling someone an incapable, incontinent, ignoramus is the only way to right this wrong. You think it will help. It won’t

You can complain to the guy at the other end of the phone, who is probably on twelve euro an hour all you like. He is no more likely to solve your problem than if you explain it calm and rationally. I know, I used to be him.

I was going to call this week’s blog ‘Frustration’ and complain about how things can go wrong and all you want to do is scream at those responsible and how, essentially, it is ultimately pointless and futile . Then I realised the horrible irony of writing such a diatribe and posting it on the internet. Besides which I got over the thing that was bothering me.

Then I considered writing one called ‘Friends’ and talking about all the talented and interesting people I have the good fortune to know. Like Paul, who despite swanning off around South America like a Shoreditch Che Guevara and making me jealous of his globetrotting, is a good bloke and decent writer. He’s also pretty handy in the editing suite and helped make one couples magic moment even a little more special.

Or about Glen, a guy who I first met more than fifteen years ago (Shit, has it really been that long,) in the drama society in Waterford Regional Technical College as it was at the time. Fast forward to today and he is making a living as an actor/writer and has recently added director to his resume with this intriguing short.



Then I realised if just wrote about my friends work, it would just appear like I am advertising for others and that is not that’s not how we operate here at InsertWittyPopCultureReferenceHere. Its not how we roll.

So I’m kind of stuck. I’ve got some vague half ideas for posts but I nothing concrete. All I do know is that under the Alphabet guidelines that I have set myself is that the title needs to start with the letter F. No I really have no clue what to talk about.

Fuck!!!

Epicurean

One of the most frustrating things about Ireland’s schizophrenic weather is the inability to plan a good barbecue. There are few things better than meat cooked on open coals, accompanied by a cold drink enjoyed outdoors in the sunshine. Unfortunately with our climates proclivity to rain planning such an event can be as rewarding as picking the long shot in the Grand National. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.

Quality steaks are the first key ingredient. These should be picked up at a butcher, not prepacked from a supermarket. I recently bought some fine cuts of sirloin from a butcher off Aungier St. He was able to recommend and advise on which type of meat suited my needs, how long the meat had been hung, which farm it came from and the cow’s star sign. Maybe not that one.

Prepped with a rub of olive oil, salt and pepper, it should be cooked on the rare side of medium rare. When cutting into it the meat, you should be greeted with a beautiful pink color. My dad always wants his steak cooked well done. I try to tell him he is missing out.

When the meat is cooked it should be allowed to sit for a bit to let the flavours settle. It should then be enjoyed with a side salad, cold beer or a nice glass of red wine. 60’s and 70’s soul music (Stevie Wonder, Aretha Franklin, Motown) should be playing in the background to give it the perfect summer feel.

Does that make you feel hungry? Do want to run out the back and spark up the steel drum full of charcoal? Are you lusting for food? If the answer to these questions is yes, well then I’m afraid you may be among the thousands of those afflicted with a food porn addiction.

Food porn is a relatively new phenomena but it has spread quicker than facebook and is more addictive than crack. Around the world people cannot get enough of watching celebrity and amateur chefs as they slice, dice, chop and prepare food on TV. Programmes like Masterchef, Come Dine With Me and Hell’s Kitchen regularly have millions of viewers.

They don’t get any actual fulfilment from these programmes. They see beautiful dishes thrown together and are made to feel that they could have it if they wanted. Exotic food, bringing pleasure to people on the screen and making the viewer salivate and desire. It also gives people unrealistic expectations of what food really is.

Most of the time it’s not real. Just like the threesome with top heavy Swedish supermodels from that link you clicked by ‘accident’ is not real. Nobody actually cooks red mullet soup with toasted almonds and basil, or pheasant leg with rabbit saddle and mustard sauce. It’s usually pork chops and chips or a Goodfellas pizza.

The very concept of a chef as a sex symbol or celebrity is something which, ironically, leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Anybody who can think that a foul mouthed arrogant egomaniac such as Gordon Ramsey is attractive clearly needs their head examined and probably has serious daddy issues. They can argue that he is a powerful man in control of a huge empire but he’s still obnoxious.

Anyone who is any doubt that cookery programmes are borderline pornography need look no further than Nigella Lawson. Everything is laced with innuendo and is teased out so seductively that it’s easy to forget she is talking about sticky toffee pudding. Although nothing I can write about Nigella can match this clip.

Dublin played host to the Taste festival this weekend. A gathering of chefs and foodies in the Iveagh Gardens, where people were encouraged to wear their food porn addiction with pride. One of my friends who went said she really wanted to see Gino D’acampo live. He’s a chef. Not a musician or comedian. He’s not even a ventriloquist. You don’t go to see chefs ‘live’ because they cook food they don’t play Smoke on the Water.

The whole event strikes me as being left over from a time when Irish people thought they had money and would happily plonk 90 euro on the table for fancy chips and burgers on a Tuesday night in some restaurant because a spiky haired TV chef stirred a pot of bouillabaisse there once.

Maybe that’s why these programmes are so popular. People can’t afford to dine out so often so there is an increase in dinner parties where the hosts get to pretend they are Jamie Oliver or Hugh Fernley Whittingstall. It’s a cool thing to have your friends over and impress them with your culinary technique.

But you can keep your flash fried goose, sautéed in a unicorns tear (to paraphrase Dylan Moran.) I remember the first time a friend cooked for me. We were both students and the menu was very simple. It was bean and sausage surprise. A bowl of baked beans with two supermarket brand pork sausages sticking out like birthday candles.

The surprise? Hidden in the beans was another sausage.