Sully Versus the Reiki Practitioner

In everyday life, I try my best to gently push back against the general superstition and woo that are scattershot throughout my human interactions.

Since magical thinking is ingrained in everyday phrases and metaphors, I like to think that my off-the-script responses will prompt some kind of scientific epiphany in those who I meet over the course of the day. I don't believe this, I just like to think it.

For example, people at work often remark that I must've been "the one praying for rain", and I've taken to replying "If I believed it would make a difference, I certainly would." This general policy of assholery brings about many conflicts of interest. Like the tale I'm about to tell you about.

I have an aunt who is awesome - easily the nicest woman I've ever met. She's an incredible host, a wonderful cook, and is generous with her time to an unfathomable amount. Knowing the story I’m about to tell makes me fret that I'm about to misrepresent this fantastic woman, but tragically, certain elements of her personal philosophy clash with mine.

Let me start with a tale to introduce this woman and what she's about: A few days after my cousin's grandmother died, he answered a phonecall from his neighbour, and later reported that he initially believed the voice on the other end of the line to be that of the recently deceased. When my aunt heard this, she told my cousin that it was his granny’s way of checking in on him. She told this story to a roomful of relatives (as the older generation nodded sagaciously, the young 'uns exchanged confused looks).

My aunt is a humble person, and when she talks about how 'science can't explain everything', it sounds as though it is motivated by sheer humility. I think it's clear that anybody who immediately grasps for the supernatural explanation rather than accepting human error is not interested in sensible exploration into life's biggest questions. She wants it to be true, and will share her take on the mysteries of life with anyone who’ll listen.

I can’t remember the comment I made that set her off, but I felt the regret as soon as I began to utter it. Whatever the case, she began with her tirade about how science can’t explain many things, like the energy channels in the human body that only her reiki crystal can detect. I attempted to talk to her about the ideomotor effect, but by this stage she had whipped out her crystal, unwrapped it from its protective cloth, and was insisting that I lay back on the couch.

I didn’t want to insult this nice, albeit deluded soul, so I heeded her wishes and threw myself on the sofa, looking up at the ceiling. She started talking to me about the seven chakras, their locations and effects on the functions of the body as she began with the ritual. Starting over my feet, she dangled the popsicle-sized crystal from a foot-long chain, and told me that the speedy revolutions it was making were caused by my energy chakras, and not by her hand. As she moved through my lower body and abdomen, she told me that I had good energy, a fiery spirit, and various other attributes that somehow related to the bodyparts the crystal hovered over.

When she got to my chest, she tutted. The crystal had stopped spinning.

Prognosis Negative

My brother just got diagnosed with a viral infection - seeking to learn more about how not to catch this affliction from him, I decided to do some research.

Top result - seems like a safe bet, right?

After a quick skim, everything seems in order, let's continue on to the 'therapies linked to this health conidition...:

Herbal Medicine? Aromatherapy? For a viral infection? Oh sweet Jesus, what the hell is going on? Where am I?


Strewth! In my haste to get to the info, I didn't realise that I was on a 'Complementary and Holistic Healthcare' website.

This right here? Dangerous. Credulous people want real advice on how to deal with their health concerns, and instead they're getting directed towards sugar pills and magic needles.

'Viruses do not respond to antibiotics' - the page informs me. Seems like Western Medicine has been defeated! Score one for the healing crystals!

Of course, it should read that 'viruses do not respond to most antibiotics' - my brother was prescribed Amoxicillin, which "is used to treat many different types of infections caused by bacteria" according to drugs.com, which apparently includes the one he was diagnosed with this morning.

Perhaps I'm being a little dramatic - they do have a rather helpful "I-wash-my-hands-of-this-business" style disclaimer:

The Healing Web Ltd accepts no responsibility or liability whatsoever with regard to the information on this site. In no way are any of the materials presented within this site meant to be a substitute for professional care or attention by a qualified medical practitioner, nor should they be construed as such. You are encouraged to consult with your own Doctor to discuss any course of treatment presented or suggested.

Out of interest, I thought I'd check out the same part of Drugs.com:

Drugs.com provides free, accurate and independent advice on more than 24,000 prescription drugs, over-the-counter medicines & natural products.

Data sources include Micromedex™ [Updated 22 July 2009], Cerner Multum™ [Updated 16 August 2009], Wolters Kluwer™ [Updated 31 August 2009] and others. To view our editorial policy, content sources and attributions please click here.

'Accurate'? 'Data sources'? 'Editorial policy'? 'Content sources and attributions'? A little bit more reassuring than soothing green graphics and pretty buzzwords.

Curse you, evil search-engine-optimised shillers of wishy-washy nonsense!

A sceptic's atonement

A label I have no objections to being slapped with is that of 'sceptic'. To be sceptical of outlandish claims is a trait that no person could ever be ashamed of, and more sceptics are needed in society to act as firewalls for bad information. The following story is about my spectacular failure to provide this service.

Last month sometime, after a trip to the cinema, I was in the car with Mega. We were having another one of those incredible exchanges of intellect, speaking on a level few people can manage:

Mega, how come Vin Diesel hasn't been in any films lately?

It's cos he's gay.

Really? I never heard that.

Oh yeah - big scandal. All over the papers.

Wow. I completely missed that. Is it true?

Yup - the newspapers were going to break the story, so he beat them to it and came out of the closet.

Makes sense, I suppose. Amazed I never heard of it.

A few days later, I'm at my father's house. XXX is on the TV, its cacophony of screaming and explosions providing my father with the kind of ambience he needs to enjoy his Sunday paper.

Watching XXX eh?

He doesn't look up from his paper as he mutters his response.

Yup.

To jump-start the conversation I throw out an interesting nugget of information:

Y'know one of the stuntmen died during the making of this film?

The paper drops below his eye line. He peers at his grotesquely over sized TV unblinkingly as the protagonist rides a scrambler around the most explosive compound ever captured on film, performing any number of daring manoeuvres that could conceivably end a man's life.

Of course - they never said which scene it was that killed him.

My words break the spell and he glances at me.

That's amazing all the same. I can see how somebody'd get hurt. Where'd you hear that?

I watched the director's commentary on DVD a few years back.

He nods silently. Then turns back to his paper. The conversation is drying up, so I scan for any more interesting tidbits relating to the film. After mulling it over for a half-second, I decide to proceed:

Here's something else you don't know. Y'know Vin Diesel?

Yer man there with the baldy head, yeah?

Yeah.

What about him?

Y'know how he hasn't been in any films lately?

I hadn't noticed, but why hasn't he been in any films?

Because he's a homosexual.

Silence. My father looks at me in disbelief. It could have something to do with my odd word-choice. I blurt out what little details I have:

He was outed as being gay a few years ago and hasn't been able to get work since - noone takes him seriously anymore.

Vin Diesel drives his bike through a group of AK-47 toting henchmen who fall like a set of skittles, spraying bullets as they do.

Y'mean he's a queer?

A helicopter rolls into the shot. I'm already shaking my head at my father, regretting my decision to set him off.

I can see why nobody would take him seriously, so.

Vin Diesel looks around the compound, looking for an escape route as the helicopter's minigun whirrs up.

The guy who has been driving around breaking necks is actually a hairdresser?

Vin Diesel charges forward on his bike, hitting a conveniently placed ramp that launches him onto a slanted corrugated rooftop that he uses to jump onto the next, the action tracked by chronic-Parkinson's-afflicted cameramen.

My father was beginning to splutter through his self-congratulatory chuckles

You mean to tell me that this super-duper-secret-agent would be an airhostess if he wasn't killing for a living?

A series of great big bassy booms accompany the barn's explosion, as a mess of debris and glowing orange flames thunder towards our hero, eventually engulfing him. A split second later, he triumphantly emerges from the blaze, seemingly unperturbed by the amount of death he had to defy at once. And yet:

I don't know if I'll ever be able to look at him the same again. I wish you hadn't told me that!

I knew that my father's exaggerated display of homophobia was just him joking around, but his closing remarks made me lament the fact that I had passed on information I didn't verify for myself.

The following morning I decided to use the Internet to verify Vin Diesel's sexuality:


'Vin Diesel Slams Gay Rumours'. 19 keystrokes was all it took to rubbish Mega's story of a decloseted action star, yet by the time I looked it up, the damage had been done.

Next time I met with my father, I came clean and admitted that I had passed on bad info. He looked at me funny. Seems he "didn't give a flying fuck anyhow". My sleeping pattern returned to normal.

That's the thing about being a sceptic: there's always a logical explanation - it might just be a bit of research away. The question still stood though. Why hadn't I seen much of Vin Diesel in a whiel? Was his credibility hurt in some way? Didn't take long to figure this one out.

Smut - Nintendo Style

In a few weeks, Nintendo will be releasing Animal Crossing: City Folk for the Nintendo Wii, the sequel to the Gamecube title released in 2002, a game on which my college housemates and I passed many an hour.

The game is a unique experience, one that could best be compared to The Sims, as there are no 'goals' per se, save for amassing furniture, expanding your house, and interacting with the computer-controlled locals of your town (who get very crabby if you fail to lavish them with attention).

As the release date for the next instalment approaches I've been trying to decide on whether I should spend €50 for the same game again, with only a few new bells and whistles. Of course, one factor swinging my decision in Nintendo's favour is the prospect of sharing the experience with my 12-year old sister and 7 year old brother.

To make sure that nostalgia wouldn't cloud my judgement, I decided to fire up the old Gamecube and go through a typical day in the town of Sultonia [dumb names are a prerequisite for beginning your cities].

6.48 PM: I exit my house and check my mailbox for first time in 8 months...

... and find a strange umbrella attached to note from one of my housemates.
The caustic tone of the letter makes me think of happier times. I weep softly.

6.49 PM: I take a gander at Town Bulletin Board...

... only to realise that the vicious rumours about my sexuality are still in circulation. More soft weeping ensues.

6.50 PM: I decide to pay a visit to Mitch's house, taking note of the reminder he left not to pilfer from his peach tree...

... making sure to read the note he left on the door.

6.51 PM: I stop to marvel at Mitch's new carpeting and giant watermelon.
6.55 PM: I take a quick trip down to my basement to ensure rocketships are safe. Once I find something explosive in this game to combine them with I'll bring this town to its knees!

6.58 PM: Finish practising evil laugh.

7.00 PM: I go to pick some pears, but get a sudden craving for poultry instead.

7.03 PM: I pay a visit to the tailor's to try on the latest threads.

7.04-7.08 PM: I frolic in fields in a carefree manner, proudly displaying my new attire and matching umbrella. Attract odd looks from villagers - this look must be out of style already.

7.09 PM: I hop a train to neighbouring town. Forced to make conversation with mentally-impaired cat-looking-dog.

7.10 PM (Sultonia Time): Arrive at Mitopia, which despite being a 2-minute train journey away is six hours behind, so sun is shining. Much like in Ireland, the public transportation is run by monkeys (har har).

7.11 PM (Sultonia time): Meet up with Hank, the inappropriate chicken...

... and Chuck, my old white-supremacist neighbour. He invites me to a 'meeting' of some description, I opt out.

7.24 PM: After returning to Sultonia, whilst walking through the woods, I spot Mitch's prized cherry tree...
... which I take an axe to...

... "Timbeerrrrr!! Bwahahahahahahahaahahahaahaaaa!!!" That practise earlier really paid off.

So here's what I leart from my visit to the world of Animal Crossing: If you give any drawing tools to unimaginative males, they will invariably draw phalluses, swastikas, and anything else of a crass nature. It doesn't mean they're gay, or anti-semetic, it just means they're stupid.

I think I will get the next game, even if it's the same as the last, purely because the ability to visit my little brother's town will facilitate the scientific undertaking of discerning at what age a boy's motor-system will be overpowered into leaving electronic dicks all over an imaginary village.

A Close Call

Whilst playing videogames with my seven year old brother, I became distracted by the fact that he had stopped looking at the TV screen and was directing his gaze towards me, as if gearing up to broach an awkward subject.

“Can I help you sir?” I asked.

“Seán” he squeaked.

“Yessir”

“Do you know America?”

“If by ‘America’ you mean the nation known as the United States of America, then yes I do”

He took a moment to process what I had said, then continued:

“Do you know that there’s a hurricane there at the moment.”

I chuckled and said “Oh Really?”

He seemed taken aback by how aloof I was about our exchange, and proceeded gingerly:

“Do you know who’s there?”

“Who?”

“Caitlyn.”

He paused, waiting for the shock to register on my face, then gave me a little prompt:

“Your girlfriend.”

At this point, (after another chuckle at his concern), I put his mind at ease by explaining to him that America was a very large place, and that anybody I know over there was not in any danger.

And in one fell swoop I learned a few things about my littlest brother: he likes my girlfriend, he has a means of keeping abreast of major world affairs, and unlike his second-eldest brother, he endeavours to be tactful and discreet in potentially difficult conversations!

'Little Runt'

As I stride through the kitchen, I pound my feet on the tiled floor to scare the little runt. He lets out a slight gasp of fear that spills in from the utility room.

“I know you’re in there kid, I can smell ya!”

That, and I can see him through the crack in the door. I know he’s carrying a weapon, so to avoid injuring myself in this assassination attempt, I stick my hand around the door, press the gun up against his head and pull the trigger without an instant of hesitation.

My executed target springs from behind the door in disgust.

“Seán! That’s cheating! I can’t shoot you if I can’t see you!”

 

You’ve already been acquainted with my little brother, so allow me to expound on why he seeks my company in so aggressive a manner by telling you about what we got up to on Thursday while I was babysitting him.

A few weeks ago, he came into the possession of a sizable arsenal of Nerf weapons that fire foam darts. Since then, no man (regardless of age) has come into the house without picking one up and enthusing about how cool they are. Last Thursday, I finally got to indulge in an hour-long shootout with these non-lethal hand cannons.

The way it worked for the first half hour involved my little brother running away, me catching up, him jumping out from behind some obvious cover and offloading all his darts at my feet, over my head, or to the left and right of me. Out of ammo, he would then dance on the spot, avoiding my shots with an almost precognition-like efficacy. Eventually though, it became clear that he wasn’t faring too well going toe-to-toe with a creature three times his size in close quarters combat, so he decided to mix it up a bit.

“I’ll go hide, and you come find me and shoot me”, he proposed.

This variant on Hide and Seek with extra violence didn’t really turn out the way he had hoped, owing to his lack of imagination as to where he should hide. I found him behind a door because I could see him through the crack. I found him under a table because his legs were sticking out (as he faced away from the only door I’d enter). I found him behind a curtain that was bulging in a conspicuous manner. After I blindly shot under his bed and heard “ow”, I knew we’d be resetting again. He was 4-0 down, and needed to step up his game.

I went through the rigmarole  of wandering downstairs and counting to twenty while he secured a spot for himself, but I was interrupted after ‘12’ with a triumphant “I’m ready” that unmistakably came from upstairs. Laughing at the manner in which he essentially gave away his position, I trudged up the stairs. From this point on, I cleared all of the rooms in a manner Jack Bauer would, pressing my back against the wall, spinning into the room, and checking the corners with exaggerated sweeping motions. The main bathroom was empty. So was my sister’s room. As was the hot press [pay attention yank readers - it’s a small roomish-type thing in an Irish home where clothes, towels and bed linen are placed for airing, right next to the immersion heater]. I could’ve sworn that his voice came from that corner of the house, but I continued with my search.

The spare bedroom was devoid of any seven-year olds, as was the other. I was puzzled. I wandered into the room that belonged to this elusive genius and saw no trace of him. I stood at the doorway of my father’s room and made the usual racket that would flush him out, but he wasn’t there. Was he up on the third floor? It certainly didn’t sound like it. Regardless, I had a quick check up there, forgetting any Baueresque theatrics. I was thoroughly puzzled.

I began to think it possible that he had moved from one room to the other, and could have snuck downstairs, so I went back to the ground floor, and looked in the usual spots, including the conservatory that would surely scare the bejesus out of a seven-year old in its current state of darkness.

I had failed. I stood at the foot of the stairs and shouted up:

“I can’t find you. I give up. You can come out now.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re trying to trick me”

He was upstairs! Undoubtedly so. I ran up to where the voice came from.

“Hello?” I called out.

“Can you not find me?”

I spun around, completely disoriented. Few things are more unnerving than the disembodied voice of a seven year old who is haunting you. I simply couldn’t fathom where he could be, and desired to end this round as soon as possible.

“I give up. I’m not trying to trick you. You win”

“Okay – you go and hide, and I’ll come and get you when you say ‘ready’”

I still hadn’t a clue where his shrill voice was coming from.

“Just count to twenty and then come find me”

“No. I’ll come when you say ‘ready’”

Not wanting to argue any more with the spirit of my little brother who had seemingly bonded with the house, I complied. I stashed myself in the coat-press under the stairs and bellowed that I was ready.

I heard him scream ‘okay’, but nothing happened for a few moments after. I shouted ‘ready’ again, in case he misheard me, and again only heard ‘okay’. A few more moments passed, and then I heard him shouting at my sister.

“Sarah! Can you come and get me? I’m very high up, and I’m a little afraid of heights.”

Upon hearing these words, (as you’d expect me to) I leapt out of my hidey-hole, and up the stairs to help him out.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you” I called out.

“Don’t shoot me!” he pleaded. I still had no idea where he was.

“I left my gun downstairs”

“Do you promise?” The conversation wasn’t helping me figure out where he needed to be. Was he behind the drywall? In the attic?

“I promise, just tell me where you are!” I shouted towards where I thought his voice was coming from.

“I’m in the hot press”

Son of a bitch! I did a quick 180 and poked my head into the seemingly empty hot press, looked up, and sure enough, there he was! Before I actually helped him, I laughed hysterically (out of relief that the house hadn't in fact eaten him) and took a photo.

 

“Get me down! I’m sweaty!”

He wasn’t lying. He almost slipped out of my hands as I lowered him from the shelf that was almost seven-feet from the floor. He stood on the ground for a few minutes panting, his glowing red face an indication that he wasn’t exaggerating how uncomfortable it was up there.

I only wish this was the first time I had been outsmarted by a seven year old.

Big Brother Blues

I think I've established myself as a pretty harsh character by this stage; an openly nitpicky, disillusioned, pedantic, petty, vindictive, aggressive, narcissistic, cynical, handsome son of a bitch, who will gleefully launch an all-out attack on whatever minor infraction of rationality that comes his way.

It's possible that this blog hasn't quite exposed me as being all these things, but those who know me best assure me that the majority of the above paragraph is true. Believe it or not, despite my hardassedness, (a reference to my disposition, not buttocks), there do exist people who are willing to spend time with me. Voluntarily! Some clamour for my time and attention.

Like my little brother, for example. Don't believe me? This is a voicemail I got one day when I broke a promise I didn't remember making.

Chilling, no? At only 7 years old, he has not only mastered the use of mobile telecommunications devices, but also the life-skill of exploiting human folly, brute-forcing guilt upon his target with a combination of strong rhetoric and sheer adorability.

One From the Road: Crappy Crapper Redux

Am I really talking about public bathrooms again? At this rate I may as well just commit myself to exploring this niche to the extent it so thoroughly deserves, and finally settle on a name and blog layout that I’m happy with...

So where was I? Bulgaria, actually. This story isn’t quite as epic a tale as the last in the series, but I hope you paid attention to the character development. (Cheat sheet: my father doesn’t like to be prepared on holidays, so spontaneity is the name of the game).

Last August, my two younger brothers and I decided that we would like to accompany our father in a visit to Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria. After three days, we grew weary of wandering around the immensity of the city (novel as it was to play charades when negotiating nourishment from waiting staff) and we upped and left to Sunny Beach – an atrociously soulless tourist spot, akin to the Canary Islands.

Sunny Beach, which not only has an awful name, is also located an awfully long way away from where we were located. For some reason, we decided the best course of action was to hire a taxi to drive us the 360km to where we wanted to be. As much as I’d love to make this entry about the hilarity that ensued as this inept driver got us lost 150km in the wrong direction, stopped to defecate at the side of a busy (not to mention dusty) road, and the non-conversations we had with him through wild gesticulations and half-comprehensions, I feel I should keep to the theme.

Considering the magnitude of the voyage, Sunny Beach was a huge letdown. It was overrun by poor interpretations of Irish Pubs, and brimmed with beer bellied Brits who found the most efficient means of trans-cultural communication to be raising one’s voice. Since none of our party was interested in any whistle-wetting, we were only too happy to bugger off two days later. The only problem with this was securing a means of locomotion that would get us home in time for our flight from Sofia, which lay about 6 hours to the east.

In the end, we settled for hopping on a bus at 1am or so, in the hopes of sleeping until we got to where we needed to be. Getting to sleep was difficult, if not impossible, thanks to the sheer heat of the bus. Amazingly, the broken air-conditioning made enough noise so as to keep a person awake, while offering no cooling comfort whatsoever. About two hours into the journey, my 16 year old brother took off his t-shirt and lay slumped in the chair topless. I laughed at him. An hour later I joined him. Fifteen minutes later my father joined us. Must have been quite a sight; three crazy shirtless foreigners in the back row, arranged in order of chest-hair prominence.

So where does the eponymous toilet come in, the more impatient readers ask? At about 4am sometime, maybe later, the bus pulls into a really dodgy looking rest-stop, and everyone files out. We begrudgingly clothed ourselves and ventured outside into the refreshing cold night air. Despite how late it was, the rest stop were serving food and drinks, and there were a few kids playing around in the house that this makeshift cafe was attached to. It seemed quite perverse.

The pitifulness of my bladder has been well established by now, so it’s almost needless to say that my first order of business was to find a suitable venue to purge my piss.

Having learnt from past experience, I was equipped with sufficient amounts of the local currency to deal with even the most burdensome of bathroom invigilators. Staggeringly enough, there was one present after 4 in the morning! How much money is there to be made from charging people for their excretory needs, I wonder? Regardless, the results of the premium I paid for such a privilege are perplexing.

That is a toilet. Your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you; that bowl is set into the floor. It’s not a misplaced shower-basin either; all of the other stalls were the same! Unfortunately, the phone doesn’t capture the local species of creepy-crawlies that reside in and around the bathroom prefab (to date, I’ve yet to see a bigger millipede)!

The most entertaining part of this story for me, on personal level, is my father’s reaction to my account of one of the more unique toilets I’ve encountered in my day. He decided he had to see it for himself, and so he bounded past the bathroom attendant. When she barked at him, seeking remuneration, he turned, shrugged at her, and continued on his mission.

Cheeky bastard.

Not Getting Enough Sully in Your Diet?

Millions of people blog everyday. No big deal. But when it's someone within one of my few feeble social circles, (and it's been a slow blogging month), I deem it worthy of a blog entry!

My older brother has jumped on the blogging bandwagon. But unlike his younger brother, he's not a mere 'blogger'. He has embraced the term 'blogster', which has a much more startlingly aggressive connotation!

The mission statement for 'For When I Have Nothing Better to Do'? To be the largest independent online resource for softcore male-on-male pornography! Um... Or not. Maybe I should let him speak for himself at this stage.

Being very much into IT and currently studying it (final year), I have a few nice projects and some source code that other students might find useful.

The URL for what will surely someday be a great repository for recommended programs and esoteric whoosy-whatsits is http://diarmuidos.blogspot.com

I can't think about the URL of this blog without hearing that incessant (British Accented, oddly enough) voice in my head saying 'Diarmuidos'. So being the nerd that I am...


Let the record show that this took far more effort and time than it ought to have!

One From the Road: The Crappy Crapper

Holidays with my father are always an adventure, mostly because he stubbornly refuses to plan anything. A few years ago, he booked a flight for all of us out to Vienna in Austria, but didn’t reserve any hotel rooms. We arrived in this massive city, toting some heavy bags in the kind of heat that doesn’t suit pasty white Irishmen like ourselves, and wandered around for hours looking for shelter.

Despite how fun that doesn’t sound, there is something hugely liberating about that kind of an outlook while you’re on holiday, as we didn’t feel tied down to any one hotel, or country, for that matter. After two days of Vienna, we felt we had seen enough, and ventured onto Budapest, until we tired of that, at which point we decided to check out Bratislava in Slovakia.

I can’t quite remember the circumstances that led up to the point of this overly personal story; it’s possible that we were after getting off a bus that took us to a train station, but when we finally arrived in Bratislava, my bladder was brimming in such a painful fashion that I was dangerously close to considering wetting myself and letting the dry heat dry the stain away. After hours of holding it in, the relief I felt at finally witnessing a large, albeit derelict-looking, train station before me caused me to shudder a little joyful shudder at the prospect of excreting these troubling litres of fluid.

I ditched my brothers by the bus as they waited for the driver to retrieve the bags and hurled myself into the train station. It was every bit as run-down looking on the inside as it was on the outside, but it smelt extra musky. I looked around frantically for a place to deposit my urine, but saw nothing. The signs were exclusively in Slovak, so I had to take a moment to compose myself and figure out where I wanted to be. The universal stick-man/woman symbol pointed upstairs, so upstairs I went. I bounded up the large wide staircase as my bladder bounced around violently in protest, but I didn’t care - I was on the home stretch! Salvation lay just ahead! Or so I thought.

Perhaps I switched from a stride to a stroll a little late, as I crashed into that bathroom with such aplomb that I almost knocked a small bespectacled woman off her stool. It was a mensroom attendant. Urk. The toilets were dark, dank, and clammy, bereft of a single window to offer light or odour extraction, and after my first breath I got a distinctly salty taste in my mouth, which should give you an idea of how potent the stink was. The seemingly ineffectual bathroom attendant pointed to a sign that caused my heart to falter for a moment, but my adrenaline had yet to run dry. Despite the fact that it was in another language, I will never forget that sign as long as I live.

Pisoár 15 SKK
Skriňa 25 SKK

Fuck.

I did what any man would do in the situation. I shrugged at her and walked past. I had no money! I had to go! She started barking at me in Slovak as I approached the nearest free urinal. Just as I was undoing my fly in this decrepit hole of a toilet, someone grabbed my arm. The bathroom attendant. Despite the fact that other men were relieving themselves, she deemed it appropriate to reprimand the cheapskate. The withered hag dragged me out to the same sign she had once pointed to and now began to slap it vigorously, all the while yammering away in a tongue I didn’t understand, but a tone I knew all too well.

Few times in my life have I felt physically crushed by disappointment. This was one of those moments. Pleading is quite futile when playing charades is your only means of communication. I clasped my hands together in prayer, begging her. Nothing. I grabbed my crotch and danced on the spot for her. Nothing. I tried pointing at the urinal, miming a urination stance, pointing at my imaginary watch, then at the basket full of foreign coins. Nothing. (Okay - so maybe it’s understandable that she didn’t respond favourably to the last one, but how the hell do you mime “I’ll urinate first, then return and pay you”?) I put a 2 euro coin in her basket, she fished it out and threw it at me in a manner that suggested she believed it would poison all the other legal tender. Her incomprehensible nattering was clear. It said “No toilet for you!”

Possibly the lowest moment of my life, that moment of resignation. I did a quick Pro/Con analysis. Was I willing to spend the rest of my life being called ‘Seanie-Seanie-Pee-Pants’ at every family reunion? Would I be able to regain the trust and respect of my future children if I explained to them the tenacity of the bathroom attendant and the extenuating circumstances that led to my public act of incontinence?

The next part is all a blur. I went downstairs, found my father, dragged him over to the bureau de change to change those Euros into something useful, ran back upstairs with a pile of strange notes, and returned to the scene of my attempted crime, equipped with the means to gain ingress to this rather exclusive shithole.

“Pisoár?” she asked as she pointed at the sign.
I shook my head.
“Skriňa?”
I nodded. I wanted a cubicle. I was willing to pay the big bucks for the privacy, seeing as I had realised how elusive it was on my previous visit.

She outstretched her palm. One transaction later and I’m strolling towards the cubicle. She beckons me back, and I realise that in my tunnel vision, I’ve neglected to notice that she’s holding up a roll of toilet paper. I try to take the roll, and she slaps my hand back. Nonplussed, I look at her as she uravels a few squares and grunts a question at me. I nod, without a clue as to what she has just said. She unravels some more. She grunts something at me again that ends with a question mark. I nod. She tears the eight squares of
sandpaper
toiletpaper off and hands it to me.

It isn’t until I’m safely in the cubicle that I realise no toilet paper is kept within the stall. The woman was asking me to predict how much paper I would need to satisfy my excretion needs! Had I intended on defecating in the world’s narrowest cubicle, she had left me considerably short changed in equipping me to do so, but these thoughts yielded to more pressing matters.

The relief that bathroom provided almost moved me to tears. The nightmare was over.

This story is a solid illustration of what my ideal holidays are. I got to converse with a Slovakian local, and witnessed first hand some quirks of their society. Quirks like privacy invading bathroom attendants, who charge a premium based on which call of nature you intend on satisfying, dole out toilet paper based on how shitty you predict your arse will be, and wield the authority to interrupt you at any time to accost confused tourists who are delirious with desire to utilise the facilities.

Granted, we didn’t get off to the best start, but I did sign up for their Frequent Pisser Card, which entitles me to one free urinal trip every Saturday.

SWAG! (X-mas Edition)

7th of January already? We’re already a week into this whole 2008 lark and there’s not even a belated ‘Happy Christmas’ blog entry here to show for it? Bad form Sully.

To rectify this malady, I humbly present:

What Sully’s Loved Ones Think of Him

(As interpreted through their Christmas Gifts)

Subject: My Father

Gift: An envelope with money inside.

Meaning: “Acquaint yourself with brown-envelopes well, my son - they will get you far in life.”

Subject: My Girlfriend

Gift: An animated Superman film on DVD.

Meaning: “You are a perpetual man-child. I hereby announce my decision to cease trying to reform you.”

Subject: My Older Brother

Gift: A Wii Carry Case

Meaning: “If you show up at my house, you’d better bring more than your dazzling personality if you’re expecting a warm welcome”

Subject: My Younger Brother

Gift: Nothing

Meaning: “Blasted abacus! I knew there was another brother I needed to buy for!”

Subject: My Mother

Gift: A large suitcase

Meaning: “Piss off. To somewhere far away, preferably.”

Subject: My Aunt

Gift: This item of clothing.

Meaning: "You dress like a pervy old man"

So at this rate, I think I can safely forecast Christmas '08.

My father and I will meet in the park and trade briefcases whilst wearing suits and looking inconspicuous. My girlfriend will gift me a great big starter set of Duplo Blocks. To continue the theme, my Aunt will either give me a zimmer-frame or a bottle of viagra. If I'm lucky, my younger brother will actually go the effort of wrapping a box of nothing, instead of just shrugging at me on Christmas morning. My older brother will 'treat' me to a method of transporting whatever new electrical appliance of mine he covets, whilst my mother pours gunpowder into my brand new cannon, as I have yet to procure myself a means of locomotion to take me away from her house.

Don't you love Christmas?

Sulliver's Travels

To anyone out there who has cousins much younger than yourself, lend me your sympathetic ear!

In May, my grandfather turned 90 years old. The following pictures are from the resulting celebration that gathered most of the family.

When I walked into the room, two of my cousins and my 6 year old brother grabbed my feet and demanded I walk whilst they clung on for dear life.



When I refused to walk in case one of them got hurt, I got punched in the balls.

As the throbbing sensation worked its way up into my abdomen, I decided I should comply with the munchkins' request. I walked back over to my chair, and sat down, much to their dismay.

Sitting down didn't quite quell their interest in 'playing', however. It just gave them new targets.



Following a harrowing few moments of clawing, kicking and screaming (on my part), I made a dash for the bathroom, thinking that they surely wouldn't follow me there.




Amazingly enough, my plan worked, and I hid in the bathroom until I could hear the drone of everyone singing 'Happy Birthday'. Other than the scratches and marks on my arms, I escaped with a shattered testicle, a small chunk taken out of my right ear, and a deep toothmark on my left buttock.

I'm not looking forward to the 100th birthday celebration.