Read my Homework

Blasphemy is now a criminal offense that carries a fine of €25,000? Christ-on-His-divine-bicycle! That’s entirely absurd! Only a complete buffoon would ignore all the decent people that the bill offends and outrages for the sake of appeasing a few crackpots!

Whilst pondering what this dangerously loose worded bill means to a loudmouthed ragamuffin like me, I thought of a happier time. It was September 2006, and I was in The Greatest Country in the World™, enjoying the first few weeks of my exchange year of college in Pittsburgh. My Study of Rhetoric professor gave the class the task of critically analysing a cultural event through the rhetorical toolkit he had spent the past few lectures explaining.

The cultural event I chose was close to my heart – the Catholic mass. The following essay is stacked with unnecessary jargon buzzwords to show the prof that I was paying attention, and some clumsy segues, but I still get a kick out of seeing what an irreligious asshat I was long before I had heard of Richard Dawkins.

Just bear in mind, any of you litigious twats, that my ample ass was covered by the first amendment when I wrote this. God bless America!

Critique #3
Eating Christ-Crackers in the 21st Century

One of the many rituals that may be considered odd to an outside observer is the manner in which the cultural group known as Catholics, near the end of their weekly prayer gathering, queue orderly to make their way towards the altar, eat a piece of wafer, sip from a golden goblet, then return to their seats for a few more moments of prayer before vacating their place of worship.

Of course, the ritual in question is the holy sacrament of the Eucharist, and Catholics are educated on this important tradition as part of their faith. Before they ingest the holy disc, the priest reminds the assembled worshippers that they are fulfilling Jesus' instructions from the Last Supper, as recorded in the New Testament of the Bible. First, the priest will read these relevant passages, and then he will administer Communion in a manner that echoes what has just been read. By indexical association, the priest 'becomes' Jesus, as he takes “the bread”, breaks it, and gives it to his “disciples”, represented by the congregation.

The Bible states how Jesus told his guests that they were eating his body and drinking his blood at the Last Supper, and the purpose of the Eucharist is to make all of mankind present at this seminal event. What this means is that the Catholic church do not believe that the bread is a symbol of Jesus' flesh, nor is the wine a symbol of his blood, but rather they somehow transform into the actual physical components of Christ, whilst retaining their original properties; a process known as transubstantiation. Interestingly, the Catholic church makes no effort to explain how the transformation occurs, but rather dictates what changes; the bread, while still looking and being in every way perceivable to the human eye as bread, becomes Christ's flesh, and the wine, while still looking and being in every way perceivable to the human eye as wine, becomes Christ's blood.

After transubstantiation has taken place, those who are eligible for communion may approach their nearest Christ-flesh vendor to consume their lord. After they are prompted with “Body of Christ”, the recipient replies “Amen”, which (whether they know it or not) is the Hebrew term for “Truly”, signifying their awareness or compliance with this theory. The bread will then be placed on the tongue, and the beneficiary will trace a cross on their body; beginning around their forehead, making their down to their mid-section, then over to the left and right shoulders. This is the act of blessing oneself, and it is an iconic allusion to the crucifix on which Jesus died while sacrificing himself for mankind, and also an indexical reference to the holy Trinity of the father, the son, and the Holy Spirit.

As a person who can associate with the group identity of ‘one who has worked in catering', I am aware of the basic tenets of food preparation. At the most recent mass I attended, the priest was an elderly gentleman who appeared to be suffering from a cold at the time. Several times during his sermon did he cough and splutter into his hand, even while handling the communion wafer. Many people present at that mass would normally identify themselves as being unwilling to take unnecessary risks with their health, and be horrified by what had transpired, but nobody seemed put off the holy bread by the fact that it had been handled by potentially contaminated hands. Similarly, scores of people were drinking out of the same chalice, their health concerns seemingly satiated by the slight rub the lip of the grail received in between sups; an instance of western common-sense being overruled by habit, perhaps, as it is one of the few examples of a time where strangers may share drinking utensils with one another.

It is interesting to see the ways in which these hallowed traditions alienate certain people. [Deleted] is one such person - a celiac-disease sufferer. He is unable to participate in the consumption of Christ's flesh, transubstantiation or not, as it contains gluten, like most wafers and breads. This grants him an uncommon subject position, and subsequently causes an oppositional reading of the text as it is laid out before him. If the motivation behind the Sacrament of the Eucharist being carried out in churches is for all of mankind to be 'present' at the Last Supper in some form, then why is he, a man, not allowed to participate without risking grievous harm to himself? Is his autoimmune dysfunction a sign that he is unqualified for Catholicism, and therefore will miss out on the eternal life that is offered to followers of Christ? He investigated the issue and conversed with many priests before learning, much to his amusement that only bread made with wheat is considered eligible for the rather magical-sounding transubstantiation, prompting him to cynically ask, “if a substance as unremarkable as bread can magically become Christ's body, why not something else?”

The practice of the Eucharist is such a common occurrence in so many Catholics’ lives, that they are likely to not think much about what is happening, or question why they are engaging in the act, a situation that surely works to the advantage of the church. There are few who raise cannibalistic worries when summoned to consume the body and blood of Christ. Similarly, there are few who are aware that the bread and wine they are consuming is actually the body and blood of their saviour. There are even fewer who are aware of how this process occurs. Whereas other branches of Christianity practice the ceremony of communion, they carry it out with a different set of beliefs; some believe that the bread and wine are symbolic, whereas others choose to believe that Christ is present in a different form.

As societies continue to evolve, more people begin to ask questions, and religions lose their influence over the world, one must ask, when examining archaic rituals such as the Eucharist as carried out by the Catholic Church, how much longer will these cultural groups be willing to participate in increasingly outdated traditions?

Christians? Crackers!

In December ’06, during my fourth month or so in the States, I had to do a “cultural breakdown” of some public event, and contemplate it at a level people generally don’t. I made casual reference to this in a blog entry at the time, but didn’t go too far into the polemical specifics, as I had yet to embrace representing the full extent of my beliefs on this blog.

It was supposed to be a 'cultural breakdown,' but since I winged it and was deulsionally tired, it turned into a ten minute lecture on why everybody should be agnostic.

The thesis of the presentation was that ‘faith‘ is just reframed superstition, and anyone who invokes it is openly declaring their lack of intellectual integrity. It was my first public denunciation of childish beliefs, and most greeted it with a stunned silence, or laughed at the absurdity of what the large Irish man was saying.

The presentation was borne out of the frustration I felt at being surrounded by so many people who seemed to punctuate their sentences with allusions to religious dogma, and the general lack of scepticism with which they approached all topics, as a system of binary oppositions seemed to define most; democrat/republican, pro-life/pro-choice, “global warming is real”/ “global warming is a scare-tactic by liberals”. I'm also keen to point out that I had yet to hear of Richard Dawkins, Christopher Hitchens, or any others in the atheistic movement before moving ahead with my diatribe.

Anyhow – as part of my project, I attended a Catholic mass, went up for communion for the first time in years, (forgot what came after “Body of Christ” and said “cheers” instead of "amen"), and slipped the communion-wafer into my pocket, so I had something for show-and-tell. The presence of the communion-wafer on my study desk made my suitemates a little uneasy at first, but it didn’t take long for them to give up on my hell-bound soul.

Why am I bringing this up again? I just read a blog entry by the legendary PZ Myers, in which he highlights a story that is a reflection on the sorry state of our species, which tells the tale of young Webster Cook, who “smuggled a Eucharist[...] out of mass, didn't eat it as he was supposed to do, but instead walked with it”. This incident is hardly newsworthy on its own grounds, until you factor in the immensely stupid response of the religious, who have accused him of hate crime, condemned his “mortal sin” (sending him straight to hell when he dies), and are actively trying to get him expelled from school!

Let’s have PZ break it down:

That's right. Crazy Christian fanatics right here in our own country have been threatening to kill a young man over a cracker. This is insane. These people are demented fuckwits.

PZ Myers is an educated man. A scientist, even. Who teaches biology. Biology is a science which furthers our understanding of ourselves and the world, and is therefore important. And these people just made him say “fuckwit”.

Of course, as appalled as I am by this story, my overriding narcissism has to kick in, and I have to think about myself for a moment. When I made that presentation in Pittsburgh, I decided not to use the cracker at the last minute, thinking that my classmates would cry “offensive!” and not listen to what I was actually saying. Not only would I have committed a “hate crime” by removing the magical Jesus-bread (listen to how stupid your beliefs sound, Catholics!), but I would have used it as a prop in a 10-15 minute “hate-speech” against Christians. They probably would have tried to get me deported, and at the least, it would have destroyed my chances of staying a second semester.

Unsurprisingly, PZ Myers is now being attacked by the pitchfork-brandishing “fuckwits”, merely for reporting on the issue, and treating it with the reverence it deserved:

I have received 39 pieces of personal hate mail of varying degrees of literacy, all because I was rude to a cracker ... I even have one email that says I should be fired, that the author would like to kill me, and that I only criticize because Catholics are so gentle and kind.

Seán O’Sullivan - “Ideal Renaissance Man for Today”?

Sick of reading about people who don’t take kindly to the man that is Sully? I’m not - but in case you’re some OCD type who can’t sleep at night until equilibrium is restored to the world, I’m pleased to link to a(nother) blog about me.

This artefact of creative writing is the academic obligation of Megan Dovell; a girl I took a class with during my study abroad tenure in Pittsburgh. It seems to have been constructed around a random comment I made one fateful day, fleshed out with details about me she only half-remembers:

Seán O'Sullivan is an Irish native who was a fellow classmate of mine from our Television and Video Production class. My opinion is he is a great representation of an ideal renaissance man for today. He has the tall, dark hair, handsome, and athletic features. But more importantly he is highly educated, cunning, charming, has manners, and respects women!

Yeah! Take that haters! I don’t want to undermine a fellow writer’s efforts, so I won’t allow modesty to interfere with this objective portrayal of something worth sharing! I will point out that she opens by talking about how much respect I have for women and then comparing it to my (alleged) detestation for men (we call that ‘misandry' folks - it’s your word of the day)!

Megan's Blog is called It's Not Me It's You, and the full text of what she said about me can be read here. Much like how (for a while) my blog viewed the States through bleary, unfamiliar eyes, hers is an attempt to portray the dirty foreigners who invariably show up in her life.

This made my afternoon when I was alerted to its existence... So don’t ruin it for me! Yet. Comments are much appreciated - you should know the drill by now. No registration necessary.

My Skit

To celebrate UL's admission that they screwed up, and to continue my quest to find those elusive splashes of colour to add to the blog, I present to you this rather lame skit!

This was a project for my TV-Production class in Robert Morris University, and serves more as proof of my technical ability to prepare a single-camera skit than a reflection of what my creative output is like. We were assigned a rigid frame, in that we had to produce "an ironic video description of a word from Abrose Bierce's Devil's Dictionary".

I personally find this clip quite enjoyable, as Chris (playing the money-hungry/pervy doctor) ad-libbed pretty much everything that was funny. And if you're interested, I can tell you that my initial 'vision' for a more cerebral, ironic approach to humour was ditched in favour of a much more visceral, albeit 'dumber' style, as the teacher acted as Producer and had to clear everything... That's right - I sold out for an A.

One last thing - sorry about the pointless Grey's Anatomy bit at the start - that was also part of the package - to 'prove' that we could edit... It didn't have to make sense!

Right then - on with the show!

SWAG!

Sorry if it seems as though I'm harping on, but this is an odd one!

After class today, as instructed, I went to the International Office to sign some paperwork, fill out an evaluation, and pick up a 'care package'. After a gentle scolding for not replying to 'all those' (there were 2) e-mails, we got down to business.

As I made my way for the door, the secretary said; “Don't forget your bag of goodies there!”
Being nice, I replied “There's no fear of me forgetting this – I've been looking forward to it since I read your letter!”

She replied with “Yeah, we thought we'd give you that because we noticed you don't get any packages from home”.

I didn't give her any reaction, but continued to look at her, prompting her to essentially reiterate her previous statement.

“We always see our exchange students picking up care-packages, but we noticed that you've never gotten one.”

What the hell? How dare this woman insinuate that nobody loves me! I spared her my incredulity, of course, because I may have been reading between the lines, as she doesn't seem like a malicious sort, but if it was unintentional, it was quite a faux-pas.

The goodies they gave me were pretty decent, to be fair. I feel less special knowing that every exchange student got one, of course, but it doesn't detract from the goodness within the red, white and blue, RMU branded, 'Made in Mexico' bag.

Full list of what's here in the Comments, if you're interested (which I don't blame you for not being)

When filling out the evaluation, the last question was “How would you rate your Study Abroad experience?”. I gave it full marks; “Excellent”, because no amount of tactless, incompetent fools and the hassle they cause could detract from the rollicking good time I've had here at RMU... (rollicking? Have I ever even uttered that word aloud?)

Vindication?

If you've been following the blog over the past month, you're no doubt aware of the hassle I've had with the American government, more specifically the Department of Homeland Security... If you're not yet informed, start here, then here, aaaand finish up with this one

Now that everybody's up to speed, I'll continue! Like I said earlier, when I went to the International Office at RMU, I was met with no sympathy, and told they couldn't do anything about it, so I went to their superior, and told him what happened, preparing myself with a list of buzzwords to use that would resonate with him for the rest of the day; words like 'outraged', 'ridiculous', 'incompetent', 'unbelievable' and 'are you going to eat that?'... Okay, maybe not the last one, but I had a few things that I wanted to say, and they were received how I was hoping they would be. I speculated that the two Irish girls who came to RMU with me last semester would also be on the list, and this got him worried - he agreed with me that this complacency couldn't continue because RMU would "get in trouble", and started cracking the whip. The director of the International Office still isn't very nice to me, but she did forward me this during the week, illustrating that it may well be possible to clear my name. The two girls who are also involved haven't been told yet by RMU, and I tried to contact them before putting this up to no avail. I blacked out their names in case they're not willing to broadcast to the world that they're on a 'Suspected Persons' list, and some other info that shouldn't be online.



The 'Male from United Kingdom' threw me off a little since I'm an Irish citizen, and every form I fill out reflects that, bar the 'Place of Birth: London, England', which hopefully explains that discrepancy, in case you were wondering.

This experience has made me glad I decided to stay in RMU that extra semester - cos otherwise I wouldn't have known about this 'administrative oversight' until my next US holiday (which of course, would have been severely cut short).

With a bit of luck, shortly after not being labelled a dirty terrorist anymore, I'll get my $421.93 back from Robert Morris!

Giving Taking Back Sunday my Saturday

When it was announced that Taking Back Sunday would be playing at Robert Morris University, I was a little dubious. That was, of course, until I found out the tickets were $10. I'm not exactly a Taking Back Sunday fan, but I've listened to their CDs, and I don't think anybody could pass up seeing a band live for little under €7.50.

We were intentionally late for the concert, and missed Armor For Sleep's set, and most of UnderOath, which meant that we'd be spending less time waiting for the only band we knew or cared about. When I walked in I was hugely impressed.

It was a real concert. There were people everywhere, great sound, and a decent light show. I didn't spend much time observing the emo-teeny-boppers, but my friend Krampe did overhear one sullen emo-kid profoundly say to another sullen emo-kid something along the lines of “Dude. This is what heaven should be like”.

Taking Back Sunday took to the stage, and I pushed my way to the front. How close exactly?


Pretty damn close.

I took some nice photos and cool videos, and edited together a little video, purely for the purposes of trying to elicit feelings of jealousy from my younger brother, who I believe has yet to experience the joys of powering your way to the front of a concert and being within spitting distance of famous rock-star types. It was sweaty, and disgusting, and I stank of pre-pubescent perspiration by the end of the night, but it was well worth it, especially since I got a video out of it.

About the video: all the pics and footage are from my digital camera, and I dubbed 'What's it Feel Like to be a Ghost?' over it, as the audio capture on the camera was painful to listen to. Oddly enough, considering I rarely put myself in my videos, and this is about TBS, I'm in it... Kindof - you can see my forehead at three minutes and seven seconds... If you're wondering about some of the shaky footage – that's me getting kicked in the back of the head by some insane crowd-surfer.



Be sure to leave a comment!

Where does the time go?

This March has been quite an eventful one, almost a perfect balance of good and bad. The good parts were the 12 days at home with my family and friends, purchasing a Nintendo Wii, and getting to spend a week with the lady-friend...

The bad consisted of being refused-re-entry to the United States as the result of another person's blunder, paying in excess of $600 to fix the problem, being met with resistance when trying to get myself reimbursed, winding up on the Suspected Persons list of the American Government, and trying to weasel my way off that. Things got worse last Saturday, as I got sick for the first time in at least 8 months. I didn't have so much as a sniffle all this time, so when I got a bit of a sore throat on Saturday, I tried to ignore it. I couldn't ignore the exhaustion I felt on Sunday, and spent all day sleeping.

When the RMU doctor look a quick glance and said "Tonsillitis", I was puzzled. My tonsils were removed when I was around 10 years old. I had barely spluttered that out before he flatly said "They grew back". Cool. He wasn't done there though; oh no - in a way that only he could get away with, he said "Seán, you look like shit".

The good doc reckons I might also have Mono - I'll remain sceptical until the blood tests come back, but in the meantime, I feel as though I should be getting to the point.

March hasn't been the best blogging month, and for this I do apologise, but it has been an awful academic month. Granted, I haven't taken any exams or anything, but I've so much work due for Monday I'm beginning to wonder if the 'Sully-magic' (yes, I'm that conceited to refer to dumb luck as Sully-magic) that has gotten me by in such predicaments before is going to pull through this time... The smart money is against me at the moment, as magic takes energy, something I have precious little to spare at the moment.

But this isn't that kind of blog - the dull 'dear diary' drivel that attempts to arouse feelings of sympathy from the reader while dwelling on insipid introspective notions, fuelled by an emo-soul and a 'they don't understand me' complex. Sorry that from the opening paragraphs of this post you may have thought the conclusion would be a sob-riddled "mom's rite - no boi wil evar take me 2 d prom!" Anyway - I'm getting to the point; the justification for this post...

So, as stated, I was sick, relaxing in bed, and looking for some videos to watch on my hard-drive, and I stumbled across this, and I laughed. And I hope that if you have the patience to sit through the admittedly slow 2 minute intro, you'll laugh too.

Enjoy one of the oddest videos I've ever had a hand in making, although to this day, I insist it was all the doing of the chaps you see dancing on your screen!



What do you think? Will they become an internet sensation, destined to be forever synonymous with YouTube, featured in the obligatory montage that precedes each news piece on 'viral-video'?

UPDATE 08/05/08: Guess not - YouTube yanked it for copyright violation, so if you absolutely need your fix, here you are!

Because a simple life is boring...

Deja Vu.

Shannon Airport, Ireland. March 15th, 8:30 am.

The Customs official furrows her brow, and I know what's coming next.

“Sir, can you come with me for a moment?”

I'm lead back to the holding area, and reclaim my usual spot. I sit there, wondering what the chances are that I'll be denied again. My copy of Noam Chomsky's “Hegemony or Survival: America's Quest for Global Dominance” sits uneasily in my backpack, unwilling to ease my waiting, so I remain with only my thoughts for an excruciating half hour.

The door pulls open. A short brunette woman stands there. “Mr O'Sullivan?” The only person in the holding area looks at her. “Right this way, Sir.”

The office I have been called into wasn't quite as nice as the one I had been in last time, and my 'handling officer' is quite different. “Sir, can you state your name for the record?”

I'm starting to miss my previous handling officer.

“Seán O'Sullivan”.
“And what business do you have in the United States, sir?”
“I'm a student.”
“Then why didn't you show up for school?”
“I did! It was a clerical error! I can name the woman that screwed up!”
Uh-oh. She didn't like my choice of inflection when saying 'woman'. Her eyes narrowed on mine. Sharp chills ran down my spine. Something bad was going to happen.
“Sir, I need you to blow into this tube to make sure you have no alcohol in your system.”
I smirk, and advance towards the device on the table, finding the absurdity of the situation quite comical.
“Put your mouth over the tube, but don't blow until I tell you to.”
I comply, feeling sufficiently humiliated at wrapping my lips around this mechanical phallus under the instruction of this uniformed terrier, and watch her press a button on her console.

A chalky texture assaults the roof of my mouth and I recoil in terror, but not before my gasp sucks in the toxic fumes that have been released. My eyes roll back in my head, and I keel over.

When I come to, I'm hanging from chains secured around my wrists in a tub of dirty water. I've been stripped down to my Superman underpants, and I'm not wearing my glasses. I feel naked without my glasses. I'm in a murky, decrepit basement of some description, lit only by a solitary light-bulb, my antagonist sitting comfortably before me on a solid wooden chair, looking quite smug.

“Welcome back” she beams.
“Why am I here?” I splutter out.
“You know exactly why, Mr. O'Sullivan”
“I really don't.”
“If you fail to co-operate, things will get ugly, O'Sullivan.”
“What? Why?”
Enraged by my cluelessness, she charges towards me and grabs a fistful of my chest-hair, twists it until I groan, and then ruthlessly plucks it out with a swift tug.
I look down and begin to laugh at my now bare left pectoral.
“I've been meaning to do that for a while” I chuckle at her “Do me a favour and get the other one, will you?”
“Tell me what you've been doing in America for the past seven months, and I can be nice to you, Mr. O'Sullivan”
“I was, and still am a student.”
“I hoped you'd say that.”

She leaves the room for a few moments, eventually returning with a cartoonishly muscly cohort, who drags a strange contraption on a trolley behind him. He parks it within a few feet of me, glances at me, cracks a smile, and makes his way towards the door again. As he exits the room, he calls out over his shoulder
“Have fun, you two!”

My eyes widen as I realise what I'm looking at. There are aggressive, dirty looking dusters connected to a large dial, which sits atop an impressively large battery.

“Are they electric-shock paddles?” my voice is a hoarse whisper.
“Oh good, Mr. O'Sullivan. You're familiar with torture techniques”

At least now the water I'm shin-deep in makes sense.

She fiddles with the dial, turning it all the way to the left, then all the way to the right, and back again, looking at me with that menacing stare as I wonder where it's going to rest.

She continues to play with the dial as she asks again

“Mr O'Sullivan. What were you doing in the United States for the past seven months?”
“Studying!”

She plunges both paddles into my abdomen and I wince. I feel the sensation of a million pins and needles over my body, which then sink in as deep as I can feel, and explode into a million fragments.

My shudder wakes me up – I'm back on the plane, my chest-hair is intact, and the girl next to me is still snoring. The dream I've had doesn't seem too far fetched considering what I've just been told. Once I got called into the customs office, there were no shock paddles or chloroform clouds, but there was an interrogation by a woman who was too by the book to offer any compassion. This woman dropped the bombshell that I am still struggling to comprehend. The records show that I applied for a student Visa from the US government. The records show that I entered the United States in late August on this Visa. The records do not show that I showed up for school, but rather that I pissed around in the States for a few months, at an undisclosed location.

A clerical error. The director of the International office failed to register me with the Department of State. This much I was aware of. This simple (albeit stupid) clerical error has caused me a great deal of grievance, and will continue to do so. Why's that? Back to the bombshell;

“Sir, are you aware that you are on our Suspected Persons list?”

I was incensed. I demanded to know how; knowing exactly she'd tell me what I already know. I asked her if she could fix it, but was told that once it's on the system, it can't be erased. She was an absolute pain in the ass, and answered each question like it was even stupider than the last one. When I asked her what being on this list meant, she got impatient, and said “Sir, can you please stop asking me these questions? I have other people who are also trying to make their flights today”

I hated her. I'm not one to shoot the messenger, owing to the fact that generally that when people deliver bad news, they do it with some modicum of tact, but in my eyes, this woman deserved the worst fate my imagination could conjure up for her curt, anti-sympathetic, don't-give-a-toss attitude.

I hated her.

I made my flight. And I got to Robert Morris University. And I told people what happened. And they laughed. And well they should – my story is a ridiculous one. Taking my grievance to the International Office was a waste of time, so I went a few rungs up the ladder, and am trying to un-criminalise myself in the eyes of the US government, because I'll be damned if I spent my life getting harassed every time I try to fly out to visit my friends, see my girlfriend or take a simple holiday, because of one woman's incompetence. I've already been told it can't be done, but that'll just make it all the sweeter when I make it happen, eh?

Assaulting the Embassy

The first thing I had to do in Dublin after getting off the train was take a piss. Even this proved problematic, as I was lacking the necessary 30c to gain ingress to the bathroom. Setting the tone for the rest of the day, I took a quick glance around before bounding over the turnstile, unwilling to waste time with petty manners such as getting change for overpriced bathrooms.

I put another €40 of credit onto my phone before being herded on a bus into town – once on the bus, I began to make a number of phonecalls – the first was to the embassy to schedule the appointment I had attempted to earlier – the Thursday slot had since been filled, and I had to settle for one on Friday. Grrrr. It's not even 9.30am and it's already a terrible day. I figure I may as well try and send a fax requesting the emergency meeting, despite being told my circumstances didn't call for any urgency, and rang reliable Mike to inform him I'd be e-mailing him something to fax shortly – just as soon as I found an internet café. Of course, the call took longer than that, because I had to explain why I was still in the country – by the end of that week I'd have grown very tired of telling that story.

After I was done with my phone calls, I realised I had missed my stop – following this realisation, the bus driver informed me that it was the last stop, and asked where I was going. He was remarkably cool about me being distracted by the phone, and advised me on where to get off, so I did... And hadn't a shagging clue where I was! This is where I enjoyed myself the most – wandering around Dublin, without a clue as to where I should be going, more or less following my nose.


The Spire in Dublin is a great Navigational Aid, as it can be seen from far away, and is situated pretty much in the main street.

J1 Visas for Dummies
Stuff needed when applying for a J1 Student Visa:
DS156, 157 and 158 Forms
2”x2” Passport Photographs
€80 Bank Draft or Postal Cheque
Self Addressed & Stamped Envelope
DS2019 Form from host University

It didn't take long to find an internet café – it was a bit of a dive, but served my purposes – I printed off the forms I needed, e-mailed Mike the letter to fax, and ploughed out of there again. Standing in the doorway for a moment, I wondered if I should go left or right – for some reason I chose the latter and eventually found myself at a large Post office – what luck! A friendly postal-worker quickly gave me everything I needed, and I was on my way again, this time looking out for a chemist – which took much longer than it ought to have, oddly enough. My 'system' involved walking until something told me to turn onto a different street – at one time i crossed the road just because I was passing a green pedestrian traffic light, and it seemed a waste not to use it! Shortly thereafter I was in a chemist, explaining to the immigrant worker with poorer-English-than-I-was-in-the-mood-for that I needed the photo to be American-size, not standard-European. The photo shoot was brief, despite my tendency to strain the photographer's patience by taking the same photo again and again, but hey – it does cost €8, you may as well get your money's worth! The first snap was fine by me – I just wanted him to print it as soon as possible, and I took to filling out my forms while I waited.

Here comes petty crime #2 – I stole a pen from the pharmacy. After it dawned on me that I had left my inscription device in the dodgy internet café, I asked to borrow a pen from my photographer friend, with no intentions of ever returning it. I could have blatantly said “I'm stealing your pen, and you will never see it again, you arse-faced rapscallion”, and he'd have nodded in solemn understanding; such was his grasp of the language. The prints eventually came out, and I was quite confounded when I looked at them. The picture was 2”x2”, which was what I want, but in the middle of 6”x6” photo-paper! Knowing the embassy would turn me away with the slightest excuse, I asked him to cut them to size by making a scissors motion with my fingers, all the while hoping it was an obscene gesture in Poland.

My paperwork all gathered, it was time to head out to the embassy and chance my luck. After availing of the taxi-driver's sympathetic ear a little, I again attended to filling my forms, giving very vague answers to the ridiculous questions I was being asked. When asked for a complete list of every country I had been in for the past 10 years, I actually forgot to put down the USA or Canada (along with about 14 others). I sat across the road for the embassy for some minutes answering these inane queries before approaching the security box.


How to Blag Your Way into A Country

Despite only happening six days from the time of writing, I don't quite remember the exact dialogue, but I started by asking the guard if I could talk to the NIV-Chief, unaware of what the acronym even stood for, only using it because the woman on the phone earlier had told me I'd need to talk to him. I briefly explained my story to the nonplussed sounding guard, knowing that he would be a mere stepping stone leading to greater things. He told me to come back on Friday for my appointment, as he couldn't leave me into the building any earlier than that, but I implored him to let me speak to someone. The conversation awkwardly took place through a six-inch, possibly bulletproof glass via an intercom at stomach height – which I had to hunch over and press my ear against to hear anything over the sounds of traffic, and it was at this time that he stepped away from the intercom and picked up the phone and spoke about six words before coming back to me.

“Somebody will come down and have a chat with you.”
Urk! A 'chat'? The strong sense of foreboding in his voice didn't put me at ease.

Sure enough, somebody came to the intercom and started talking to me, so I explained the story about the RMU International Office screwing me up. He looked at me in an almost disbelieving manner when I told him what they advised me, so I elaborated;
“Bear in mind that this is the same woman who admitted to me that she failed to register me with the Department of State.”
His jaw dropped. I continued.
“Now I'm not sure what that means exactly, but I'm sure...”
“It means you were living illegally in the States.”
“Right...”

To his credit, he seemed genuinely interested, and entirely sympathetic towards me, and he alluded to this when he said “I'd like to help you, but you should try going through the official channels first – send a fax to the Non-Immigrant Visa Chief...”
“I have sent a fax”
His eyebrow arched up.
“When?”
“Half hour ago maybe?” I crossed my fingers hoping Mike had pulled through.
He calls up to the office – they had it! Cheers, Mike!
“When's your flight?”
“Tomorrow”
“That sounds like an emergency to me! Only thing is, I'd like to help you, but we have a lot of paperwork requirements”
“I have paperwork”
He looks at me quizzically.
“Show me.”
I clumsily slap one form after another up against the glass as he hums and haws and remarks that the particular form is in order.
“Your forms are fine, but we'll also need a photograph”
“I have photographs”
“They have to be a special size”
“I have special size photographs”
“Show me”
I hold up my photographs and he sets up the next hurdle.
“All this is fine, but I'm afraid you're going to have to go to the bank again and get...”
“A bank draft? I got one – just in case.”
I had done everything just in case – and I'm quite glad I did, too.
“... I think that's everything... Yeah... Yeah, that's everything... Hang on a sec, will ya?”
He gets on the phone, and I'm starting to think I might actually have a 50-50 chance, but I become increasingly nervous when his conversation with the people upstairs goes past the two-minute mark. When he comes back to me, he takes my mobile phone number, tells me to not wander far, and he'll see what he can do.

As stated earlier, I don't know my way around Dublin, and the Embassy is far from any shops, or anything fun to do. So I paced. Ten minutes later I get a call, and I'm told to come back to the Embassy in 45 minutes and they'll process my Visa. Success!

Processing the Visa should have been a lot simpler than it was, but because of a problem on my record, a superior had to be sent for. He demanded to know why I didn't show up for school. I told him I didn't know what he was talking about. He said that he knew I entered the States in late August, and again in November, but didn't show up to school until the 24th of January, and wanted to know why I didn't show up at all. This is where I explain the story about the incompetent woman, and he can't believe that this woman has failed in one of her simplest duties.

When he said “This is going to make things complicated”, I didn't realise how much he meant, but more on that later. After asking me some more questions, trying to catch me out, seeing my student ID, and RMU debit card, he has me list all my classes, and all my grades from last semester. When I tell him “All 'A's”, he says “You have to be specific here – you do know I can bring up your transcript, right?” My cheery “Great! Does that count as proof that I was there?” takes the heat off his previous question, and the interrogative questions cease.

The rest of the process goes quite smoothly, until it's time to give my fingerprints. Seems the fingerprinting database was down that day – not only in Dublin, but in every American Embassy across the world. Knowing that other people are going through what I'm going through cushions the blow somewhat. We're advised if we wait around it may come back online. I choose to wait around. Since the MP3 player and mobile phone I had were confiscated at security as they posed a security hazard, I only have my imagination to entertain me... I took a nap instead. After three hours of sitting around, they throw in the towel and tell us to come in the following morning, or leave a self-addressed envelope and they'll send it as soon as it comes. I choose the latter, and call it a day. In fact, I believe I called it a bastard of a day.

The next job, of course, is to reschedule my flight. After talking, holding, and talking for 10 minutes, some Continental-Airlines jackass says “I'm going to put you on hold, Mr O'Sullivan, and cuts me off. I ring back, and am talking, holding and talking for 26 minutes, and finally sorting out my rescheduling, when I hear the tone alerting me that my credit is low. I ask the woman if she can ring me back – she can't. My phone cuts out, and again the Vodafone lady taunts me “You do not have enough credit to continue this call...”

Screaming “Son of a bitch” in a crowded Dublin street yields surprisingly few odd-looks, I've learnt. With no choice other than to top up my phone and try again, I top up my phone and try again. 20 minutes later, I'm $406.93 poorer, but I have a flight off the island.

Surely this story has a happy ending?

"Bored Stiff"

I'm writing a pretty terrible opinion-piece article for the RMU newspaper at the moment, a generic 'exchange-student-compares-home-school-with-exchange-school' type thing, and honestly, I was bored stiff writing it, so I'm curious as to how it reads to someone unaware of these differences.

The worst part of this endeavour was when I had the first draft finished, and I switched my Microsoft Word over to American English so I could spell-check and make everyting consistent with the bastardised English in the rest of the paper.

Here's the thing; I agree with some instances of those damn dirty yanks replacing 's' with 'z' (even if they call it 'zee' and not 'zed') and whatnot, but seriously - to spell 'travelling' as 'traveling' is just plain wrong.

I Can't be a Poet! I Don't Have a Middle Initial!

Wow.

I'm two weeks into the new semester already! To comemmorate this hugely momentous occasion, I thought I'd skim over the classes I'm taking. First is TV Production; which could turn out to be my favourite class ever, as I learn the technical and practical aspects behind producing a Studio-based TV show.

I'm taking a course on the History of the English Language, which is basically a literature class, but with the added incentive of being able to enthrall my friends by using words such as 'etymology', and enlightening them with exciting tales of how certain words and phrases came into everyday usage... (I wouldn't want to be my friend either)

I'm doing World Literature - typical literature class fare; I'll find a few texts enjoyable and forget the rest, hopefully broadening my horizons in the process. Last, and certainly not least; I'm taking Creative Writing, which takes a workshop approach; so my compositions will be evaluated by my fellow-scholars.

Interestingly enough, I have to compose a poem for Monday's session, which I find to be daunting. Those who know me are well aware that poetry is not for me, whether reading or composing. In my down time over the weekend (which probably won't be much) I'll probably scratch out a few rough drafts of a haiku; the professor has been quite gentle with this first assignment, as this type of poetry doesn't have to be long, and can be about pretty much anything, so it shouldn't be too challenging...

I don't think I'd make a good poet for the simple reason that I like to use language that gets my point across as bluntly and brutally as possible. I really don't like being open to interpretation, because people are invariably stupid, and read into things that shouldn't be read into; but that's where people get a lot of enjoyment from poetry, isn't it?

It's noteworthy pointing out that there's some Emo kid (who the hell is still Emo when they're in college?) and he's more than willing to jump in front of the class and read us his poetry that rhymes "castration" with "masturbation" and then follows it up with "starvation"... He reads this deep, profound material (that's sarcasm) from an expensive looking diary type book that he probably writes terrible emo-lyrics in...

Hey, who knows? If I write something that I like, I might even post it in here, provided it isn't something dangerously introspective, or completely moronic... Although, if it is moronic for the sake of amusing myself, it may well grace this webpage before too long!

Just for the sake of adding a splash of colour to the page, here's a picture of me skulking around in the background at 21st birthday party I recently attended.

Some Differences

As promised the other day, I thought I'd write up what I observed in terms of noteworthy differences between RMU and UL's way of educating the Sully. I will stress the point that I'm comparing one University with another, and these are not expected to reflect on either country as a whole!

So I suppose I'll start with the most important bit; the classes themselves. At RMU, the students are responsible for selecting and registering for their own classes, many of which are dictated by their major; their other selections are what they're most interested in. New Media and English in UL (my course of study) is quite rigid, and one is lucky to choose between two electives (opting for the lesser of two evils in many cases). This semester, the courses I picked were Study of Rhetoric, General Psychology, Audio & Radio Production, and Writing for the Media. Picking the courses myself helped a great deal in keeping me interested in what I was doing, and it also reflects my strong interest in writing and general media production – in a sense, what I was studying here is what I hoped New Media and English would be.

The timetables are organised in such a way that you have 50 minute classes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and Tuesday and Thursday classes weigh in at 75 minutes each. There are also 150 minute night classes once a week, of which I took one. This timetable system is nice – instead of having to commit a five day timetable to memory, you need only worry about two days. Not a deal-maker, sure, but it's appreciated! Furthermore, there were no tutorials, but rather the University offered a free Tutoring service to any students that needed it.

The classes I had were much smaller affair than what I'm used to at UL. I'm pretty sure that there wasn't a class that had more than 25 students in a traditional class-room style setting, which made for a more intimate learning environment than UL's large lecture halls. Every teacher knew my name. In fact, most teachers knew everybody's name, which again, is nice. I got on better with all four of my lecturer's than I have any lecturer at UL. This can be partly attributed to the fact that I'm the novelty foreign exchange student who has a wildly different take on certain matters, but is moreso because of the interest the lecturers seem to take in their students. In Rhetoric class in particular, there was a class discussion almost every day, and while many weren't quite as incendiary as I'd have liked, from the perspective of a foreigner, it was a great way to see some of the crazy things that people think and say here. The lecturers are generally more accessible, which is good and bad – good because approaching them outside of class times is a casual affair, and speaking up in class is never an issue, it's also bad because of the amount of arse that some people waste the lecturer's time with during class.

One thing I didn't like at first was that there was a lot of homework given. I don't mind homework, but when it's as inconsequential as some of what I was asked to do this semester, I begin to consider it busywork. Granted, there were no crippling amounts of work asked by any one lecturer, but my sloppy time management saw everything piling up at once, so once every week I'd stay up late working on clearing the backlog. This 'a-little-and-often' approach is actually a nice idea, as having to write one to three short essays a week is much nicer than what often happens back home, with (at times) unrealistic amounts of readings being prescribed as homework, with one major essay/project due in a semester; all of which seem to collide.

The assessment here is fair. Like I said; 'a-little-and-often' is the name of the game. The hefty essays I've had to write in UL often amount to 40-50% of my grade, with the rest sitting on a single exam. Two opportunities to show what you're capable of is a piss-poor system, in my opinion. Continual assessment involves less stress for all involved, and also assists the learning process, in my opinion.
I've never received the kind of positive appraisal I get here. My Writing for Media lecturer told me I should be a writer, my Radio-Production lecturer wanted me to submit an editorial piece to the Pittsburgh Post Gazette, and my Rhetoric lecturer praised every essay on the occasions we spoke after class, with simple statements like “I really like how you...” really compelling keep doing better.

I think I'll talk about the 'social' aspects of college life and other matters such as housing arrangements for another day, because I don't like these posts to get too hefty, but it'll be here soon, and roughly 15% less mind-numbingly boring!