fake empire

05 June 2009

No thinking for a little while.

It seems to be all the rage to announce to the blogosphere that you are ceasing blogging.

I'm not.

I intend to continue blogging.

Problem is, this blog, as it stands today, is a little narrow, and is starting to feel cramped and really restrictive.

I don't have the time to really do a 'personal' blog any justice. And to be absolutely honest about it not enough truly interesting shit really happens to me on a day to day basis other than drinking wine, listening to music and getting a hard on for stuff, women and eating out.

Fake Empire was started as a whim and now a couple of years on it feels like it's whimpering.

It's getting boring writing about the same old shite.

Also as much as I love the song 'Fake Empire', as a brand for this blog it's starting to annoy me (although I'm loving this user generated video).

I'm exploring what I can do with this platform - what I want to do with it - if it can evolve into something better, shinier and more interesting for me firstly, and anyone who reads it thereafter. I want to invest in it, both visually and content wise, to make it more than something I log into to spew more nonsense onto the intercyberwebnet.

What's inspiring me at the moment are sites like Selectism, the Daily Beast, Indigo's blog, Huffpost, h(y)r collective and Stereogum - individual bloggers, sorry to say this, are starting to annoy me, but I like the approach of Rick O'Shea and Dublin Streets.

I still think Red's blog rocks as she's a constant source of great music. I read O'Neill cos his world view challenges mine. Disgrace is disgrace, my best mate and the best kept secret in Irish comedic writing. But then I highly biased.

So with all this and these things in mind Fake Empire is going to undergo some changes over the next few weeks and months.

So, we will be 'off air' as we (yes, there are more than just me involved) rethink, rewire and relaunch.

That is all. For now.

With love and respect.

JD aka Fakey

03 June 2009

Maybe it's the heat, maybe its...

When Monday's feel like Sundays, Tuesdays become Mondays. Wednesdays are Tuesdays.

Tired. A hot bedroom feels heavy.

Heavy. In the heat, sweating trickling down spine, swollen hands.

Missing winter.

29 May 2009

Totally aces.

Ace Hotel actually.

Loving the modernism meeting distilled indie Americana.

Would love to be sipping a Mule by the pool, reading some Hunter S.

We are approaching Portadown/Hero’s

Disgrace in his ‘Best Man speech/ Eulogy for Fakey’s single life’ tapped up my other best man, my uncle Fitz as my hero.

He was right. Fitz is a big hero of mine. But he’s family. My brilliant, doctor Wife and parents, my brother and even Senor Disgraco are heros to me. But that’s not the sort of hero I mean. I’m talking about poster on the wall heros.

I have a lot of hero’s, a lot of inspiration.

Heros have always been a difficulty for someone like me. Because heros change as we change. Example at 18 it was Bono. End of list. He got me through a lot back then. Nowadays, he’s a tax dodging fanny who’s managed to write the same song for most of the last decade.

Nope, he’s no longer hero material and should fuck off to Holland/Africa/A Place Called Vertigo. Permanently.

The sort of hero’s I’m talking about aren’t always living, their creative lights still burn but I’m never gonna bump into them in Dalkey like Sir Tax Dodger Hewson. Hero’s aren’t always perfect, unlike Bono. Most of the people who make my list are deeply flawed.

Why am I talking about heros. I don’t know really. It’s a long train journey home. First class is empty. I've a nervous energy. It’s been a long week ahead of a long weekend and I’m thinking who I’d like to talk to right now, as we pull into Portadown.

If I had to take one book with me it’d be anything by Raymond Carver. He’s a hero. Chuck Palahiuck? He’s one - as is our own Paddy Kavanagh. Neil Jordan’s in there too. I’ve read Robert Fisk all my adult life - and while with age I find myself disagreeing with him more frequently than the younger version of me would be comfortable with, he’s real and compelling. Hunter S, I mean it goes without saying. Tyler Brule, editor-in-chief of Monocle is a recent addition.

Matt Berninger of The National captures the modern male mentality better than anyone else. He’s a big hero. He gets it. As does James Murphy of LCD Soundsystem and Serge Gainsbourg. His daughter, Charlotte would make it too, her songs take me to Paris, I’d like to hangout with her an PJ Harvey. Glen Campbell gave me country music and never took it back.

Bjorn Borg. He’s a sporting hero. Ice cold. Powerful. Wish I could have seen him play live rather than just wear his underpants (not his actual jocks... his brand).

Gerhard Ritcher paintings inspire me. He’s on the list. With Rothco. Rasher makes it too and I might one day be able to buy something from the guy. Pete Saville’s record sleeves for Factory, Swedish Functionalism and too many designers too mention... but an Eames chair is something I aspire too.

Cameron Crowe makes saccharine sweet movies, odes to unrepentant sentimentality, that I dig utterly. He’s a hero. Wes Anderson and Sophie Coppella ditto. Bill Murray and Penelope Cruz (admittedly for very different reasons) both make the list.

Paddy Kavanagh. Brain Wilson. Bjork. Nina Perssons. Yep. They’re all there.

Politically, Garrett Fitz makes the list. As does the late Dr. Noel Browne.

Business wise? Gordon Ramsay? I’m afraid so. Sir Paul Smith, Kevin Roberts (Saatchi’s CEO and creator of ‘Love Marks’), Seth Godin, The Funky Business guys in SSE, the good folks in FarFar.se, David Ogilvy. Lars Magnus Ericsson. They’re all there too.

Santa. He’s totally aces.

All flawed (even Santa, hasn’t he’s got weight issues...) All have left an indelible mark, all inspire me daily. And on the Enterprise tonight, their inspiring me still.

(I’ve been listening to Air France’s ‘Collapsing on Your Doorstep’ while writing this post... might explain the nervous energy!).

Fast thoughts.

As some of you will know, I spend an ever increasing amount of time in a place called ‘Norn Iron’.

Or Northern Ireland as it’s incorrectly pronounced.

I’m up usually two days per week - three if the week requires it.

I’ve grown to like Belfast a lot. No, really, I have.

I like the way Twigglets are widely available here. I’m reading Eureka Street again.

Honestly. There’s a lot to like.

I’m sitting in Deanes Deli which has become my hang-out of choice because a) it’s a Fallon and Byrne like wine bar on a small scale that’s chilled out/vibey enough for an after work bottle or two and b) it’s close to my bland business hotel and high energy office. I’ve gotten to know the staff. They bring me nice Shiraz, I try not to drink too much and fall down on expenses. It’s a dance we’ve worked out.

People are incredibly nice. And I’ve gotten over the whole confusion as to whether it’s like what Cork would feel like if we’d never achieved independence or a how Liverpool would appear if it did the right thing, left the UK and joined the Republic. It’s really a place unto itself. Wholly unique. I admit the accent - or more precisely dialect can grate at times, but my ear has stopped vomiting every time someone says my name.

What’d really impressed me is the creativity, to me it feels like Dublin circa 1994, a burst of random ideas, cheap places to go and cheap labour set a thankful city emerging from it’s cluttered fucked up past. Dublin has a completely different creative energy now, more refined, less raw more self confident which suits me too, but Belfast is winning me over sitting as it does at the apex of history, and somewhere between a capital, provincial town and a regional city.