Save Yourself

I implore you, dear reader, do not hesitate to act on what you are about to read, for your very life may hang in the balance.

Whilst looking at the weather on Met Eireann's website, a small notice caught my eye.



Blight? Where have I heard of that before? Oh yeah...



For those few of you who are still on the Island, reading this, I urge you to flee as far away from the emerald isle as your potato-powered legs can take you.

Me? I'll be in Bulgaria, riding out the famine. I might return with supplies sufficient enough for us to rebuild, repopulate, and move onwards; I might return with some piss-poor blog entries and some shoddily taken photographs... Maybe a little from column A, a little fro-.......

Okay, it'll be entirely from Column B.

Sully's Soapbox: Political Correctness

[Mario Party 8 Recalled due to disability slur]

Christ.

The GAME retail chain has recalled the seemingly innocent Mario Party 8 mere hours after its release, citing the fact that the game contains "a swear word" as the reason.

For years now, I’ve been growing increasingly fed-up with notions of political correctness, and I have to say, this one takes the biscuit. Recalling a chart-topping kid’s game because the word ‘spastic’ is featured in single line of dialogue? Madness! Why are people so easily offended all of a sudden? The fact that Nintendo UK felt they had to resort to such a drastic, expensive measure to safeguard against ‘concerned’ members of the public, looking to retard the growth of the Video-game industry troubles me a great deal.

As a person with a deep and genuine appreciation for the English language, who takes personal offence to seeing ‘texting language’ used in inappropriate forums, I feel compelled to point out the factors at play here that genuinely upset me.

The word was used in context. I don’t care how much of a niggard you are when it comes to freedom of expression, regardless of how much a word sounds like something offensive, or can be construed into something offensive; (a queer affliction brought about by (ab)users of a language), if it’s used in its original context, it’s fair game.

The English version of this game was translated in America. Are we suddenly unaware of language variations between cultures, despite years of hearing the word ‘fanny’ (a crass colloquialism for the female genitalia here on the British Isles) from imported media? Children and adults alike have been listening to it for years from the likes of trusted family entertainment sources such as Sabrina the Teenage Witch and The Simpsons, and probably since before the Flintstones. Why the double standard?

The intent to offend simply wasn’t there! If the game featured a person with cerebral palsy, and that character was the recipient of the ‘spastic’ label, then maybe I can understand the reaction, but as an instruction to make a train wobble? Good grief!




The underlying issue I’ve had with matters of political correctness all along is the fact that it’s complete and utter bullshit. All of it. Switching to euphemisms doesn’t do anybody any favours. I find it more insulting that a person who is crippled has to be labelled ‘disabled’, or ‘differently-abled’. One implies outright uselessness, the other is just condescending. Cognitively disabled? Please. Look up the meanings for 'retard' and 'disabled; - which has a more positive connotation? Having to stay within the confines of political correctness is also an exercise in futility, as the shifting paradigms make navigating the linguistic minefield more hassle than it’s worth. The end result; people are less likely to talk about 'real' matters amongst their peers, for fear of causing offense.

Language is a technology, people – we need it to communicate, and though it we identify concepts, and no matter how many times we keep re-labelling the concepts, it doesn’t matter, because these new labels become offensive in time. This isn’t just my radical thinking, either – look at this Wikipedia article on the Euphemism-treadmill to get a more comprehensive insight as to what I’m whining about.

Can we just stop with the controversies? Can we stop being so ridiculously sensitive? Not just with regards to euphemisms, but also a healthy respect for the flexibility of language?

Ireland’s Taoiseach (‘Prime Minister’ to our overseas friends) was the subject of a great deal of negative attention, with people calling out for his resignation (bear in mind he was only just re-elected) because he made a ‘suicide joke’. When I conversed with some of my friends about it, they were quick to denounce the act without even a loose idea of what the word was used in relation to. This is what Bertie said during an address to the Irish Congress of Trade Unions conference;

Sitting on the sidelines, cribbing and moaning is a lost opportunity. I don't know how people who engage in that don't commit suicide because frankly the only thing that motivates me is being able to actively change something

If that offended you just now, stop; slow down, read it again. It’s completely innocuous. This as an affirmation by a public figure that he has the positive energy and the drive to push forward and make things happen, and says that those who idly moan need to take a more aggressive approach.

He did not say ‘I think suicide is funny.’ Nor did he did not say ‘I think people who commit suicide are stupid’. He did not say ‘I have no sympathy for those who have lost loved ones to suicide.’ Those meanings were harvested by those looking for a reason to be upset, and shame on the media for entertaining these people and their warblings.

I’m aware that this has dragged on about 500 words longer than it ought to have, and it wouldn’t have killed me to organise my thoughts before putting my hands on the keyboard, but my final plea to anyone who reads this is; please stop sucking the joy out of the English language. Please stop making certain phrases taboo for the sake of it. To be offended by the label attached to a concept is so abstract it’s absurd.

Let’s turn our backs on these black days, pay no heed to the chinks in the chain, and.... Okay – you see what I’m doing here, yes?

Life’s too short, let's just enjoy our language.

Agree? Disagree? I want to hear about it!

Smooth Ride?

Following up from Friday's post about the impending driving test, and in response to those who have asked about how it went, I submit the following image.



This sign greeted me from the closed shutters at the test centre.

Quite the minor inconvenience. I'm still waiting to get my test rescheduled, but the super-nice people on the RSA helpline told me that I was 'top of the list', and apologised profusely for the minor annoyance caused.

I saw the bright side; the cancelled test meant I got to go see an earlier showing of Transformers!

Win Sully's boughten love!

My humblest of apologies if you've noticed the dearth of posts on the blog over the last two weeks. The past fortnight has been brimming with activity, but not quite blog-worthy stuff - I have a few rants to upload, but with every passing day they are becoming less relevant, which quells the desire to get it off my chest!

My biggest news is my 'new' car; the feat of German engineering ingenuity known as the Volkswagen Polo. A '98 Volkswagen Polo, to be precise... With rust patches. And, as of tonight; a broken driver's seat (it just leans to the left - no biggie). Despite my initial misgivings with the vehicle, such as the lack of power-steering, its 'snack-size' stature, and the fact that it's sporting a miniscule 1 litre Petrol engine, I'm starting to warm to it.



I've found myself growing fond of the little Polo that could (seriously, you try hauling my ass up a hill), partly because of the fact that for once in my life, I am small and maneuverable. I've spent most of my life as a person 'heftier than most', and consider myself more of a hulk of clumsiness than a deft, maneuverable mass of matter. That changes when I'm on the road now, and it's nice to get a taste of being the little guy, particularly after the past week, in which I spent more time on dodgy country roads than I ever have, and the extra breathing room makes those ditch-mounting moments of driving on Irish roads less frequent.

This car and I are quickly developing a rich and storied history together. Like the time when we were the victims of some crazy asshole's road rage (basically - he was completely in the wrong, and I alternated between belittling and swearing at him until he backed off), or that time....... Okay... So far, we only have one story, but there'll be others!

The bottom line is, I'm starting to enjoy this vehicle, and I've decided to give it a name. Only problem with this initiative is that I'm utterly devoid of imagination. The last automobile I drove was brilliantly titled "The Sully-Van" [geddit?] by this classy lady, and I'm not expecting anything to live up to this level of aptness, but I want you to name my car!

It's small, it's green, and it's driven by someone who doesn't fit comfortably into it! Post your suggestions in the comments, [no registration necessary] and the winner will forever bask in the glory of knowing that he/she Christened my means of locomotion! Alright - there'll also be a prize... Not sure what, but I'll think of something worthwhile! So there you have it! A gin-u-wine competition! I'll put the best suggestions on a poll, and then we can begin the democratic process of giving my car the stupidest name on the list!

In other news, I'm taking my driving test tomorrow - by the time you read this, I'll probably have already commenced the process of drowning my sorrows in a big box of popcorn as I watch Transformers!

Coiffeurphobic

Last Thursday, while navigating my way through a low door-frame, I heard the familiar rustling of hair on wood, prompting me to go for my quarterly shearing.

Being in a somewhat lazy mood, I went to the local barber, despite being advised to take my custom elsewhere.

After a long wait reading women's magazines (it was either that or the brain-numbing simplicity of perusing The Sun), and just after I had put down a fascinating article by Enrique Iglesias in which he proclaims he has a large penis, it was my turn on the chopping block.

Without going into tedious details, let me just tell you that his heart wasn't in it. As I watched him in the mirror, he didn't seem to be looking at what he was doing while he buzzed around with the razor. The scissors cut was devoid of the traditional smirk-inducing 'one snip of hair for every three snips of air', and he somehow managed to make the sideburns on the left side of my head a good inch and a half higher than the right.

I'd still go back to him again though.

Why?

He was quite happy to cut away in silence, and made no effort to talk to me.

Best conversation with a barber I've ever had.

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!

Typical

Oh dear, oh dear.

Seems UL’s status as an equal-opportunities employer welcomes would-be employees with open arms, regardless of their gender, creed, ethnicity, or zoology.

I got a letter from one of UL’s many administrative chimps today, informing me politely that I had failed out of college, because my ‘cumulative performance to date does not meet the minimum academic standards.’

“Hang on a tick”, I thought to myself, what’s going on here? I read on:

The Academic Council Grading Committee has decided that you cannot proceed to the next year of your programme until you have brought your academic performance to the required standard… They recommend that you Repeat Year 3 New Media and English.

“Bollocks,” I was thinking - “guess my grades from the US didn’t get a good exchange rate.”

The letter advised that under ‘extenuating circumstances’ I ‘may appeal to the Student Status Committee for a review of [my] case […] on Wednesday July 11th.'

I decided a look at the accompanying ‘Student Residual Transcript’ was in order, and that’s when I saw it. And remembered. This is UL. The University of Limerick. The reason other colleges and universities refer to their administrative blunders as ’pulling a UL’. Those damn dirty apes made no reference to the second semester I spent studying abroad and instead had me enrolled in four classes I was at least 4000 miles away from at all times.

For the time being, I am a college-flunkie, by default. Much like I was once an enemy of the United States, by default. At this rate, I’m expecting to be declared legally dead by the time I’m thirty and come home from work someday to find the bank auctioning off my house.

Assuming of course, that I ever own a house, seeing as I’m now a college-dropout.

"Vanilla-Sully"

Lately, it's come to my attention that there is an unsettling split in my personality. This alter-ego rears its head quite infrequently, and as of late, the occurrences follow a common trend:

I am a different person during air-travel.

Startling as such a proclamation may be, its veracity becomes apparent after even casual scrutiny. Travelling-Sully's temperament is wildly different than that of regular Sully. Travelling-Sully is paranoid; he spends the hours before the flight sweating a nervous sweat, fearing that the US Department of Homeland Security is going to bust him for no good reason.

Travelling-Sully is thoughtful, he wanders around the airport gift-shop, searching for novelty items for anyone who springs to mind; whereas Vanilla-Sully deems the pursuit of shoddily assembled, overpriced knick-knacks as a heinous waste of time. Not only that, but Travelling-Sully is courteous to a disconcerting degree, delighting in the opportunity to show off the extent of his manners. Every request is buttressed with “Excuse me, I hope you don't mind but could you...?”. Even the frequent occurrence of walking past a person on the plane prompts a tirade of 'I do beg your pardons' and 'I'm terribly sorry sirs'. Classic-Sully likes to save his breath.

Not convinced yet? Travelling-Sully gets so excited about the crappy meal on the plane that he can't sleep. Yes, the soggy mess that comes in the foil container, accompanied by stale, communion-wafer-tasting 'I Can't Believe It's Not Rock' bread, covered with jam of a lower viscosity than water, and cheese that can only be described as 'something that was squeezed out of one of the stewardesses and then curdled'. I know that airline food is rank, you do too, but would somebody explain that to Travelling-Sully? It seems that this splinter-personality avails of different taste buds than I do.

He beams at the choice: “Beef or Chicken?”, furrowing his brow in deep contemplation before spitting out an answer at random; so excited that he can't think straight. Delighted by the elaborate three-course spread that sits on the 20x30cm tray before him, he restrains himself just enough to eat the courses in their intended order, as if to do otherwise would upset the airline chef. After an epic struggle with the bread that claimed the serrated edge of his pathetic plastic knife, he finally cuts his dinner-roll in half, and sets about spreading the butter, feeling oh-so-incredibly intelligent for melting it a little by placing it under the piping hot container the 'main course' arrived in. Once he's done breaking his teeth on that, he picks up the generic brand of cracker that has soaked up more rivers than global warming, and fumbles around for the cheese that the elderly women on the plane are paring down and remodelling as a replacement for their dentures.

Once the remaining slop has been shovelled down, Travelling-Sully gleefully eats the token dessert offering of a muffin made from recycled styrofoam, plops the stamp sized mint into his gob, and sits back, satisfied, the only remaining excitement he has to look forward to the 'test-your-might' game at the luggage-claim carousel...

Take That Jocelyn Nova!

This one won't make much sense unless you were here for Thursday's post, but that's okay, because I've squashed the person who was stealing my content like the insect that they were!

The site that was leeching posts from this blog, and dozens of others has been taken down, and a notice advertising this is all that remains. I was alerted to this by a seven-word e-mail from a Mark @ Wordpress, mere hours after I sent my complaint! What service, eh?

This makes me happy because it means that less people are likely to be diverted to that site than to my own from search engines (not that I get a whole pile from search engines anyway). But what it does mean is that I have secured the top spot for 'Sluttily Attired' searches on Google!



Anyway... Here's a 'real' post!

What the @&$#??

I've been robbed!

Kinda. Being curious as to how the Cartridge World poster would have found the blog, I decided to see if a Google Search for 'Cartridge World' turned up any results, followed by 'Cartridge World is Stealing From Me'. Oddly enough, it worked, but linked directly to an earlier blog.

I googled the title, 'Sluttily-Attired', and lo and behold, what was the number one result? My post. Only not my website!



Look familiar?

The misappropriated text is available here for now, if you're curious, but I intend on getting it removed, it's just a matter of how...

But kudos to me for 'coining' a real-sounding word/phrase that appears at the top of the google search, eh?

Egregious Emotional Ejaculation, Anyone?

It seems that May was my worst month of blogging, certainly in terms of quantity, and more than likely in terms of quality. The reason I'm writing less is because I have less to write about! So prepare yourself for some self-indulgent, self-reflective rambling!

---

I'm in a long distance relationship. This isn't something I'm proud to admit. Long distance relationships made no sense to me whatsoever, until of course, I found someone worth the hassle. Despite having found this noteworthy person, I still feel a twinge of shame admitting that I was unable to find someone tolerable, let alone loveable on my own island.

I can recall vividly a class I had when I was fifteen years old. For forty minutes a day, two times a week, over the course of a school year, the teachers would try to scare us off recreational drug use, exploiting every trick in the book. Attempts ranged from the anecdotal (“I remember a nice young student whose life was ruined by...”), to the pseudo-scientific (“you're not actually having a good time on drugs, you just think you are”), all the way to the utterly inane (“Jesus doesn't want you to use drugs. And God only allows drugs on earth to challenge you not to take them”). One of the techniques I'm reminded of by my relationship is a diagrammatical representation of a junkie's ups and downs:

The premise was that when the junkie got his drugs, he would hit a high – that would be the peak on the chart, but then he'd come down from his high, and the line would drop to halfway. The line would spike up again when he got his next fix, but not as high as before, and the resulting fall in his demeanour would send him lower than before, until eventually our junkie friend is trying to score just to not feel miserable. This buzzword-heavy message was delivered with such a grave sense of urgency from this authority figure that we feared that we might get caught up in any 'vicious cycle', and the over-simplification of the issue was eclipsed by its seeming sincerity.

So what should one expect then of a long-distance relationship? Imagine this; for the first time in weeks, or even months, you get an audience with your main squeeze. After weeks, (or even months) of her consisting of little more than a voice on a phone or text on a screen, you see her coming towards you in an airport arrivals lounge. You need a shave, your throat is scratchy from the strange air on the plane, you're in dire need of some hair gel and your entire body smells like your socks. Of course, you'd prefer to play it cool, because you're a stoic git, but instead, you're smiling like a child on Christmas morning because you see her, and that grin only begins to fade once your cheeks begin to ache under its strain. The weeks and months you have just invested into text on a screen, or that voice on a phone make total sense now. It is in these moments that you have never been more thankful for your senses of smell, touch, and sight because what was once less than tangible is now real flesh and bones before you! You are intoxicated by the sheer novelty of being in her presence. It occurs to you that you too are trapped in a vicious cycle, but unlike your hypothetical junkie friend, with the transience of time you find that the highs get higher and the lows tolerable.

Okay, so that's obviously my personal take on it, but I'm sure it's true of most people who don't get to spend as much time with their sweetheart as they'd like. I just got back from two weeks in Wisconsin where I maintained a constant, borderline ridiculous proximity to my lady-friend at all times. The only break we got from one another was during our respective trips to the bathroom. Looking back on it, I'd even be inclined to say I walked fewer steps on my own than I did while hand in hand with her (obviously, walking in tandem is one of the clumsier methods of locomotion, but when trying to engorge oneself on as much physical contact possible, I think volunteering such minor details makes sense).

You won't ever hear me using the cliché “absence makes the heart grow fonder”. Not only because of my aversion to trite sayings, and not because it's an insult to the absentee, but because it simply isn't true. I had more than one friend ask me if I'd recommend a long-distance relationship, as if I had complied a list of pros and cons to make the matter easily digestible. I could never recommend that somebody seek out a long-distance relationship, especially given the hassles involved, but I cannot stress enough that if you find somebody worth holding onto, that you do whatever it takes to hold onto them.

---

Yech – that seemed an awful lot like sentimentality, didn't it? I'm new to this whole 'emotions' thing, and I find it quite sickening, so please, berate me as appropriate on the comments section.

One From the Road - Procuring a Telecommunications Device

The frequency of which mundane things rapidly and unnecessarily escalate into something more ‘interesting’ has convinced me that my life should be on television.

But not reality television, obviously, that’d just be dumb. When I speak of televising my little misadventures, I envision it as a kind of spectator sport, where awkward social interactions are analysed, commented on and become a thing that can be won or lost.

I suppose you’ll be wanting an example then? How about this one - after a disastrous day of travel, I found myself stranded in Philadelphia, as my connecting flight to Minneapolis had been cancelled. My phone was dead, and my charger was in the luggage that I had no access to. I needed to call the people on the other side to let them know of my predicament. I also had to join the 60+ people (60 as in quantity, not age) in the queue for customer services, so alternate arrangements could be made.

- A bit of a slow start from the offence here, John, he seems to be stalling at the back of the line.
- He’s biding his time, Tim, it looks as though he’s looking to infiltrate the conversation in front of him.
- Well caught, John - wonderful tactics from this newcomer from Ireland - but need to be on top of his game to get into this three-way conversation.
- So long as he can neutralise Suited Businessman, Fat Blonde Woman and Young Blonde Woman shouldn’t pose much of a threat - remains to be seen how though, they’ve noticed him and if he stays much longer he’ll be blocked out for good.

“Hi - excuse me, you wouldn’t have the time would you?”
- He’s gone for the oldest-conversation starter in the book!
- He’ll have to be careful here Tim, that cliché might start a conversation, but he’ll have to have a good follow-up to keep it afloat. Suited Businessman is going for his watch:
“Yeah - it’s seven thirty-five”
“Cheers - I don’t know because my phone has died and that’s normally how I know these things…”
- Did you see that? Masterful play from the Irish offence. Did you hear that “cheers” John? He’s playing to his strengths and capitalising on his Irishness - no American woman can resist that.
- I sure did, Tim - but he’s also succeeded in announcing his problem - they’re now aware that he needs a phone.
- He has to act fast - if he asks for a phone now, they’ll consider him rude, and this young ambassador for his country isn‘t willing to risk reflecting poorly on his people. He’ll have to make some polite conversation first.
- The trouble with polite conversation is, it gives the defence a chance to bolster their excuses, and shut him out entirely. Wait - he’s making his move.
“So where are you guys trying to go?”
- Very nice! He’s got them all talking - what do you think here, John?
- Well, I think Suited Businessman presents the only threat here - notice how Fat Blonde Woman is nattering away - her guard is down. Young Blonde Woman is also laughing at his quips, but she seems more suspicious of him. Suited Businessman seems to resent the very fact that he is being talked to.
-Good analysis there, John - Fat Blonde Woman has finally shut up about her nephew’s birthday party, and the ball in back in O’Sullivan’s court - let’s see what he’s got up his sleeve?

“Well, I was wondering if I’d be able to borrow a phone from one of you? I need to ask my friends in Minneapolis where I should go, since I don’t know anyone in Philadelphia.”
- And they’re off! All just turned to Suited Businessman - what does he have to say for himself?
“I’d like to, but this is a business phone, sorry”
- Steely defense John! You’d know he’s done this before!
- A great parry alright, he’s deflected the question onto Young Blonde Woman with that subtle turn of his head - the man’s a professional.
“Sure….”
- Hang on - she’s taken out her phone, but she’s clicking buttons? What’s going on here John?
- It looks as though she’s buying herself time Tim - her furrowed brow gives away her thought process.
“I’m sorry - I’m not getting any service”
- It took a while to get that out of her, but O’Sullivan finds himself rejected again - All his hopes rest on Fat Blonde Lady, and here comes her offering:
“I’m sorry - I’m… I’m way over my minutes. I mean, I’d like to, but… My minutes….”
- Cracks are showing in the defense here - let’s see what O’Sullivan does to counter this blow.

-He’s not saying anything! Good play from O’Sullivan! He’s picked up on her nervous stammering, knowing full well that she’ll concede defeat in the face of an awkward silence!

“Well, if you really need it, I guess you can make a quick call…”

-He’s done it! O’Sullivan has taken the phone, and he is proceeding to dial the number. The Irish clinching a crucial victory, mere moments before deadline.
-Well, Until next time, I’m John Thompson, he’s Tim Johnson, and this is Mountains out of Molehills - goodnight!

Cartridge World is stealing from me

Okay, maybe not - that is quite an allegation, but three out of three times that I've gone to Cartridge World and presented them with more than one ink cartridge for refilling, at least one of them is never seen again.

Today at work, the fax machine started whining that it needed ink, and while searching for a replacement in the office, I found another one that had been spent. emblazoned with a 'Refilled at Cartridge World' sticker. Seeing as this world of cartridges was just across the street, I thought paying them a visit made perfect sense.

Something about that place just isn't right. After entering, I'm presented with a foreboding door marked 'Private' to my left, and a glass door to the right leading into an empty room with a few cartridges and a cash-register. After strolling through into this vacant space, a bell dings, summoning a minion from the secret lab that lays beyond the secret door.

Scruffy-Beared-Minion takes my cartridges and tells me to come back in a half hour, and I am only too happy to comply. I return to the empty room at the prescribed time to collect my two cartridges, but this time I am greeted by Chunky-Blonde-Minion. She hands me one ink cartridge, and apologetically tells me that the other isn't printing 'finely enough', as an unusually well-cued flash of lightning illuminates the room. After asking for an explanation and essentially getting the same sentence, repackaged with extra sincerity, I find the conversation has hit a wall; calling only for a confused thanks and farewell.

I left without the other cartridge. The other cartridge that had previously been filled at Cartridge World...

I have three theories:

1. The woman was telling her truth, the cartridge was unfit for giving to a customer, and company policy cares enough about the environment so as to dispose of discarded cartridges in an eco-friendly manner.

2. The woman was lying! Her job at the company is to lie to and steal from customers, so they can sell the refilled cartridge to another sucker that costs the organisation mere cents! Think of the profits involved!

3. Cartridge World kept the cartridge. Last time they filled it, they placed a recording device and an x-Ray camera to spy on the company, and our secrets are being harvested from the high-tech device as I type. Soon, they will have compiled enough information on all of their customers to begin blackmailing and generally taking over the world in an evil fashion...

Which do you think is most likely?

Hooked on Phonics

So I'm back in the land of Saints and Scholars (that'd be Ireland then, for anyone not familiar with that particular idiom), and what an interesting return it is indeed! After an utterly painless flight (well, I had some issues with the moron in front who leaned her seat back onto my knees – but that's hardly worthy of discussion), I found myself standing at the baggage carousel in Shannon, where the first strains of an Irish accent battered my ears for the first time in quite a while.

It is here I realised that to me at least, the Irish accent is filth.

Don't get me wrong though, I don't mean 'filth' as something I would rather not be marred by, but rather the kind of filth that I want to strip naked and belly-flop into, smearing it over my arms, legs and face, feeling the sheer dumb fun of it covering my every extremity as I wallow in the slop.

After months of speaking in an augmented, slightly neutered accent that was gentle on colloquialisms for the sake of being understood by my American brethren, I was worried that I would grapple to get back into the swing of things. When my father picked me up at the airport on Thursday morning, and the use of my voice was necessary, I was reluctant to dive right into the intimidatingly thick bog of linguistic incongruities that is the mid-western dialect. I dipped my toe in, (figuratively speaking of course) by initially slurring my 's' sounds into a 'shhh', and beginning a few sentences with “Ah shur...” (it should be 'sure', but that's no fun). I was careful of course, not to overdo it, for fear my father suspect I was overcompensating to hide any American accent I could have picked up (God forbid!).

By Friday night, my reticence had utterly dissipated, and I was revelling in the simple, inexplicable joy that is talking with passion. Entering a room and saying “Hello everyone” was out of the question. “Howrya dewin' ladssh?” was the greeting of choice. I was unable to reply to a single statement without the prefix “Ah shurr Jaysus...”. Every sentence was a partially digested mish-mash of syllables that were chewed up and spat out as appropriate. “I don't know” became “Ah dunno”, “yes please” was now “shurr why not?”. There wasn't a phonetic construction that wasn't at least heavily splattered by the 'filth' I took such delight in splashing around in.

I'm not quite putting on an Irish accent any more than I was 'putting on' a neutral dialect while Stateside, (and my Pittsburgh friends will vouch that even the 'neutrality' cracked now and again), so I don't want any mid-western Irish people whining at me for slagging the mellifluousness of our Hiberno-English, but rather I want this entry to serve as testament to the fact that I missed it, and look forward to immersing myself in it some more!

At Least my Luck is Consistent!

I'm cursed. If you have any fears about air-travel, such as your bags being lost, or your plane nose-diving into a mountain, check if I'm on the plane, and if so, get the hell off.

For the second time in eight months, I'm travelling light because another airline has lost my luggage. F#&@ers.

I had an utterly heinous day of travelling, and here's a first; I don't feel like talking about it. There's no way to distil the hugely complicated, utterly convoluted day into an easily-digestible blog entry that accurately reflects the hassles I endured, so I'll throw a few highlights at you.

Both of my flights were cancelled, and I had to convince the powers-that-be to let me on similar flights, or, in the case of my flight to Minneapolis, convince them to send me to Milwaukee instead.

My $20 phone died, and in my packing frenzy, I had somehow managed to put the charger and spare battery into the luggage that was on some godforsaken plane to some godforsaken place. I had to beg for the use of a mobile phone from random people. Some were nice. Some were not.

I blagged my way to front of many lines, discovering along the way that white people are seemingly more than willing to relinquish their place in line if the Arab behind him isn't.

I was that guy you see at airports who you see running past randomly. On two occasions I had to barrel through two terminal buildings, heavy electronics-filled backpack swaying, as I ducked and dodged between travellers, pirouetted away from small children that I saw at the last nanosecond, bounded up escalators and through walkways, and vaulted over old ladies by the dozen.

Anyway, I'm going to leave you with this picture and call it a day.

The Hardest Part is Saying Goodbye...

As my studies at RMU have come to a close, I've had to leave my dorm, and all that I hold dear behind...



It won't be the same without you...

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?)

Sully's Poetry Corner

My computer reliably informs me that it's April 16th as I write this. I have 11 days left in Pittsburgh, meaning I have to get my academic affairs in order. This doesn't give me much to write about, but seeing as I am currently filling a portfolio with poetry (among other things) for my Creative Writing class, I thought I'd give you an insight as to how it's going.

Bedtime Story

Once upon a time,
In a land not so far away,
There was a tavern,
And in this tavern there was a princess,
With beautiful golden hair down to her shoulders,
And a young prince did look upon her and say,
“I wonder if the carpet matches the drapes”

They didn't live happily ever after.

Real posts coming soon, I promise!

My 'Happily Ever After'

Like most great stories, there was a definite uncertainty as to what the outcome of mine would be.

Our hero, robbed of his riches and stripped of his dignity, was then struck with a mysterious ailment to further confound matters. His valour prevailed against the tides of fate, and our protagonist persevered through fatigue and discomfort to realise his noble intentions... It's 2007 – unlabelling yourself a terrorist and getting $421.93 is as noble an endeavour as one can aspire to these days!

As foretold in the prophecies, the e-mail arrived early this week:



I was made aware of this through the President of Academic Affairs; Larry, as the woman in the international office didn't want to be the one to deliver me the good news, for some reason. Larry also said

"sorry this happened, but please let Titi know you appreciate her efforts"

I tried – but it seems she's the begrudging type – she misinterpreted my sliver of gratitude as an invitation to take swipes at me, so of course I made her understand that my 'thanks' stemmed from the relief that her incompetence could be scrubbed from the record, after which I scurried out of there for fear she wasted any more of my time with her nincompoopery.

Since I'm an exchange student, I was invited to the International Farewell Party, in an e-mail typed (and signed) by Titi – but again, it was forwarded to me through one her minions, rather than sent directly! Needless to say, I probably won't be making an appearance at the party, for fear the music stops, and the glares start, and somebody ends up with a cocktail stick in the retina.

Getting back on track; once the issue of being on the Department of Homeland Security's Suspected Persons list had been resolved, I thought I'd see how the request to pay me back for the resulting expenditures was going down with the powers-that-be at RMU, which called for a trip to Larry's office.

"We're cutting you a cheque"

Great!

Well, actually, he said

"We're cutting you a check"

Damn Americans – they've no knack for flair with their language.

Language discrepancies notwithstanding, it was fantastic news, which I celebrated with a trip to the Sewickley Valley Hospital (it wasn't really a celebration, I just needed a segue). Unlike my last visit, where they sucked blood out of me like one would extract milk from a cow, I only had to fill four tubes with precious life-essence, and one cup of urine! This of course, was part of the doctor's orders to figure out my recent spate of sickness – why my red blood cells were low, and my piss red. Yeah – my piss was red. It should be a personal matter, but it may as well not be – when I went to the doctor to discuss the results with him, he talked about everything in the waiting area, in front of the other patients, and any fellow students who were checking their mailboxes right outside the open door – I didn't really care, but the illusion of privacy would be nice.

I'm getting a little side-tracked again – he said that whatever had been attacking my red-blood cells had stopped, but we had 'missed the boat' for a specific diagnosis – my fault, then, for taking a week longer to get to the hospital than I should have (but I had little time to – such is the amount of work I'm trying to catch up on here!).

If this were to be my last post from America, it would be a fitting one – I'd mount my steed (a Boeing 757, in this instance), decked in expensive finery, bought with my newfound wealth (um... reimbursed wealth), and return to from whence I came unhindered...

It's a pretty tenuous analogy, actually, so I'll just continue to post random crap about this American experience until I run out of steam or forget my Blogger password. Over the remaining two weeks of school, I'll be hard pressed to update during the week, so I'll probably still be talking about the States long after I return to Ireland, only by that stage, it'll be a heavily glorified, idealised version of where I hung my hat for those 8 or so months.

Hope you're looking forward to it.

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!

"Sluttily-attired"

The lack of colour on the blog as of late has troubled me somewhat, so I thought that I'd post some photographs and detail my St. Patrick's Celebrations in America.

First of all, I'm not really going to compare it to anything from Ireland, since the craziest St. Paddy's day I've ever had was pretty much a quiet drink with friends.

First and foremost; the Americans, in their infinite wisdom, have dubbed the day "St. Patty's Day" - much to the chagrin of an anonymous commenter on the blog, but it honestly doesn't bother me, as the 't' sound is said much like the 'd', and using the 't' from Patrick seems less arbitrary than... Alright, I'll stop now, I'm sure you catch my drift.


My usual foursome of friends and I made our way to the Delta Tau Delta frat house in Pittsburgh on the Friday before Patty's day- the building is here photographed the following morning behind my lovely assistant, Dan.

Somebody went to a lot of hassle to get these cans up here, hence their inclusion here.

Anyway, the party at the frat was pretty lame; by which I mean it wasn't quite my scene. For a number of my friends, however, the scene I am about to describe will sound like heaven. The festivities took place in a small area, filled to the brim with drunk, sluttily-attired girls, bumping and grinding to the loud R&B, while getting beers from the bar that were covered by their $10 entry-fee. The gender-ratio was definitely in favour of the males, but my two buddies on the pull failed to score female companionship with their half-hearted advances.

Thankfully, we didn't stay long at the party before retreating upstairs to frat boy Eddie's room. The building was laid out like a typical college dorm-type building, so think of halls filled with eight or so two-to-a-room bedrooms sharing a disgusting bathroom, and you're not far off what was experienced.

Everyone was content to hang around upstairs and drink, and we had a pretty fun night - the main event being the battle of the large-fingered-freaks, who wanted to settle once and for all who had the longest fingers.

Eddie and Tony square off in one of the oddest disputes I've seen in recent times - Eddie was crowned the victor for those interested

We slept in, and missed the parade, much to Eddie's disappointment, and took a bus to Wendy's (think McDonald's, but a hair more upmarket, and much tastier, in my humble opinion).


We spent a good two hours at Market Square, and along the way witnessed multiple examples of public urination, both male and female. Market square was a sea of green, with a great deal of people drunk beyond belief. People had their faces painted, or sported t-shirts claiming to be Irish.

There were a handful of port-a-potties dotted around the place, but nowhere near enough to satisfy the urinary needs of the assembled. It took ten minutes of poking from one restaurant to another before realising that every bathroom in Pittsburgh was 'out of order' for the day. Likely story. Rejected, I relieved myself, like a hundred others before me, and a thousand others after, between two wheelie bins next to a Starbucks.

That was really the only thing worthy of note at Market Square - eventually we got bored and wandered to Station Square, which had a much better atmosphere, owed in part to the band playing authentic Irish songs, which was nice. As the group of us walked deeper into the crowd, we came across a large circle, where people were watching some spectacle. Two drunken gentlemen were dancing around, much everyone's delight. I managed to get to the front of the crowd, and looked at one of the purveyors of this drunken revelry.

Dave?
Randomly enough, my roommate was one of the men at the centre of all this attention, and for fifteen minutes of so I watched him in hysterics as he stomped around like some crazed WWE wrestler, goading his drunken accomplice into repeatedly elbow-dropping his jacket on the hard ground. The picture above is one of maybe thirty or so, and despite the poor shot composition, best captures the mood.

That was my St. Patrick's day - pretty standard fare, from what I've been told. A public, seemingly-citywide day of debauchery, in which, insultingly, 'everybody is Irish' (by which they mean drunk), except, of course, the lone Irish kid.

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?

Seán O’Sullivan – Enemy of the State?

Right. It’s official. Nothing I do is ever simple. I cannot go for food, make a simple transaction in a shop, or get on an airplane without at least minor incident. My recent flight out from Pittsburgh to Shannon is great evidence of this, but first, more pressing issues.

The latest debacle? Being refused re-entry to the United States after my Spring Break at home in Ireland. I was hassled a little at the check in desk, but I informed them of the instruction I had been given by RMU’s International Office, and once they saw my Student ID, they let me check in. Customs weren’t quite as welcoming.

I’ve been through the process before, so when my handling officer stopped talking to me and furrowed his brow, I got a little worried. He asked me to follow him, which I did. He brought me to a small waiting area with an incredibly bothered looking 50-something year old, who looked up and asked “You too?” disdainfully. I shrugged, unsure of what we had in common, so I said “Yeah… Me too”. He springs on me “Are you politically active?”. Something about his demeanour told me he wasn’t sexually active. Ever. He is disappointed by my reply, and then talks about how he is on the ‘Suspected Persons’ list of the USA, because of his activism.

No sooner do I have time to think “Suspected Persons list? I might be in a spot of bother here”, than an Arab gentleman is escorted into the room, and sits on the far side of me. I am now sandwiched between two enemies of the state, and wondering why I qualify for an audience with them. Just after Mr. Activist gets escorted into the office, a Continental Airlines rep pokes her head in, and asks if we’re flying with her airline – I am, and I ask her what’s going on.
“Don’t worry” she says, “It’s probably that your name is the same as someone else”.
That really wasn’t very helpful, and now I’m more worried than I was before.

Eventually I’m called into the office myself, and told that my paperwork is not in order, so I can’t leave the country. I tell them I’m aware of the fact that my Visa was out of date, but the University reissued me with the form that shows I am their student, and advised me that this form was all I would need for re-entry.
“Whoever told you that was mistaken, sir”
“This woman’s job is to know emigration laws”
“This woman is incompetent, sir”

I took it very well. The Customs guy told me he had to make a quick call, so I asked if I could too and excused myself.

“Hi Dad? Remember how funny we said it’d be if they didn’t let me back into the country? Yeah… They’re not letting me back into the country – any chance of a lift home?”

Customs guy walked me through the airport to where I had to pick up my bag, and I have to say he was an agreeable sort. He told me that sorting this ‘paperwork issue’ would take a matter of hours, once the American Embassy opened on Monday, and I should be able to fly out on Tuesday. I postulated afterwards that he may have just said that to cushion the blow, and predicted that the Embassy would tell me I’d have to make an appointment, would squeeze me in on Thursday, would post the Visa on Friday, and I’d have it by Monday to travel Tuesday.

When it comes to such predictions, I generally hit the nail on the head. This one, unfortunately, was right on the money.

6.55am Monday morning, I was on the train to Dublin – armed with €42 phone credit, a pen, and an MP3 player to pass the time until the embassy opened so I could call them. The first representative listened to my story, then told me that I’d have to make an appointment – Thursday at the earliest. I implored her that I needed it today, to no avail – she told me I needed to send a fax requesting an emergency meeting. I told her that I didn’t carry a fax machine on me, so she advised “Maybe you can call the embassy – you’ll need to talk to the NIV-Chief.” So I called the Embassy, and I told the operator my story, and she transferred me to the same frigging number I’d just been onto! I hung up, and rang her back, said the same spiel again, and she, in the bitchiest fashion possible, said “Sir, I already transferred you to who you have to talk to.” In an equally bitchy fashion, I told her that I needed this today – she had heard my story, and I needed an emergency appointment. Here comes the fuel that feeds the fire;

“This isn’t an emergency as far as we’re concerned, Sir. [she really chewed on that ‘Sir’, as if her false-courteousness genuinely pained her] You cannot come any earlier than your appointment – I can transfer you to someone to make an appointment.”

A bit of exposition here; if somebody tells me I can’t do something that I need to do, I’m going to do it regardless. I don’t take kindly to being told what I can and can’t do, especially when the stakes are high (missing 6 days of class and a girlfriend visiting me in Pittsburgh on Monday are high stakes, alright?).

I got transferred, and told the earliest appointment was Thursday morning. I said I’d take it, gave her all the details she asked for, and then….. The phone cut out. The automated Vodafone lady’s voice has never been more taunting; “You do not have enough credit to continue this call. Please top up and try again later.”

Effin’ hell! €42 gone on phone credit between 8.30 and 9am? Sickened. I sat on the train for the next 20 minutes, pondering my next move – go home, sort out my paperwork and show up for my appointment? Or stay in Dublin, sort out my paperwork, and show up at the embassy uninvited?

I chose the latter.