Thing 329 PRO Duties

If there's one thing that I'll have to admit about this Project, it's that it's given me a serious amount of drive to get some stuff done. Stuff that I'd previously not have bothered my ass doing, or at very most, talked about doing, without ever actually getting 'round to the action bit, I'm actually getting done now. It's shocking. I don't know what to do with myself. It's been weeks since I procrastinated pointlessly.

So here's the latest one, I'm now the PRO for the Norris for President, Limerick Branch. Someone apparently thinks I've enough competence to be trusted with stuff. Apparently I'm all about the get-up-and-go these days. Part of the new me if you want to call it that. No more sitting on the sidelines for me, no sir. It's action or nothing.... I'm lying. Even as I typed those last few sentences I realised how much of a lie that is.

That's the motivation anyway. It's all about trying to get the drive for doing more than giving out. Which I do regularly and often.

So for the Thing, I discharged my first official duty as PRO. We held a meeting. Talked about how great Senator Norris is, and then we had some pints. Not exactly groundbreaking stuff. I sent some emails to some journalists. I talked some more about how great David Norris is and then I sang a few songs.

Perhaps choosing my brother's bar as a meeting venue wasn't the best choice... Thorny Wire loves it though.

As I said, the whole idea is to get involved. Stop whining and giving out about bad politicians (among many other things, like Liverpool Football Club and the severe lack of Kit Kat Chunky in so many shops). This is going to be my personal contribution to society.

On top of the getting involved bit, I like a bit of responsibility. I know that by the time comes to the election itself, there's going to be serious work required, electioneering, postering, papering, other things that start with p.

It's a long slog, and it's likely to be a challenging one. And it started here. Which is nice.

Thing 328 Don't Speak For a Day

If you know me, then you're aware that me not talking for a whole day is about as likely as a genuine apology from a politician. If you don't know me then you may have already guessed from the excessively wordy blogs that I'm a mouthy, gabby asshole. I never know if I'm repeating myself or not, but in case I'm not, I'm going to tell this story over again. When I was about eleven months old I was talking. Not just one or two words, I was having actual conversations. Dad tells me that people followed him and mam around the shopping centre on grocery day, watching the tiny child talking to whoever would listen.

The problem, as my da pointed out in his toast on my 21st birthday, was that they couldn't shut me up. Nice one da. I lack the switch in my head that certain people have which allows them to stop their tongue from moving when they want to. I just keep talking...

I tried this thing twice before. Two fails and both inside of an hour or two of starting.
So I resorted to writing on my hand as a means of communication. Writing on anything really. It hurt my face not to be able to talk. Aside from anything else, it was ignorant as hell. The Barista thought I was drunk. Normally when I walk into Arabica, he says "hello Dan", and I typically (and probably too loud for the volume in the room) shout out "Hello". This time I walked in and he said hello, I just smiled and nodded. Apparently that's what he thinks I look like when drunk. So I felt rude. I wanted to make sure that if I did this Thing, I wouldn't just hide around the house. I'd get out and not talk. I had to scribble my coffee orders on beermats in O'Connell's at The Old Quarter. I think the staff there must have thought I was insane. They're not far wrong, to be fair to them.

The Canuck, like clockwork, of course, started baiting me. Politicians deserve more money, he told me. They don't get enough in pension payments. One of them definitely did not commit perjury. What a dick. I was seconds away from punching him, let alone just talking. To be honest I expected it. My friends are antagonistic from time to time. The Canuck more than most. Much love to the man.

So in the spirit of testing the limits of my no-speaking tolerance, the entire Sluggery crew got together and signed up for a table quiz. Imagine me, of all people, at a table quiz, where I can't open my mouth. Just answer questions with my pen and be quiet. It wasn't easy, but at this point I'd gone about nine and a half hours. Not one word spoken.

Table quiz rolls on, as table quizzes are wont to do, but I'm still not talking. We're not winning, we're in second or third, but all the time we were catching the front runners. Someone mentions someone at another table using their phone to check answers... danger... danger... I can feel it coming. Nothing said though.

Final round. We're about ten points behind the winning team, but there's ten points per question in this round. And, to add insult to injury, there's a question about airlines... no one else is going to know the answer except me and Token Northy. That's when Pony Boy lets a roar out: "Stop using google..."

"WHO'S GOOGLING???"

The words were out of my mouth before I knew what was happening. The worst part is that there were plenty of tables of people who knew me who all made that loud "oooooooooooooooh" noise, when they realised that I ruined it.

A whole day, no talking, nothing said, when I wanted to. Absolutely nothing uttered out of my mouth, and then I had to go roaring "Who's Googling". That's not even a real sentence. That's when the row starts. Because some people are claiming that since it's after midnight I've technically done it. Token Northy insists that the time was 23:59. One minute in the difference.

Not that it matters, the row was pointless. Thing doesn't end until I go to bed. So I'd failed. The lads said that the attempt itself counts as a new Thing. Token Northy and Pony Boy tell me that I should do something else that's new to make up for my failure.

So they pour me a glass of fishtank water. And I drink it.

For the millionth time: Stupid Project.

Thing 327 Unicylce

Roll up, roll up... come see the great and dramatic Dan Mooney as he unicycles his way to a new career in Air Traffic Control. Watch the small bald man defy gravity and other physical laws as he wobbles and teeters his way to a life of fame and wearing make up for your amusement.

Alright, alright, this photo is mostly a lie. I think I managed about fifteen seconds of stable equilibrium. Max. The real reason for this is that I'm a clumsy balanceless monkey, and unicycling is god damned difficult. It's balance and stability on the rim of a small wheel. Why on earth did I think this was going to be easy? What part of my brain wasn't working when I made the assumption that I could just hop on board and unicycle around Kilaloe? Serious underestimation of the humble unicycle going on here.

We decided on a trip out to Kilaloe for some fun and games. Just me, Little Flower, Pony Boy and Dr Frasier. Kilaloe's a smashing spot. Nice food, lovely little pubs, river and a lake, stunning views, and a fat guy who can't balance himself. What more do you want from a Sunday evening?
There's a metaphor at work for this thing too. You can always lean on your friends. Proof is in my leaning on my friends. Bless their patience. You could hear Pony Boy's stomach rumbling in Nenagh, where the locals looked at the clear skies, heard thunder and assumed they'd angered the gods. Still, he stuck with me and stifled the worst of his laughing as I fell multiple times in a short space of time.

I'm hazarding a guess at about and hour and a bit spent with a saddle sticking up my arse. While I tried to use the damn thing. Worth it though. We could have stayed at home and done it, which would have been perfectly acceptable, but instead we went to some smashing scenic town in County Clare where we enjoyed a lovely evening after watching me fall over.
A big thanks to Token Northy and Sellin' Croon for their involvement. I'm pretty sure the unicycle belongs to one or both of them. Through their generosity, complete strangers walking on a Sunday evening were treated to a giggle as they watched me try, and fail miserably to balance. Those Sunday strollers owe them two boys for those laughs.

Still, if The Project is about trying new things and knocking some craic out of what would otherwise have been very mundane, then we're on to a winner with this one. I'll never do it again like, but I'm totally chuffed with my fifteen seconds of balance.

P.S. Hello Paul Keville!!!

Thing 326 Become a Godfather

Yeah, I know what you're thinking, and yes, this is going to be a ridiculously cheesy blog. Sure just look at the photo up there, you know and I know it's going to be a stupidly sentimental blog. Look at the cute baby dammit. How could it not be?

My sister Ci Ci Doo and her hubby Puc It Out are a smashing couple. They're brilliant altogether, and they've three small little tornadoes that might actually be too cute for words. They've also got Grace. She's too small and wee to be a tornado yet. But if I know her ma and da, she'll be a vocal one when she's a little older.

Something that's been pointed out a few times by sarcastic and altogether not-as-funny-as-they-think-they-are mates: It's my fourth nephew/niece and I've not been chosen as Godfather before. It's because there were lots of outstanding people, including the legendary Thorny Wire to choose from. Plus, I came really close this one time.
By the by, that's me and Ci Ci Doo there. Extra sentimental photo moment. You can't tell because you're reading this and it doesn't come with sounds, but I'm making "aaaaaaaawwwwing" noises as I type. Go on. You know you want to... Everybody: Awwwwww.

So when Ellen was being christened, Puc It Out's brother was to be Godfather, but he got stuck in traffic, so I was asked to step in. Sweet. No sign of the man. I thought, yes, this is my moment. All the kissing up to Ci Ci Doo when I was a small fry (no small jokes please, they're cliches at this point) have paid off. I stood at the altar for about fifteen minutes, thinking it was my moment to shine when The Nice Fella walked into the church. Robbed. Oh well.

Smashing ceremony though. And The Nice Fella is, as his name suggests, a thoroughly awesome chap. Like I say, it's a sentimental blog full of niceness. Everyone's lovely in this blog.
Just look at all the family and the kids in that one. They're everywhere. I'm not going to make you awwww again, but I don't mind if you want to. First of all, I don't know what to do in such ceremonies. I pretty much just stood there waiting for the priest to ask me a question, secretly hoping he wouldn't. It's the same when I'm on a table quiz team. Pick smart people and sit quietly. Lap up plaudits later.

Before you know it, it's all done, and with minimal effort. But for some reason it's different now. Grace was my niece before the ceremony, and still my niece afterwards, but now we've got a tag we both share. It means extra presents for her, and wads of money every time I see her from about the age of four upwards. It also means that I'll be more than an uncle for the rest of her life. I know that both of my Godparents still keep their titles.

As is customary for Irish people, and for me in particular, there was a celebratory pint. At four months old, we all felt Grace was a little young for Guinness, but while her mam and dad took her home, the rest of us toasted her in the local.
Then we had a little party in the house. It was nice... full to the brim with kids, which made it entertaining to say the least, but lots of fun. So from now until the end of my days, I'll be Grace's godfather, and she'll be my godchild. I hope she's not the only one I get to claim for myself, but she'll always be the first.

Here's to you Grace!

Thing 325 Committee Meeting

I've never been on a committee. I don't know how it works. Thankfully Dr Frasier is one of those people who likes to get involved with stuff and things, so he's been there. That's how he came up with the agenda. He played the role of "speaker" until we got a committee elected. I think somehow in my head, I confused "board of directors" with "committee" and insisted that everyone suit up. I mean I badgered people to wear a suit calling over to my house. Now that's assholery. "What? You're calling over? Wear a suit you bum". I've got a dress code for getting in.

A note on Spoon: When The Project was just a brilliant idea in my head (later to become the worst idea I've ever had. Stupid Project), I had a little leather bound book in which I wrote down all the ideas for Things that I wanted to do with the year. I'm pretty sure that of the first one hundred Things written into that book, sixty to seventy of them are his, or met with his approval. I'm pretty sure he was the first one in. So it's fitting he should be here, at the Project Committee meeting to decide the last six Things.

Honestly, I felt like we were mapping out the last days of my life. I'm pretty sure I'm still going to be alive on April 15th, I might feel like I'm dying, or wish I was dead, but I'll still be alive. Damn Committee Meeting made me feel like we were looking at my final days on earth. You better believe that if I know the times for those days I'll be doing something more fun than what these clowns mapped out for me.

So how fancy are we? We conference called to The Frenchman, because he wasn't at home. Sadly, because we're all giddy from wearing suits (I know how sad that last sentence seems), we basically spent the start of the conference call making ghost-jokes and fart jokes. We're not classy men. Then we moved on to elections. It didn't take long and here's what we came up with:

Chairman: Dan Mooney. Vice Chair: Pony Boy. Treasurer: Token Northy. Welfare Officer: The Frenchman (who promptly pointed out that there were no women on the committee. I nearly went upstairs and woke The Thief, who was napping, to add some variety... and take abuse). Blue Skies Thinking Co-Ordinator: Spoon. Secretary: Dr Frasier.

I personally love the idea of having a Blue Skies Thinking Coordinator. If I wasn't so excited about being Chairman of the Board, Frank Sinatra style, I'd be plugging for that one. As it stands though, chairman is pretty cool.

So I chaired a meeting of over-dressed barely post-pubescent "grown-ups" and we literally phoned in The Frenchman. The entire point wasn't missed either, we got some stuff sorted. I want the final few days of The Project to be big. Important. Immense. I want to hire Sky Sports marketing team to make new Things seem way more significant than they are. I want epic. I even booked the week off work, and that's no easy feat.

The Frenchman's contribution was to proceedings (as he drank a pint in Kilaloe) was not an idea, but a framework. Put the Things into categories, based on previous Things that were a success. Here's what we came up with:

Humiliating.

Physically Exhausting.

Something that's a Treat.

Something Humble.

Something Unexpected.

Something Scary.

Here's what we've got: In the last six days I'm going to; Sleep in a haunted house. Swim the Kilkee Bay. Pose nude for an artist. Hire a limo for the day. Auction myself off, with the proceeds going to charity. The final one is a secret, but it'll probably be something fun for me. Someone calling Ray Darcy's show last week suggested that I should present that for the last day. Something tells me that's a non runner. How cool would it be though.

If you've got any suggestions or ideas for how to execute these, because we're at a loss, that would be lovely. Seriously, we need help, not just professional psychological help, but your help with getting these Things done. All suggestions welcome. About a month left folks.

Thing 324 Tie Dye

Tie Dye, from the latin words "tiedius dymus", which stranlates in English to "smelly hippy". Don't look that up, it didn't fully reference it, and may have made it up off the top of my head. I have nothing in common with hippies, except maybe facial hair. Possibly the occasional similar style of mumbling stuff that other people can't understand. My poor ma was at her wits end when I small over that one. I'm digressing...

Another thing me and hippies enjoy in common is a complete lack of anything approaching fashion sense. I can yell you all about football, rugby, politics, philosophy and aeroplanes... but fashion? Not happening. And while I know some people like going for the hippy look, let's be honest, it just makes you look like you smell.
For all of that cribbing and moaning about hippies, I've always thought that being confident enough will result in the ability to wear a tie-dye shirt or t-shirt. Fooey says I should have matching shorts, but there's a limit I think, and tie-dye shorts is probably where that line is at.

If you've got the swagger, and I mean that in the confidence sense, not the hip hop sense, then I'm pretty sure you can pull off most looks or fashions or fads. So here's hoping that when I pop into the O'Connell's at the Old Quarter in the next couple of days, with my multi-coloured t-shirt on, everyone in the place WON'T turn and stare at me. I'm full of swagger me.

I do often wonder about the modern day hippies though. I can understand why people from San Fransisco in the '70's wore the clothes they did, freedom of expression, free love, communism... all of that. What I don't understand are people in Limerick City, Ireland, where it rains more than they needed to float the damn Arc, who wear hippie clothes? They're just not practical. And for all the hippiness of the clothes, not a tie-dye t-shirt among them.
I cheated a little. I wanted to make my own tie-dye shirt, and I did that, but I may have bought a kids toy in order to achieve the same. It was sitting in the arts and crafts hobby shop in The Crescent, right in between "Make You Own Jewellery" and "Make Your Own Diary", all in suspiciously pink wrappers.

I'm pretty sure that this tie dye kit was intended for girls, but I'd have though tie-dying was pretty non gender specific. Does that say more about me than it should? Anyway, hot water, some strips of died string and some time.

The result is pictured above. At the top. You dare me to wear it into town some night? Challenge accepted...

Thing 323 Game Testing

Obviously that's not the back of my majestic head. That's Spoon, doing his thing which he does so well. Programming. His job? He's a computer games developer. They gave him fancy parchment what says so. Personally I think that's a class job, if computer games are something you love, and Spoon does love 'em. Surely getting to work with something you love has to have you heading for work everyday with a spring in your step. What you don't see are the endless, repetitive and non stop lines of code required to make even the most basic programming adjustments.

When Spoon started his most recent Project "Arc" he looked like a healthy, hale and hearty young man. Sure he smokes his cigarettes and drinks maybe a tad too much coffee (hey, it's not like I can talk), but overall he seems in fine fettle.

When I came over to officially "game test" the "Arc" game he looked haggard. He won't enjoy reading this, and I'm sorry big lad, but holy god did he ever look drained. Weeks and weeks of non stop programming, getting a crisp and even "screen tan" from being sat in front of a monitor. Poor lad.
So what's in the life of a game tester? Well, after the hard work has been done, and thousands of hours from dozens of programmers are have been completed, the tester turns up, plays the game and then bitches about what's wrong with it. I imagine that must drive the programmers absolutely batty.

Good life for a gamer eh? Play computer games and chill for the day? Well, not quite that either. The game at the testing phase isn't actually ready to be played. So you're talking about sitting down to not play a game, tell someone who knows better what's wrong with it, wait a little, and repeat.

It's funny how you can have a view of a job and a lifestyle, and be completely and utterly wrong.
Arc itself is thoroughly excellent. It's a futuristic racing game in which you can use weapons and bonuses for yourself and against your opponent. I like a good racing game, but I've always been partial to racing games that aren't realistic. Mario Kart, and Arc are good examples. I don't want to drive modern fancy cars on actual roads. I want fake, fancy and fun.

Can't wait for Arc to be ready though. You'll be able to play it on x-Box live, and then you'll know what I'm talking about.