"Über-Sceptical"

Okay, so my idea of getting back to this in a ‘day or two’ was somewhat optimistic, but at least the comments beat me to the punch!

Before I attempt to rationalise all this away, I should point out that while my back certainly still gives me trouble, that day saw a rather sudden improvement – up until that day, I had spent a rather unfun two or three months having to carefully deliberate whether to sit down or not, such was the discomfort involved. As you can imagine, it was a pretty miserable time – the initial two months of physiotherapy had limited success, and I had been told it was the only treatment available. Which brings me to the first important point to be aware of – not only did I want it to work, I felt at the time that I needed it to work,

I’ve never found anecdotal evidence particularly compelling, whether it was people on TV effusing about alien encounters, or friends recounting their religious experiences, but the very sudden improvement of my grandfather was something I couldn’t ignore. Looking back, I should have paid more attention to the fact that I visited him in the hospital before the operation; at the start of his recovery, and just because I wasn’t around to witness it, it didn’t mean that his improvement wasn’t gradual. I still believe the story of his sudden recovery was accurate, as the visit to the healer may have lifted his spirit, but I’m inclined to believe that the heavy lifting was done by the conventional treatment he received.

In the waiting area, the amazing testimonies from once desperate people told in earnest, hushed tones served to bolster my preconditioning (“if it works for these desperate cases, surely it’ll work for me too”), and the sheer volume of patients – both physically present and cited as referees – was also encouraging. I can only imagine that amusement caused by the bizarre surroundings of a farm-shed hastily converted into an operating theatre contributed to the overall “flood of endorphins or some mildly hypnotic analgesic” that Jason alluded to in the comments.

After a week or two of imagining what he looked like, and a half-hour of listening to his pithy mutterings behind the partition, my sense of wonder was bombarded when I finally came face to face with the healer-man. Not only was his appearance novel, but the way he conducted himself threw me off – particularly when he disappeared behind me for a few moments, only to begin with the vigorous prodding and manipulation.

I’m inclined to believe that what he was doing was chiropractic – the spinal manipulations seemed (at the time, and even in retrospect) far too specific and expertly administered to be for show, but I’m inclined to believe that there was a placebo effect surrounding the encounter, which encouraged me to push myself beyond my established and rather limited comfort zone of spine-extension, which surely contributed.

It saddens me to contemplate that the modern day, über-sceptical Sully would never go to such an establishment, and I can envision myself scoffing at the deluded fools who went along and enjoyed their placebo effects while I suffered on with a somewhat masochistic-pride. It’s possible that if the guy positioned himself as a certified chiropractor, I’d give it a whirl, but if you told me what I heard two years ago, I’m pretty sure I know what the response would be:

“You want me to go a barn to be prodded by some old dude with a magic coathanger? What are you, fucking nuts?”

21st century Christ charges a €20 fee

So then, where were we? Ah yes, tales of teenage douchebaggery debauchery!

Well, now that I’ve baited you with the embarrassing stuff from a decade ago, I’m going to shift gears to my more recent past.

I’ve blogged before about the few months I spent doing slave-labour in Belgium as part of my academic obligations, but didn’t address a remarkable encounter I had shortly after coming home.

In March 2006, during a weekend-trip home, I visited my 88-year-old grandfather in the hospital. He had been having problems with his back and was spending most of his days in a wheelchair – at the time I was struck by how suddenly he had crossed the line and become frail and old, disproving the notion I held of him as a man of infinite vitality.

By the time I left Belgium for good some three months later, my grandfather was back on his feet and sprightly as ever – I was delighted to see this transformation, and enquired about what I had missed whilst I was away.

My uncle told me that my grandfather had gone to a healer – a man who lives on a farm some twenty miles away who takes a coat hanger, waves it over the afflicted body part, then manipulates it back into health. I scoffed at the story, but my uncle told me about how my grandfather sat morosely at home for months before agreeing to see this quack. On the morning he left to see this chap, my grandfather was barely able to walk from his bedroom to the sitting room, and had to be helped into the car. An hour after the encounter, he was able to get out of the car unaided. The following day, he was able to walk the 100 feet to his front gate and back. The day after that, he went outside kicking a football around with his little grandchildren.

It was a miracle!

But of course, I don’t believe in miracles.

I listened to this tale quite incredulously, but it was some rather compelling anecdotal evidence, and my grandfather confirmed that the tale was exactly how I had heard it. Both he and my uncle pushed me to go see if this mysterious chap could do anything for the recently diagnosed spinal disc herniation that had brought a great deal of misery into my life. My uncle even agreed to pay the €20 ‘miracle fee’, so I had nothing to lose!

What follows is the e-mail I sent to my then-girlfriend the following morning - and I assure you that the prescience I exhibit towards the end is word-for-word how the message was sent:

From: Seán O'Sullivan <[deleted]@yahoo.co.uk>
To: [deleted]
Subject: My audience with the modern Jesus
Thu, 22 Jun 2006 19:38:09 GMT

Evenin’ miss!

I was going to put off writing this e-mail until my main 'news' thread was complete, but I feel as though I should send you something to show I care in the meantime!

So here is my epic tale of visiting the healer guy! My uncle made the ‘appointment’ for me, and we drove in convoy up to the hilly forested area, and navigated a narrow dirt track to a barn – a big red one, in fact – at which point he left me to fend for myself.

I entered the small barn door and found myself in the 'waiting area', which was a partitioned off from the 'examining area' by a line of flimsy, whitewashed timber boards. In this waiting area were two chairs, a radio (with fuzzy reception) and a diesel tank! As more and more people crammed into this waiting area, I heard some truly astonishing tales about their experiences with this healer chap. These were people who had invested huge amounts of time and money in conventional medical care, but one trip to Mr. Red Barn sorted their woes almost like magic. I have to admit, I was excited by these testimonies, but I tried not to get my hopes up. The two people in the queue before me took easily 10 minutes each with the healer chap, and then it was finally my turn.

He was silver haired, had scraggy tufts of facial hair, and looked around 60 or so. He wore a suit that looked about two hundred years old. After looking blankly at him for a second he asked "are you stiff in your back"? Wondering if I should have brought along the x-rays, I told him that the discs of my lower spine were pinched together. He nodded at the stool – the only item of furniture in his open-plan surgery – and I parked myself on it.

He stepped behind me, and I stared blankly into the barren concrete floor as I tried to determine if the magic coat-hanger I had heard so much about was coming into play. No sooner had the thought occurred to me, I was being poked.

He prodded my lower left spine, then lower right spine, then tweaked my arm and twisted my leg over to one side, and told me to sit for a second. After a few seconds he told me to get up and walk around for a moment. He stood still and peered at me as I self-consciously paced in front of him.

Upon returning to my stool, he took another poke at my back, and proclaimed "You're fine”.

I got up, astonished by this bold claim. I asked him what he meant.

"You're fixed".

I stretched my back to validate this claim and didn't feel the stab of pain at my usual point of extension.

I gave him a confused "Huh" and watched him smirk at my reaction...

The whole thing took about two minutes! I was thoroughly bewildered. I wanted to make sure I was getting Uncle Phil's money's worth:

"Are we done?"

He nodded solemnly, then thoughtfully added "Don't sit on any couches for a month. No soft things."

So I left. Confused. Wondering for how long this restriction applied, and whether getting back into my car would break this covenant.



So I definitely felt better, but I'm not quite perfect yet – still feeling the familiar pains when I reach that little further, blahdeblahdeblah, but there's a marked improvement.

When I informed my uncle of this - he told me that if I give it 3 days, I'll be fine... So I woke up this morning, and – sure enough – felt a little better!

For now, I remain cautiously optimistic that whatever weird voodoo this guy is after using on me will keep working! The last glance that guy shot me was one of knowing something I didn't!

Sorry that this e-mail has rambled on so long about essentially nothing of interest for you, but at least I'll have a typed record of what happened that day after my shitty-memory kicks in and I forget about the entire thing!

I'm going to wrap it up here, but first I'll let you know that I'm being interviewed by the American Embassy on 17th July to determine whether they want to let me into the country or not. Oh and I've been accepted into RMU, so I'm happy!

I'll give you a call either tonight or tomorrow (if I ring now I'll just end up telling you what I just wrote, since I've been sitting around at home since yesterday)!

Okay – that’s all for today, kiddies. Come back in a day or two for the present-day, sceptical reflection!

Of course, feel free to steal my thunder in the comments - what do you think of all this business?

My Outboard inner-child

I'm fascinated by myself.

I have no qualms about admitting this, and if you just scoffed at that admission, perhaps you need to take a second to reflect on how ego-centric you are. If you've ever taken a personality test, shown interest in what people are saying behind your back, or had slightest spark of intrigue in what a horoscope or palm-reading has to say about your personality, I'm pretty sure you're interested in yourself too.

One of the best things about having a blog is how it serves as a wayback machine, reminding me of things I've done and people I've met, and generally rendering the memories that have been long lost to the ether in satisfyingly high clarity.

This blog was founded to chronicle my exploits from the States, and I often find that when I read my entries, I'm envious of the past-Sully who is still excited from his adventures (not to mention fretful that I don't write 'em like I used to). However pathetic a reflection it is of my memory, I do enjoy that I can read what I wrote just two years ago and find more freshness than familiarity, hopefully experiencing it how outsiders did back in the day.

As valuable as this blog is for offering the recent history of Sully, it's not always an entirely 'pure' summation of what transpired, with fussy details being glossed over and characters being left out for the sake of getting on with the story.

Fortunately for me then, that I've had the same Yahoo! mail account for at least ten years! The oldest item is dated the 26th of March, 1999 - when a 12 year old Sully sent a typo-riddled happy birthday message to his aunt.

The archives span from my first girlfriend to my current, along the way featuring tales of stupidly broken bones, sordid tales of teenage debauchery (to which I always seemed a spectator), and the entire back catalogue of e-mails charting the gradual shift from long-distance friend to long-distance girlfriend. It's fascinating stuff!

Fascinating stuff that I don’t intend on sharing until tomorrow, however. Grotesque as it may seem that I’m trying to bait you into returning with the promise of further worship at the altar of my narcissism, it is entirely in the interest of keeping this entry from getting too bloated, and not the notion that my self-interest is remotely worthwhile to anyone else!


.........

Okay, okay - I can't very well just tease you like this, so I’ll share a little. This is from Monday, 18/10/1999 making me 13 and a half, and meaning I should have known a lot better than this:

Guess this solves the mystery of why I was left out of the teenage debauchery...

Embarrassing stuff!

In the meantime, I have to ask – how far back does your written record go? What links do you have with the psyche of your inner 12 year old, if any?

_______________________________________________________

The title to this entry is a reference to a great article in Wired from September '07: Your Outboard Brain Knows All

Why I rarely log into Bebo

I'm Gay for Tim Minchin (still)

Cast your mind back to the start of last month, when my enthusiasm for the fantastic musedian [perhaps I should give up coining portmanteaus] Tim Minchin was tipped into 'evangelical' after I heard a bootleg of a beat poem he performed at Eight Lessons and Carols for Godless People at the Hammersmith Apollo. Of course, no sooner had I posted the video, it was taken off YouTube, which was unfortunate.

Well great news! He just had it taken down so it wouldn't steal the thunder of the quality recording he was putting up! It now has jazz accompaniment, which disappointed me at first, since it takes the edge off the timbre of his voice, and I've embedded the 'unofficial version, since it has lyrics, but it pains me to not link to the official one, so send him kudos here.

Limb Loss

Misery. That's the first word that comes to mind as I reflect on my present situation.

Y'see, I'm typing this on a PS3 running Linux (Ubuntu 8.10 if you're interested), sitting about three feet from the screen with a keyboard on my lap, and not glued to the screen of that technological marvel known as the MacBook Pro. Disaster (or rather, incompetence) has struck, dear reader, and as a result I have been left without my main link to the outside world for six days now.

Over two years ago, after a bit of soul-searching just north of the US border, I came to the conclusion that home is where the computer is, and since that time, the symbiosis between man and machine has only strengthened.

I'm not ashamed to admit (although perhaps I should be) that without my RSS feeds prompting me to read up on current events, I'm rapidly falling out of touch with world affairs; without convenient access to my podcasts, I seem to be regurgitating the same science-based titbits that I was last week; without my password manager I've found myself hopelessly locked out of half the sites I once didn't think twice about logging into; without the scheduled playing of my 'morning music' those early starts are getting increasingly sluggish; and without my productivity software the simple tasks I have to do at work require a great deal more effort as I grapple with an old Windows XP machine. Oh - and without convenient Skype access, my long-distance relationship feels like it does span quite a distance.

Seeing as it serves as my primary means to accessing my educational, entertainment, and emotional needs, it's quite a loss. Earlier on I likened it to losing a limb.

On the bright side - I'm actually making progress on the books I got for Christmas now that indulging my internet addiction is more of a chore than it's worth. Always a sliver lining on this blog, eh?

So how about you, dear reader - are there any devices in your life that you can't live without? Were they ever taken from you? Leave a comment and we'll try and get a little support group going.

The Stars

Some weeks ago, after stepping out of a taxi on a typically frosty night, I noticed that the stars in the night sky were particularly visible. Since getting inside the warm house seemed a far more pressing need, I only took a quick glance as I darted for the door. I then stood on the front step waiting for Fin to unlock the door for far longer than I ought to have, given the frigid conditions.

Somewhat agitated, I spun around to see Fin, utterly motionless, mouth agape, as he stared up at the celestial bodies. I prompted him to get his ass in gear and let me inside, and after a brief pause, he responded by slowly and deliberately lifting his right arm, then outstretching his index finger towards the heavens.

“But... Ursa Major” he whined, still transfixed by the display.

Envious of his rather efficient beer-coat, and intrigued to experience stargazing with someone who at least sounds convincingly educated on the subject, I strolled away from my stoop, sidled up behind him, and aligned my eyes with his quavering finger, which had now hung suspended for at least half a minute.

Once my field of view no longer included the porch lights, street lamps and such, the universe suddenly snapped into focus, revealing thousands of twinkling lights, each vying for my attention, and I felt a sudden pang of shame for not truly appreciating them before.

As soon as I was in position behind him, Fin traced a line from point to point on the brightest stars, and again muttered those magical four syllables: “Ursa Major”, then drunkenly wandered towards the house.

I stood there in the yard for another few moments, staring up at the impossible immensity of what lay before me, feeling entirely inferior about my ignorance about what I was witnessing, yet elated by the childish awareness that I was looking billions of years into the past, able to contemplate the sheer insignificance of myself and yourself and ourselves on this incredible planet.

As I looked as far as I could into the deepest blacks of space, now blissfully unperturbed by the Arctic conditions, I came to a realisation. Whilst I once scoffed at his rather poorly-contextualised and ham-fistedly expressed effusion, I can proudly stand by Fin and admit what should be true of any man, woman or child with a sense of wonder:

“The stars, I love them”

Political-correctness is dumb

I should've mentioned this in a more timely fashion, but during the coverage of Obama's Inauguration, one of the reports on RTÉ talked about how "African Americans around the world..." were something or other. Y'see - I didn't hear the rest of the sentence because I was too distracted trying to figure out what he meant by 'African-Americans' - was he talking about the black diaspora of the United States who didn't get to be there? Did he say 'the world' when he meant 'the USA', or was he just avoiding the word 'black'? The worst part is that it was a pre-recorded segment, not a live-broadcast, so it wasn't even a mis-speak.

I'm sorry, but 'black' and 'African-American' are not synonymous terms - and if they are - they shouldn't be.

Spreading the link-love

It's occurred to me recently that I should put a bit more effort into this blog - not only by updating more regularly, but also by getting more involved with the blogging community, as I've generally only linked to blogs from friends of mine, or ridiculed some anonymous bastard.

I do lament that the timing of this announcement is sufficiently close to the start of the new year to have that 'resolution' odiousness about it, but I've been debating for a while as to what the best approach is - is it better to have a few substantial posts a month, or constant dribs and drabs? I'd like to get your feedback in the comments, as I certainly find the least interesting part of a blog to be the bits when the author is warbling about how great other people are...

... Except when those 'other people' are me, of course - Stephen Spillane's My Opinion is a blog that makes me feel genuinely ashamed, such is the man's prolific updating schedule (59 posts in 2009 already!). He's a technophile and a political-junkie (which seems to make up the bulk of his content), and gay, which discrimination-be-damned makes me more interested in what he has to say, because he represents a rather under-represented group. Twice now he's linked my way, but I've yet to reciprocate, because it wasn't how I rolled - guess it is now!

Damien Mulley's blog strikes me as being the epicentre of Irish blogging - (like I said, I've yet to officially join this subculture, I could be off somewhat) but after being impressed by a talk on blogging he gave at UCC, I approached him to dole out some more sage-like wisdom, and found him an agreeable chap. His blog also revolves around technical stuff and political punditry, which is right up my alley, and it also helps that he is one sharp mofo.

I'm not interested in local affairs, so it naturally follows that local papers hold little appeal, but John Hogan's Stuff & Nonsense column each week in the Limerick Leader makes for a cracking read - he has that pitch perfect irreverence that amuses me regardless of how little I know/care about the topic at hand. When the venerable Mr Hogan, possibly trying to fill a final paragraph, closed one such column by promoting his blog, I knew I couldn't not include it when I finally got around to acknowledging that mine isn't the only blog in the world.

Okay, by now, all four of my regular readers are probably a bit discombobulated - my inability to play with others probably means you're wondering why the blue-clicky-text doesn't lead to Fin's blog. Well, maybe it's best you go there now and see what he got up to when he went to see that black geezer getting inaugurated last week.

Best to start with baby-steps.

How to use your girlfriend

Having a girlfriend is great – it means that there is at least one person in the world contractually obligated to remember your birthday, it keeps your parents’ suspicions based on your childhood high-heel wearing proclivities at bay, and the automatic access to her friends means you don’t have to spend as much time looking at the unattractive mugs of the few acquaintances you managed to herd on your own.

Of course, the problem with having a girlfriend is – what exactly are you supposed to do with her? It seems that couples are expected to spend vast swaths of time together – sometimes entire weekends – but doing what? You can’t possibly expect to hold conversations with a mere woman for these durations – their intellects just aren’t designed for such encounters. Furthermore, whatever intersecting hobbies both parties have are incapable of soaking up such time spans, inevitably meaning that the hobby of one party must be focused on, breeding contempt, and thus ending the relationship.

This is a major concern of mine, as I do enjoy being able to stroll around urban centres with an attractive, pleasant-smelling member of the opposite sex adorning my arm, but it seems evidently clear that the genders seem designed to cross-paths for short bursts of reproduction, then retreat back to their respective non-overlapping circles upon realisation that the notion of a happy couple is an illusory one.

This may seem bleak, but do not fret, dear reader – for I have a not immodest beacon of hope to share with you on this very night. The realisation struck me last Thanksgiving, when it dawned on me that two years had effortlessly passed by, and I still considered my girlfriend to not only be tolerable company, but a person I actively desired to spend time with.

Before you dismiss such an outlandish claim as mere facetiousness on my part, I’d like to assure you that I was quite unnerved by this revelation, and retreated to my private quarters to reflect how such a situation could manifest itself.

The secret, dear reader, is education – but not of a scholarly kind. For the past twenty-four months, the time spent with the object of my affections has not fallen into the common pitfalls of most relationships – we have squandered little time on idle chit-chat, feigned no interest in one another’s hobbies, and not made a habit of attending social functions where dancing (and subsequent embarrassment) are destined to follow.

This ‘education’ I speak of? Cultural references. For two years now, we have striven to fill in the gaps in the other’s grasp of popular culture, making our way through the movies and TV-shows that we regretted passing on in a fashion that doesn’t feel like wasted time. Before this remarkable woman entered my life, I’d never have considered that I’d find time to watch the entire Star Wars saga in a fortnight, or have experienced the Indiana Jones stories before the latest film hit the cinemas and disappointed loyal fans everywhere.

Since embarking on this daunting quest for knowledge, the origins of innumerable catchphrases have revealed themselves, the once seemingly non-sequitur utterances from my friends have taken shape as rather useful cultural shorthand, and the joy that comes with knowing, rather that staring blankly, is attributed to the magnificent woman who gently coaxed me into watching an entire season of Heroes in four days.

The best part about this gruelling endeavour? When done in solitude, it is a sad reflection of a man with too much time on his hands; but when done with another, it’s the quintessence of quality time.

You're all sick

Forgive the rather constipated updating schedule as of late - I just got back from a delightful fortnight in the States (yet again) and I jumped back into work before I had a chance to undo the slight jet lag that is currently serving as a convenient excuse for the annoyance you've felt every time you checked back here over the past fifteen days and seen no new content

Thinking about the lack of content got me thinking (duh) - what exactly brings people here? From time to time an odd Google keyword has come to my attention, but I thought it would be interesting to trawl through 700+ long list of search terms that have brought weary Internet wanderers to my humble blog and highlight the most noteworthy. The results may disturb you.

Sully

This one shouldn't really surprise anyone, but it is a little unnerving when people type in random details about me and find their way here:



Miscellaneous Dating Advice

I'm pretty good with the ladies - and the men! Google is only too aware of this, so when desperate souls seek advice with critical relationship issues that lesser men dare not tackle, they get sent my way:


Metaphysical Contemplation

Another predictable one - there are vast numbers of people who share in my childish habit of picking on the more feeble-minded of the faith-inclined (which is cruel the same way that tapping the side of an aquarium to upset defenseless goldfish is), so a few wise men inevitably follow the shining star to my site:


Titillation

Face it - that's the very reason you're online right now - you've only got this page up to convince your roommate that you're not looking at dirty stuff, but I know better than that - heck, given the sheer volume of kinky keywords that crop up on the system, I'd be surprised if you didn't have a bestiality fetish:




And thus ends another educational insight into the wonders that the Internet throws up from time to time! I would write something more in depth about these if it didn't take me half a year to display them in an attractive format (and if it wasn't 3.30am), so do my work for me - are there any keywords particularly noteworthy in this pile that surprised/didn't surprise you?

I'm Gay for Tim Minchin

Yes, dear readers, I'm starting the new year of posting with a rather lazy video dump. But what a video dump!

Funny songs on YouTube aren't exactly hard to come by - so much so that I now automatically begrudge anybody who sends me a link along with a message exhorting me to spend three minutes of my life watching some guy make lazy rhymes about a topic that is easily ridiculed. When somebody recommended a video by Tim Minchin - a guy I had never heard about, it took until the recommender pushed the fact that the song espouses critical thinking before I clicked the link. I watched the video, enjoyed it immensely, but then forgot all about him.

A few days later, another video by Minchin surfaced on a blog I read regularly, which also made for an enjoyable few minutes, but it wasn't until I heard a beat poem by him just now that I decided I had to spread the good word of the talented Mr Minchin.

The first two videos are two-to-three minutes in length and good fun, but the third is the real gem - a 10 minute beat poem that should resonate with anybody who has ever fought the urge to yell 'codswallop' and challenging the inane notions of some new-age wackaloon that they've met whilst among polite company.

The audio quality is horrible, and (as anyone who has ever tried to get me to watch a crappy pirated DVD knows) I'm a huge snob for production values, but I still couldn't tear myself away from Minchin's effortless genius.

Please to enjoy:

"If you open your mind too much..."


I don't want to say much about this - only that it's very NSFW


Storm (this is the one I was raving about). Since Storm has been kicked off Youtube, I've instead embedded another enjoyable song, and since you've already put 10 minutes aside, why not give it a shot?

Virgin Mobile have balls, yo

Fantastic video, eh? Of course, their claim of 'a holiday for all of us' is a bit tardy, as for years now the human race has been aware of the Festivus for the rest of us!

Mark my words, anybody who plans on putting up with me for the foreseeable future - if you want me in your life, you'll have to make room for Festivus.

Journalist suffers PMS, writes stupid shit

On the front page of Digg just now there was a story called "Mother Told She Doesn't Have Real Job By Phone Company" - which seemed dumb enough to warrant a click.

The story tells the plight of a stay-at-home mother who tried to buy a Smart phone from Vodafone, only to be rejected on the grounds that she didn't have a "real" job. What's noteworthy about this story is that it was penned by a woman. Quite a stupid woman, I'd wager - one who can't be bothered to appear impartial.

Ewww - they should've sprung for a hand model

If you'd indulge me for a moment, I'm going to pick holes in this story for the purpose of asserting intellectual superiority over a paid-journalist, and balancing some transparently feminist-fuelled moral-outrage with some good old fashioned rationality.

Lyndal Fair, 36, a mother of three, said she was shocked and embarrassed when staff at a Vodafone store told her they didn't sell phones to full-time mums.

Didn't sell "phones" to full-time mums? Not quite. Didn't sell a particular phone to full-time Mums - the BlackBerry Storm - which is a business phone, and only available to customers on certain (business, possibly) plans.

Staff instead suggested she ask her husband to buy the phone for her under his own name

...[Because he has a sodding business!]

"I really felt like a second-class citizen for the first time since becoming a mum," Ms Fair said. "I couldn't believe it. It was like being back in the '50s.

Oh boy - they're playing that card. Never mind the fact that there weren't commercially-available mobile-telecommunications devices back in the 50s, let's just focus on the logical fallacy of framing an inconvenience (having to upgrade your plan) as proof that sexual discrimination hasn't changed in almost sixty years! But the outrage doesn't end there - let's drag in the reluctant husband who has to overcompensate for his lack of giving a shite with some overly-dramatic effusions:

"Being a mum is a full-time job and it's a very hard job - the hardest job you can have - because if you get it wrong, the ramifications for everyone are enormous," Ms Fair said.

'Ramifications for everyone'? Sweet Christ. It's all gone a bit The Day After Tomorrow, hasn't it?

"It's just terrible. You cop it as a mum if you work because you're not at home with your children, and if you do stay home you get hit with nonsense like this."

Poooooooooooooooor women. Will they ever escape this catch-22? Normally I'd muster up a bit of sympathy for such predicaments, but the following splutterance from the author of this piece demands that I ramp up the misogyny for a bit:

Vodafone spokesman Greg Spears yesterday confirmed the no-housewives rule and said getting a man to buy the phone instead was the quickest fix.

BULLSHIT!

Ahem... Now that I’ve got that out of my system, might I propose what the author meant to say?

Vodafone spokesman Greg Spears yesterday confirmed that the handset is only available to customers on certain Vodafone plans and said that getting a family member who was currently employed and on one of these plans to buy the phone instead was the quickest way around it.

"No-housewives rule"? "A man"? The woman who wrote this needs to step away from the keyboard for a bit, lest they underscore any more innocuous tales with egregious shades of sexual-discrimination. To further drive home the utter disregard for any illusion of balanced reporting, the final word is given to “Eva Cox, of the Women's Electoral Lobby”.

What’s that? She wasn’t impressed? Big surprise. What else? Crikey:

She called on women to boycott Vodafone until it changed the policy.

"SECKSIZM!"

Seriously now? I’m sure that I’ve established that women are not being ‘slighted’ here, stay-at-home-mothers are. Wouldn’t a much more effective tactic be to ask all stay-at-home-mothers-and-fathers to petition Vodafone to lower the lofty bar for entry to the exclusive club of BlackBerry Storm owners? Asking ‘all women’ is dumb – as it is based on the assumption that all women would be upset by an unemployed (albeit hardworking) woman being denied a phone, which I doubt many would be. (Manipulating the facts to create controversy where there is none might gain sympathy for the cause, however).

Okay, I haven’t been entirely fair here – I should let this bastion of moral guidance continue with what she was saying, please Ms Cox[hater], continue!

"They need to be careful that Vodafone don't get a black ban after this, or a pink ban, if you want to call it that," Ms Cox said.

"... OH - I GEDDIT!! WIMMINZ LIKE THE COLLAR PINK!!!"

Christ.

Dear reader, please forgive this rather scattered entry, as every time I gather my thoughts, they force their way out in a rather undignified Tourettic flurry of capslock and swearing. I’m probably ripping on a publication that’s not exactly high-brow, but the waves of disgust I felt from seeing it second from the top on Digg has carried me thus far, so why turn back now?

Sexism isn’t cool. But claiming sexism when there is none is less cool, and really only serves the cause of the sexists. So you feminists need to shut the fuck up.

Heil Herr Finlay!

Here's a disturbing one for you, kids.

It seems that Fin, He of fin.ie fame, is using His totalitarian rule of Fin Blog to quash any dissenting views, brutally silencing any comments that aimed only to inform and educate, without a word of acknowledgement.

Dear readers, know that Finlay's seeming infallibility is merely the result of having the power to annul the words of dissenters from the very annals of history! Just last week, my illuminating remarks spent a period of three days in purgatory, before being cast to the deep dank dungeon of cyberspace, never to surface again.

I hope that Finlay will see the light, and instead of continuing to use subterfuge in fixing grammatical faux-pas and any commentary of their past existence, he embraces a more laissez-faire style of blog comment.

Dear reader, I am counting on you to show Finlay how much fun an unfettered comments section can be. That is why I sincerely ask that you take a moment to leave a comment, and say the most reprehensible thing about me (and my blog, if you can manage) that comes to mind.

I'm counting on you.



We're counting on you.

Hump-day Video-dump

Not sure if I ought to make a regular habit of dumping videos on here like this, so be sure to comment and let me know if this was worth your while in any way.

First on the list is a video from my friends' band that I've been intending on giving a shout out to in some form or another for some time now, so now that they've put together a music video from the footage they took of their recent LA tour, I figured I'd share! Please to enjoy:'Little Black Marble' by Fox Jaw Bounty Hunters. The split screen format means that you have a perfectly good reason for listening to the song four times in a row!




Next on the list, we have a video shamelessly nicked from that other blog that I'm writing for (even if I haven't had time to post anything remotely intelligent in about a month now). One of the authors went to the trouble of recording a version of the Monty Python's LumberJack song that somebody (a chap called FXE, seemingly) on an atheist forum went to the trouble of rewriting. This song is pretty clever, but it's especially noteworthy for me as it somehow came up on the radar of popular blogger PZ Myers, who I've made gushing reference to in the past, providing me with yet another opportunity to reflect on how freakin' awesome the internet is.



And finally, more as a bonus than anything else, I'm attaching another video from the multi-talented Mr Shane Serrano, (the geezer responsible for the first video posted above, as well as [crude] magazine, which I warbled about last week). When he was short on integrity-impaired students willing to sell their souls for a UL promotional video a summer or two ago, I decided to help him out by spouting confused mumblings from my fat head that he captured on tape to somehow convince people that UL is great - other than those eight seconds or so, it's pretty decent! As far as promo videos go, anyhow.

Pourin' out a li'l liquor...

You think blogging is easy? You think I should ask more of myself than five posts a month? You've probably not tried it for yourself - unless you're going to throw up absolutely every random thing you do over the course of a day, or you've found yourself a rich area to specialise in, it's difficult to find the time, or the right topic to post about (I try to keep this blog general for people who don't know me but enjoy random nonsense, only occasionally indulging overly-personal posts - let me know if I'm succeeding on that by the by).

If you don't believe me, let's take a look at the list of dead blogs started by those within my various spheres of influence. The common thread linking them all? They all came up with better titles than mine.

Diarmuidos
Born: 19th January 2008 Died: 25th April 2008 Posts: 20

A blog started by my older brother to serve the internet with download recommendations while also offering a platform for him to discuss his various programming endeavours in college. He probably got distracted by finishing up his final year projects. And organising his wedding. And having a wife and stuff.

Notable post: Probably his first, in which he proudly announced that he had officially become a 'blogster'. Bless his little heart, he tried.

Ireland's Eoghan
Born: 5th November 2007 Died: 8th December 2008 Posts: 16 (Might be a bit premature to declare this one deceased - he Lazarused on us before after 4 months of lying cold)

After taking umbrage to a remark I made on this blog in reference to some Gott-lieben graffiti, my recently-acquired friend from college took to the internet to grant his riposte a bit more gravitas. After getting that off his chest he set about chiding people who deposit bodily effluvia in his bed without his consent. It's possible that the sudden drying up of such incidents is what caused the fatal posting-drought. It's possible that this post will temporarily alleviate that, with a post entitled "News of my blog's death has been greatly exaggerated"

Notable post: Off the top of my head, the most enjoyable post to come to mind is his reaction to the Transformers film, featuring a try-not-to-spit on your monitor surprise ending (sorta).

Ocean of Noise
Born: 15th September 2008 Died: 15th September 2008 Posts: 1

A stillborn. After a triumphant 'hello world!', and the tease of "New Mixes coming", DJ Rob dropped off the radar.

Notable post: The comments for his first entry. After some slight goading for the radio silence by yours truly, Rob replied explaining that "the day I went to record the first mix the fucking power supply on my desktop blew up and I can't afford a new one at the moment :-(." At least there's hope for the future. Once Rob unbrokes himself, of course.

Gather Around Children... It's Storytime
Born: 7th September 2007 Died: 10th December 2007 Posts: 10

As part of a class requirement for a media module she was taking, my favourite Pittsburgh-resident with the initials CK posted ten entries up over the course of a semester. Despite my repeated urges to keep up the good blogging, she hit her minimum requirement and quit posting, teaching me that the promise of a link from my blog isn't as effective a motivational ploy as I believed it to be. The blog itself is a delight to read, as Cait has a way of packaging the banal in a riveting fashion.

Notable post: Christ. Where to begin? There's the time she accidentally tried to smuggle a rusty screwdriver onto a plane, as well as the entry in which she somehow makes an irrational panicking fit seem like the only logical course of action. With a gun to my head, I'll have to say my favourite was the time she embarrassed herself in front of a pro footballer in a spectacular fashion - even when rereading it just now I had a chuckle.


In case you didn't notice, I'm particularly disappointed about the demise of 'Gather Around Children... It's Story Time' - I tried to convince Cait to keep it going, but once the class ended, so did the willingness to blog. Rather than admit to myself that I'm utterly ineffectual, I've convinced myself that it was the url that killed the site. Think about it for a second - can you imagine trying to tell people the address for your blog? "It's doubleyou doubleyou doubleyou dot gather around children it's story time dot blogspot dot com." Or how about typing that addressbarfull every time you wanted to visit the site? It can't be done in one sitting - I've tried. One way or another, the unwiedily named blog is no more, and the blogosphere is poorer as a result.

But hang on a tick - Cait's just after getting back on the blogging horse! As if to commemorate the one year death anniversary of her first effort, Cait has ventured into this digital graveyard of blogging talent and planted a poorly-conceptualised-metaphor of a rose to keep us optimistic despite the bleakness of the present.

While I do indeed begrudge her foresight in coming up with a clever name (albeit one based borrowed from another author) and her disciplined prolific posting schedule, it is my pleasure to be able to recommend Cait's newest blogging endeavour, Thoughts are King, which will now be added to my meagre Links panel as the old ones are retired.

Just give me a while with the old ones, okay? It'll take a while to let them go...

Coming soon to a newsstand near you*

*=If you live in Limerick.

I really should have mentioned this a good bit earlier, so I'll cue the obligatory excuse about being busy to absolve my shoddy posting schedule as of late. Still with me? Great.

Two months ago I learned that a talented friend of mine was launching a Limerick-based magazine. Eager to feel as though I'm making some efforts towards fooling someone into letting me write in exchange for money, I offered him my services. Since my abilities to feign interest in what's going on in my locality have waned as of late, I ended up submitting a video-game review for an Xbox 360 game I was enjoying.

After warbling on for some 1,200 words (and not even finishing up), I realised that I had written something more suitable for a specialist magazine, so I quickly wrote up an 800 word piece (Next time I'll aim for 500).

Anyhow, now that I've laid a fine foundation for my excuse as to why my submission sucks ("I didn't know what audience I was writing for, and besides - I dashed it off in five minutes"), I'll give you some more information on what the hell I'm talking about:


Crude Magazine, Limerick's Alternative Culture and Lifestyle Magazine (but not necessarily that Alternative Lifestyle, BDSM-phobes!) hits shelves this weekend. I think. And it'll cost €5, I think €4. Okay - so I'm sketchy on the details, but for some reason I do know that copies will be available for €6 with a free gig at the launch party at Baker Place at 9pm on Saturday the 6th of December!

See you there?

Update 07/12/08: Found out the actual price of the magazine and fixed it above.

A sceptic's atonement

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

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

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

It's cos he's gay.

Really? I never heard that.

Oh yeah - big scandal. All over the papers.

Wow. I completely missed that. Is it true?

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

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

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

Watching XXX eh?

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

Yup.

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

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

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

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

My words break the spell and he glances at me.

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

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

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

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

Yer man there with the baldy head, yeah?

Yeah.

What about him?

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

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

Because he's a homosexual.

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

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

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

Y'mean he's a queer?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Does this count as a guest blog?

My girlfriend sends the weirdest e-mails...

To: Sully
From: Cait
Subject: My Life has been changed


Hi honey! I know I'm going to see you soon, so I really could wait to show you these images, but I think that they're important. I was leaving class yesterday at about 5:15pm and as I walked past a random board in the Biological/Geological Sciences Building (Lapham Hall), I happened to notice a very interesting booklet tacked onto the board. Seeing as I never, ever noticed any booklets like this until this past Hallowe'en, I was amazed that so shortly after having my own eyes opened and my life changed completely because I accepted Jesus, I saw a real-life example of someone witnessing to the godless, college-age masses. It was a wonderful experience. So wonderful, in fact, that I decided that I had to document it and pass it on to you...I know that you'll do the right thing with these pictures, Sean. I like you and all, but nowhere near as much as I love Jesus.

(Does this count toward my 'witnessing for Jesus' points to get me into Heaven?)

Hmm... It seems that my girlfriend is broken and needs a replacement. I've had her two years now, meaning the warranty is up, so I might be as well off to try and fix her myself rather than going through the expensive process of acquiring a new one...

Smut - Nintendo Style

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

6.58 PM: Finish practising evil laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In touch with my base...

(This is what the Internets would call an epic win)

Ruining it for the rest of us

There are many forms of stupidity on this Earth, but no form of stupidity is as frequently, proudly, and ebulliently broadcasted as religious stupidity.

Speaking of stupid, let's talk about my girlfriend. My girlfriend is great, not only because she recognises what stupidity is and shies away from it at every possible opportunity, but also because she occasionally points me towards the kind of stupidity that I find somewhat entertaining, and says something along the lines of "Go get 'em, tiger". Before I continue with this story, it's important to note that this woman, who willingly identifies herself as my girlfriend, lives in the United States of America. Which as we all know, is the stupidity capital of the world.

Anyhow, this not-at-all-imaginary girlfriend of mine went trick-or-treating with her niece in celebration of the pagan festival, Hallowe'en, with the intention of acquiring sugary snacks from altruistic neighbours. Many of these neighbours obliged the little urchins, providing them with artificially-sweetened sustenance, but some seized the opportunity to pontificate to these diminutive-doorstop-denizens.

A colourful envelope arrived in the post today, and inside were the following documents and a card that read:

I thought you'd really, really enjoy these wonderful treats that Rosie received in her trick-or-treat bag last weekend. I grabbed them before she had a chance to look at them (Thank GOD!) [At which point she drew a smiley-face to drive-home her facetiousness - she's thoughtful like that]

Have fun tearing the people who pass these things out to shreds!

Here are the contents of the envelope, bear in mind that each one of these bears a heavy-handed religious message:


Allow me to espouse Richard Dawkins' oft-jeered position that religion often manifests itself as child-abuse for a moment. I try not to entrench myself in any position too much, but I'm very much of the opinion that distributing this insidious mental-poison to a child who is expecting (a different kind of poisonous) delicious treat is an utterly reprehensible and indefensible act.

My concern is not for the atheistic kids - they have probably been prepared for over-zealous attacks on their emotions by their rationalist parents - my concern is for those children who practice a moderate form of religion and are being targeted to embrace a fundamental, evangelical form of Christianity motivated through fear.

The inherent dishonesty of these pamphlets is astonishing. No parent could object to an apparently cute (though patronisingly simple) maze puzzle, a seemingly patriotic pamphlet fostering interest in the democratic process, or what looks like a spooky ghost story making their way into a treat bag, only to mentally molest [tabloid-style exaggeration for the fun of it] the child once they're alone with their spoils. This cowardly trojan-horse approach is reprehensible [hang on a tick - I've used that word already... Let me consult the thesaurus...] opprobrious!

Flight 144 is a particularly evil story, in which a chap who killed a guy in a drunken barfight meets two old philanthropists (who have dedicated their life to alleviating the suffering of thousands of fellow humans in Africa) on a plane that goes down. The murderer (manslaughterer?) gets to enjoy the spoils of heaven because he preached at his cellmate, whereas the elderly couple are cast into a fiery pit of some description because they didn't harp on about Jesus enough. (I will henceforth point to this example to show that Christianity doesn't necessarily equate to moral guidance 100% of the time, often getting too mired in the worshipping of idols)


I tend to yammer on about things like this for far too long, and I'm sure my feelings on the matter are somewhat evident, so how about you just erase the last 600 words from memory, and take away the summarized version, from the intrepid trick-or-treater’s father:

You have no idea what religious spoil-sports do on an otherwise great holiday for kids in costumes.

Do things like this happen in Ireland? My mother never let us trick-or-treat when I was younger, so I’ve never gone door to door for demanding sweeties like some kind of Jehova’s witness who only has "one heathen's soul" left on his scavenger hunt no idea of what kind of bullshit the good people of Ireland try to pull.

Is it wrong that this no longer surprises me?

It's amazing to think that about half of the time I find myself standing at an airport baggage carousel waiting patiently for the bag containing my clothes, toothbrush, contact-lens solution and razorblades (materials outlawed within the cabin thanks to those industrious terrorists), I invariably find myself leaving with some light reading material instead:


On the bright side, however, this does provide an almost-valid excuse for looking and smelling like a hobo. Almost...