I Am A Sex

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Snake Charmer – Bag Raiders

No doubt you will remember well from ages ago in the blog, I quoted a line from Whoopi in Sister Act 2. Remember that? Obviously. You know… “If you wake up thinking about singing, then you are a singer.” Whatever you think about all day is what you are, kind of thing. Leading me to the conclusion at the time that Whoopi was profound (let’s ignore the fact it was a script) and that I was a: Writer. DJ. Woman. Well it turns out that Whoopi did not just come up with that herself on the spot. Nay. Comes from Ralph Waldo Emerson I do believe “A man is what he thinks about all day”. Discovered this today. Obviously this then made me reconsider Whoopi’s genius. And, in turn, rethink my original conclusion for myself. Do I still spend my time thinking about writing, DJing and women all day? Have I evolved? Stagnated? Regressed? What have I been doing all week? What is it I am now?! Time to figure out…

Rebel Without A Gauze

As a  self claimed man I never expected to go a full day wearing a woman’s maxipad. Nor a pantieliner. Oddly that has all changed. In fact, I’m wearing both right now. Don’t judge me. Simply nothing else to stem the flow of crimson when I sliced my finger open last night. Empty cardboard boxes that need to be ripped up and thrown out. Tut. How ye defeat me time and time again. Ripping up empty box. Trying to slice it open with a knife. Stabbed into the box. Rebel without a cause. So I also ended up stabbed myself. Now missing a nice little chunk from my finger. My homemade finger diaper is working well at least. Looks kind of like a white cotton gun silencer on my finger. Bang bang. Very inconspicuous. Assassin style. Mighty. Between you, me and a CCTV camera, the box definitely had the last laugh too. Tried to smash it to pieces with my foot instead of using my hands when I brought it to the outside bin. Ploughed my foot into a soft spot on the otherwise impregnable empty box. Fall, fell, timber. Into the box. Half out of the box. Awkwardly ending up on the floor. Only joking! Shh. Say nothing. Must get that video footage wiped. And in case you were wondering how I am able to type this, my write hand survived the ordeal.

What A... Aunt?

So. Have I evolved into a rebel without a cause? A person with dementia who thinks he is a finger assassin? Or merely stagnated as a clown, ape and idiot? Tough to call. Ploughing on. Perhaps I have now moved on to being a voice over/actor/model? Last week I was asked if I was interested in doing voice-over work for a company. Needed an Irish voice-over and the money was good – Oh my Allah! I’m Irish! I’m in!!! Emails back and forth with the guy in charge. Loving that I was from Cork, seeing as his grandad’s older brother’s next door neighbour’s cat was brought over to America from… Cork! Or something like that.  Zoned out when he told me he was Irish while sounding like he was George W’s voice twin. Talking all week. Running through the script. Asks to meet me the next day to sign the contract. Dancing. Might lead to more of the same. Giddy up. Meeting at 2. Just about to leave. Ping! Email… So sorry. Can’t make the meeting. And. We just signed someone else. Eh. What? No explanation. Zero. Ape. Fruitless hunt. What a…

Gary Glinter

How about an actor? My friend had an audition during the week. Gets there and phones me… They’re looking for a guy as well to fill a role. Get down now if you’re up for it. Only thing is they want American so your accent might be a problem. Just speak American! Clothes on. Hair combed. Jump in a cab. And away I go. To what is, I realise en route, my first ever audition. Ever. Acting anyway. Isn’t that amazing. First. Ever. Audition. In two years. Something doesn’t add up there. But back to it. Get down to the casting studio in Hollywood. Fill out forms. Head in to the office. Two guys in there. One is sound, Gary. Other guy turns around once. Eyes me up. Looks down on me. Turns his back. Doesn’t look again the whole time. Big fan of me!

Mic me up. Cameras rolling. Talk to the casting director. Americanised voice in full bloom. Good banter with the casting dude. Big fan of the fact I’m Irish. Asks me what I used to do. Don’t think he believes me. Asks me what I have going on now. Don’t think he believes me. Asks me all about Ireland. Loving it. Which is when I see a glint in his eye. Not a Boys Town Weho glint. More a “I want to be Irish!” glint. Rest of the audition is all Ireland. How is Ireland. Ireland. Ireland. Can I buy you a drink. We should drink whiskey. Ireland Ireland Ireland. Tell me Ireland stories. Americanised accent fully gone. Irish banter flowing. Good duckaduu audition. If ever I need a drinking buddy, I know where to go. Wuu.

Free Cloths!?!

What’s all this modeling carry on, I hear you say! You look like a sick dog on a wet day, I hear you mutter. Whatever that might look like. So my buddy asked me if I’d be interested in being flown to Vegas to model for a show their company is having there. Eh. Of course. Obviously. Chalk me down. So during the week I had to go to downtown LA to see if the clothes they were using in the show would fit me. New season’s sample, or something like that. Look, I’m a sick dog on a wet day, I don’t know the finer details of how it all works. Anyway, down I go to get fitted out. And I end up doing inventory instead. How bad. As long as I get paid. Still not sure if the Vegas trip is on. Model? Perhaps. Stock taker? Definitely.

Randumb Tweet Summary

Thus far, very scattered week. Not sure what I was thinking. Or doing. Lots of lots. Lots of nothing. While I am on an unfocused ramble, these also occurred:

  • Found out that Harvard, Yale and Notre Dame have chosen to let my book run wild in their libraries. Mighty. Run on, you demented woman!
  • Brushing my teeth. Distracted. Mouth opens. Toothbrush falls. Slow hands. Try to catch with my left foot. Volley. Open toilet. Goal. Splash. Wuu! Balls.
  • Woke up to an invite of a trip on a private jet. Oh Betsy. Dancing!
  • Went shopping. Realised that supermarkets are full of sorry people. Excuse me sorry apologies sorry just getting through sorry. Sorry. So sorry. I’m sorry.
  • While there, a kid puked in the milk aisle. Ripple effect. Caused a woman to puke too. Grossery shopping.
  • Received a flurry of texts and messages from guys who use a lot of smiley faces. Not really a fan. Unless you’re a girl. Or talking to one. Maybe think about holding off using smiley faces to express your emotions? Just a thought.
  • Started to get irregular heartbeats. Around the same time, that fly came back. The not-sure-if-it-is-real-or-imaginary fly. Both happened at about 5 in the morning after a long day of frustration. Lying in bed. Thump thump. Buzz. Thump thump. Buzz buzz. Thump thimp. Buzz! Thump thimp. Buzz!! Thump thamp! Buzz!! Thump thamp! Buzz!!! Thimp thump! Thimp thimp! Buzz. Buzz. BUZZ! Oh sweet Jesus. I’m on the way out.  Buzz. Thimp thump. Buzz. Thump thamp. BUZZ! Thump. BUZZ!!! Oh… Jesu… Betsy! THIMP THIMP!!! Thankfully, I survived.

Vital few points at the end. Better out than stuck in my head? So. My point and also why I used that photo… Not sure. Haven’t blogged in an age. Which always ends up in a rambles. Quite clearly focus is needed. Back to Whoopi and re-evaluating what it is I think about all the time: Hmmm. Hard to tell really from the week I had. Although supposedly men just think about one thing all the time. Works for me. Let’s just say: I am a sex? Done. And dumb. I am a sex! Thank you.

Ladykiller (Gigamesh Remix) – White Sea

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