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.

"Bored Stiff"

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

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

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

More Airplane Woes...

Gather around children, as I tell you all about my airplane-based-misadventure over the weekend! Like most plane-based adventures, it starts at the check-in counter, where an over-zealous North West Airline employee watches over my shoulder as I use the self-check-in kiosk, and then reads aloud the information on screen that my flight has been delayed my 25 minutes. I thank her for the information, but nonchalantly dismiss the minor delay as a possible convenience for the people picking me up in Minneapolis.

When going through security, the jaded guard stops me for a moment, and quizzes me over the name discrepancy between my boarding pass and my Passport; I’ve been travelling under the alias Sen O’Sullivan, as I was stupid enough to save my Passenger Information on Expedia as Seán, and every flight I’ve booked with Expedia for the past two months has excluded the ‘á’. I explain to the guard and continue on my way, possibly whistling merrily. I see that the tram to the departure gates has been waiting for quite some time now, and will probably take off at any second, but I maintain my walking pace, unwilling to rush until absolutely necessary. I’m about four steps away when the doors start to close so I lunge towards it, hoping the doors will not crush my outstretched hand. I barely had enough time to think “This might not be a good idea” before the doors pulled open again. Breathing a sigh of relief, I board the tram, as a stern, pre-recorded female voice, who had previously been making safety announcements and background chatter, now berates my brashness. “Somebody has interfered with the doors.” Everyone in the tram snaps their heads towards me at once. I smile awkwardly. “Please Step Away from the doors” she warns, and I worry that I’ve just got us stuck on a tram to nowhere, but the delay I caused only lasted as long as my automated-slap on the wrist.

Funnily enough, there was a bald businessman who rushed in behind me when I prised the doors apart, and he took off running as soon as we arrived at the departure terminal. He charged a good 100 yards towards the escalator, his briefcase swinging dangerously, and then stopped and stood still on the moving-stairs, holding onto the railing, seemingly forgetting his rush for a moment! Quite bizarre. When I arrived at my departure gate, I killed time on my Nintendo DS, until we finally boarded around 2.20pm, almost an hour later than we ought to have.


Cosy, no?

The plane was pretty small - it was a Canadair RJ, and as a 6’4” guy with what I’ll refer to as a ‘sturdy’ build, it was a bit cramped. I couldn’t stand up straight - or even close to straight - I had my knees bent and head bowed as low as I could comfortably manage, but I still knocked my noggin on every Exit sign, and my shoulders were pressed hard against the overhead bins on either side of the aisle I was trying to walk down. I finally got to my seat, and after usurping the woman who had mistakenly laid claim to it, I turned my attention to stowing my backpack. It wouldn’t fit in the tiny overhead bins, so I had to put it under the seat in front of me, which made squeezing into my spot all the more painful.

We sat on the plane outside the terminal for a good half hour before I fell asleep. I awoke while the plane was taxiing back to the terminal. The Pilot comes over the PA and announces that the first hour of delay had been caused by a ‘paperwork issue’ to do with ‘routing’, and now we were out of fuel from all the taxiing, and had to wait for the fuel truck before we could take off again. It was 4.10 at this stage - I know because my phone records show that I rang my friend Jac who was supposed to be picking me up twenty minutes later to tell her I was going to be very late.

People were understandably upset by the delays, and wanted to get off the plane to try and find another way to make their connecting flights, which prompted an NWA agent to board, and tell us that if just one person wanted to get off the plane, then the plane was no longer secured, and everyone on the plane would have to get off, and go through ticketing and security again. He also said that if we did that, our plane, which was now a number one priority that was ready to take off as soon as it was fuelled, would then be relegated to the bottom of the priority pile, as the planes that were on schedule would be kept on schedule. He also advised that all flights were pretty much sold out, so if any one person got off, we’d all be waiting on standby. He summed up this statement with the following, word for word; “You can stay here and go somewhere, or you can get off and go nowhere.”

Suspicious stares shot through the cabin from one passenger to another, before it became clear that no one person was willing to be hated by forty others. The question & answer session that followed was interrupted by our fuel truck showing up. Not before the overweight, bearded gentleman across the row from me in a garish Hawaiian shirt shouted out “How about we get some cheeseburgers!?” Which would have been fine, but he shouted it every four seconds until the guy next to him satisfied his craving for attention by acknowledging his outburst. Trapped on a cramped plane, sitting opposite the forty-year old class clown, I began to entertain myself by narrating in my head the events as they unfolded.

The joy that followed our refuelling was instantly quashed by the captain informing us that we couldn’t take off until the plane had been de-iced again, which elicited a few more groans from the chorus. He then summarised what had happened, and how long he expected it would be before we’d be in the air, and got off the mic. I turned to the clown to my right, and in a rare moment of trying to be nice to a complete fool, I quipped “I didn’t hear any mention of a Big Mac just now”. He responded with a look of utter confusion, then an ill-suitedly sincere “Yes... You’re right.” It took me a moment to realise that over the hum of the engines, and also possibly his unpreparedness to hear an Irish accent, I had just accosted him with “Ah dinnae heeuh ‘nee men-chun uv a Bi’ Mack junnow!”

But no matter - we were finally in the air, and all was well… For a while anyway. I was minding my own business, playing my DS, (dancing up a storm in Elite Beat Agents for the few that care), when I could’ve swore I heard the air hostess say something that sounded like “We need a doctor”. When a very large woman pounded her way past me, I removed my headphones and turned to my new acquaintance, Bland Bob (a nice chap with little personality), and asked him what was going on. Bland Bob softly told me “I think somebody needs a doctor”. Sure enough, about three rows in front of me there was an old geezer looking a bit hot and bothered, and out of it, while the aforementioned fatty stood over him mopping his brow and neck with a cloth. The lone stewardess clumsily got down a tank of oxygen from the overhead bin and advanced on the ill chap, looking absolutely panic-stricken. This is where I admit that I missed out on a bit of character development, and rewind a bit. Very shortly after the plane took off, she began distributing beverages (giving away free alcohol as compensation! Damn my non-drinking disposition!), she confided in me and Bland Bob that she was incredibly nervous because she never knew how to deal with passengers on a delayed flight. So back to the emergency then - the old geezer got his oxygen while his wife looked on in terror, but I still felt worst for the stewardess, who seemed to be having a worse heart-attack than the chap clutching his chest.

After a bit, the old geezer started to look a bit better, and even seemed to be joking with his hideously obese helper (who was no way a doctor - I’ve never seen an obese doctor, let alone a doctor who dresses as poorly as that woman… sorry). However, it felt as though the plane was starting to descend already - we had at least another hour of flight time! Bland Bob turns to me and says “I think we’re descending”. I look out the window - there’s a city a few hundred feet below us and inching closer - good catch there, Bob. Bob looks at his watch, chuffed, and says “That was pretty quick, yeah?” I postulate that we might not actually be in Minneapolis, but rather making an emergency landing in Chicago. The people behind me are now discussing how fast the flight was, and begin to point out landmarks in the city, identifying them as various bits and pieces they know from Minneapolis. The stewardess gets on the mic once again, informing us “Ladies and Gentlemen, we will be landing soon, but please remain in your seats with your seat-belts fastened”. I turn to Bland Bob, asking if he noticed that she didn’t specify where we’d be landing, and he tells me without a shadow of a doubt that we are in Chicago. Anyway - the plane eventually lands, while the woman behind me mistakenly points out that the flight was actually 2 hours because Pittsburgh is an hour behind Minneapolis (it’s the other way around), and I resist the temptation to set her straight because she’s actually amusing me.

There’s an ambulance waiting on the runway, and once the plane has come to a stop, the stewardess announces “Folks, we are NOT in Minneapolis, we are in Chicago”. The collective “What!?” from seemingly everyone else other than Bland Bob, the Class Clown and his lackey makes me laugh. It’s 7pm now - I call Jac and tell her I’m going to be delayed some more. The old geezer walks himself off the plane with the medical staff, and hops into the ambulance, which then sits on the runway, like us for 45 minutes, as we speculate on our flight’s fate. Is the plane now ‘compromised’, since a passenger has gotten off? Do we have to go through security again and sit on standby? The stewardess and pilot are both unaware of the policy, and we wait anxiously, while those more fortunate (by which I mean less tall) than I stand up and stretch out. 5 hours of sitting on a plane is a literal pain in the ass.

Finally, we get the go ahead, and after a ‘quick’ de-icing stop, and a bit of waiting on the runway for our turn to take off, we get on our way. This leg of the journey is largely uneventful, although I did manage to squeeze myself into the pathetically small bathroom, and stand up and take a piss while not actually standing up… Upon my exit from the world’s smallest cubicle, a fellow passenger asks “How did you fit in there?” A dry “I didn’t” was the wittiest reply I had to offer.

We finally touch down in Minneapolis, at 9pm. Not 4.30pm. And I ring Jac, and I tell her I’m finally there. She tells me to wait by the baggage carousel, and hangs up - and then Caitlyn greets me, which was a great surprise, but I was surprisingly out of it from the amount of endorphins my brain had released to maintain paralysis of my posterior, and I waited by the first baggage claim I saw - the wrong baggage claim. I may even have called her by the wrong name when I saw her, but I was overjoyed at the prospect of not having to spend any more time in a plane!

The weekend that followed was worth the problematic trip, I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear - I wish I had taken my camera so I’d at least have some colourful indication of the happy ending, but such is life! Thanks for reading this gargantuan post, I'm sorry to have taken as much of your time as I have with some of the self-indulgent narration that I have, but this is a recreation of the inner-monologue that I entertained myself with on the plane!

Nothing says "I love you" like a hand-made Valentine... To my friends who have yet to meet Caitlyn, however, it says something more along the lines of "Is Sully a paedophile?"


Also, just to tie up the loose ends; we were told that the chap who suffered the heart attack was in a ‘stable condition’ upon our arrival in Minneapolis. Unfortunately, after leaving the hospital he was hit by a bus and died.

Open to Interpretation?

Sorry that Part 2 of the Chicago trip blog isn't here yet, but I've been distracted with what I'll discuss later!

I went to my creative writing class this morning, the one that's focusing on poetry far longer than it ought to be, and I got back one of the first poems I had to write at the start of the semester. I wish I had a scanner, as I'd just slap it up here and let it speak for itself, but now I guess I have to go to the hassle of replicating it through text... After being shackled to the formula of writing a haiku, I got a little nutty, and decided to voice my disdain by writing a crap, crass, juevenile poem. The 'poem' and subsequent feedback were as follows;

Puerile
Poets love winter scenes,
The snow, wind, and icy lakes...
I prefer boobies

Next to the poem, he wrote "Entertaining - nice abrupt change of tone".

Just thought I'd share.

Obligatory Sight-seeing Blogging

UPDATE 01/12/07 : Just realised that 'Chicago' is not mentioned once over the course of this blog entry! Sorry about that!

Right - now that I'm done with the vent-fest that was Belgium Week, it's time to resume your scheduled programming!

The purpose of the trip was to meet up with my buddy Mike, who was visiting his girlfriend Holly, but it afforded me a chance to meet plenty of interesting characters, sample the different culture, and do the obligatory sightseeing nonsense that these study-abroad experiences are expected to be riddled with!

I arrived on Thursday evening, and went out to a Disco Bar type setting, which was a fairly typical night - had no problems getting in with my poorly faked ID, and I spent the evening conversing with random friends of Holly. Amazingly, for the first time since I got here, I met two Irish lads, one of whom was studying abroad in the States for a year, much like myself. The similarities didn't end there though, his tongue was loosened from a fairly successful night of drinking, and we found out we had a lot in common, most of which was the eerily similar tales of our respective American girlfriends... As if there's only one formula that all these yanks use in order to secure themselves some hot-piece-of-poor-'th'-sound-pronouncing-man-ass! My similarities with my new friend ended when later on in the night I witnessed him urinating behind a mailbox while his friend screamed drunken obscenities at some large looking men... Those fightin' Irish!

On the freezing cold walk back, I learned that Dunkin' Donuts was still open, so of course we had to stop in on the way - and in the process stumbled upon a freestyle rap battle! Basically there were two black kids against four or so white boys, and the white guys got schooled. My initial speculation that the black guys had a list of insulting rhymes pre-learnt so they could rattle off was disproved after they took what the white kids said and turned it against them. I was a little disappointed that the black kid kept everything at 'ghetto' mentality - talking about selling crack and smoking dope, when he seemed to be not be doing so poorly, judging from his 'fly' clothing. After knocking the uppity white kids speechless, they embraced as a show that the entire affair was in good humour, which was a relief that nobody was in fact, going to get capped in their pasty white ass. Sadly, I had no camera on me to document this fascinating ritual, but it's definitely something that you have to see for yourself.

Friday was the main day of sightseeing - Mike and I walked the 'Miracle Mile' - which is basically a lot of nice shops, as we made our way towards the Sears Tower, stopping into the Library along the way to avail of the bathroom facilities (not that you needed to know that, but it's technically another thing I saw). The closer we got to the Sears Tower, the more 'Caution - Falling Ice' signs we saw. When we were within a four block radius of the tower, we began to see this ice we were cautioned about, as the brick-sized lumps hurtled towards the ground at a startling pace. Amazingly, despite a couple of near misses, I didn't see anybody get hit.



The observation deck on the 103rd floor was closed for annual renovations, so we went to the 99th floor... (just doesn't seem as impressive, does it?) Here we were mesmerised by the falling ice as we waited for Holly, her brother and his friend to meet up with us. Despite the mist, the view was still pretty impressive, and from sitting around for a half hour or so, it at least felt like better value for money than my time atop the Empire State building! (and watching ice fall to earth and speculating how many people it killed made for a fun game)

That blur to the top, just left of centre is a chunk of ice hurtling towards someone's skull

Here's Scott and Kevin demonstrating how tall this tower is. Cheers lads.

This post is getting long, so I think I'll finish the rest later, but here's some more pics and info!

Mike and I went to a mall where they were recording a Christmas Movie with Vince Vaughn!

Belgium Week Fornight: The Conclusion

Wondering why I'm still writing about Belgium? Well, this is a way for me to illustrate that much like my co-op experience, what was advertised is not what you're going to get...

Okay, I admit, it was because I had academic obligations that were slightly more pressing than the climax of Belgium Week.

During the week, a friend informed me that some hapless UL students have recently arrived in Leuven for work at the Institute, and I honestly feel like I have their blood on my hands. Call me naive, or even egocentric, but when I was sent home because of my bad back, one of the last things I said to Dermot was that I was beginning a campaign to end the future suffering of our peers who would be duped like we had been, because I honestly thought I could make a difference if they found out how absolutely horrid it was!

Dermot, wishing he was the dead terrorist on the front of this magazine

I stormed into my placement officer's office the day after I arrived home, bearing in mind that I'd have to stay some bit level-headed while still telling her of the atrocities. I began by telling her about the potentially illegal housing. It was like talking to a machine - with a complete poker face she tells me she'll pass it onto her superior. "I'll inform Jerry".
I told her about the insanely long working hours.
"I'll inform Jerry."
I told her that there was no educational value to be found whatsoever from the experience, and the time off is insufficient to see Europe.
"I'll inform Jerry."
Any number of things I said to her were met with this pre-programmed response. It was futile.

Exasperated, I was began to spit vitriol, and begun using the same adjectives I've been plastering here, "back-breaking", "depressing", "demeaning", "degrading", "infuriating", "pointless".
She kept her professional composure, and offered no reactions, or even a compassionate ear. My list of solid arguments ended, but I didn't, and I continued to talk, now only with blind fury:
"I mean... Christ! The people who work there and enjoy it are goddamned idiots who get by by drinking every moment they're not at work, and even sometimes when they are!"

I wanted to tell her about my first morning there, when a colleague came down from her room to the sitting room, sat on the couch, and started smoking a joint. For breakfast. Not a word of "Would you mind?" or "Is it okay if...?". Not wanting to avail of the second-hand dope-smoke, I had to go into my room and kill time on my laptop... This motif continued for the following four and a half months, as I didn't want to be a part of anything that was going on in that house.

I wanted to tell her all of this, but she cut me off, in a very curt, professional manner.
"Now Seán, I'm willing to let you express your concerns about the co-op, but don't bitch about the people you had to work with! Show some sense of professionalism."
I was so used to being talked down on and taking it on the chin, I'm not even sure if I replied. The topic of the Institute essentially ended on that note; me being reprimanded.



This is, of course, part of the reason my co-op report is as inhibited as it is (if you've read the below posts you'll know that my word choice is ironic). However, I have yet to hand it in, so nobody can avail of the many explicit warnings within. The final weeks of my co-op were spent working somewhere with actual educational merit, and I must construct a separate report that explains what I got up to there. This report will be the complete opposite of it's companion piece, and I'm hoping the juxtaposition between the two will show that I'm more than some lazy, begrudging bitter bastard, and someone who is willing to express an honest opinion.

To those students from the University of Limerick, or any other College anywhere in the world, who have been sentenced to misery by menial-labour, I have only one thing to say, and that is "Get out while you still can." For the love of Christ, don't hope that it'll get better and stick it out, no matter how much they promise you that more staff are on the way, or there's a quiet period coming up. Don't stay out of pride, or stubbornness, or fear that you've 'failed' by leaving and looking for something better, the Co-Op office should have given you a job that relates to your future career, and you shouldn't be there! It's not going to look very good on a CV/résumé that you spent 6 months scrubbing shit off of toilets, even if they were exotic "mainland Europe" toilets. Granted, since my time, there was a change in the upper-management, so maybe things are a little more reasonable, but that shouldn't be the point. You're in college, I assume you're there to ensure your future doesn't involve such derision, so why start now?

I'd like to end on the note that going to Leuven, despite the good that came with it, is still the closest I will ever come to making a decision that I will regret for the rest of my life.

"the good that came with it" (Note I'm wearing Dermo's shirt)

Belgium Week: The Debacle Continues

As mentioned more than once before, one of my few hobbies is editing videos that distil certain events into the highlights that were caught on tape. On occasion, a random idea will pop into my head, like a song that would complement a certain theme, and I’ll make a mental note of it, and get working on it as soon as possible. On the plane on the way over to Belgium, I thought of something nice; I was going to get the best photos and clips that I took, and edit them to the very sentimental song 'Wish you were here' by Incubus, as a sort of video-postcard for my friends and family. I had great ideas for this video, and had a loose framework of the kind of clips I wanted where, what transitions I was going to use, and a new technique I was going to employ to really push the sappy, sentimental angle.


This was going to be one of the first images you'd be confronted with

After a week in Leuven, I knew that this video would never see the light of day, because “I wish you were here” was a fate I’d never wish on any of my friends. I scrapped the idea, and after a month or two I thought I’d try again to get myself editing a video again, just for the sake of it. This one was going to use ‘The Adventure’ by Angels and Airwaves, and we got the first forty seconds into it without much effort, using the footage we took on our first trip to Brussels. Once we had squeezed every last shot out that we could, we were stumped as to what else we could put in - because we had few pictures or video footage of things that we’d want to remember, or even consider part of an ’adventure’. Rather than taking our minds off the miserable time we were having, our project only served to highlight the amount of things we wanted to forget about! I tried to complete it on my own, taking a different approach, but it fell asunder once more.

My demeanour in Belgium was a little different than usual. It was a joke that I was working there, and eventually living became one too. Every night, Dermot and I would lay in the bunk-beds, gossiping about the inane antics of our stupider colleagues and laughing at their expense, and asking all kinds of questions.

Every morning, like clockwork, before saying “good morning”, Dermot would announce how many days we had left, down to the half. More than a talking clock counting down to freedom, he was the guy who kept me sane during the entire debacle. We discussed other matters too; such as the first thing we’d do once our time was served, filling each other in on our real lives back home that we were eager to resume, and making countless morbid jokes about the sweet embrace of death, which tempted us with its instant release from our humiliation and degradation. Before you go re-reading that last one and panic, relax - it was 100% in jest, and more often than not, elaborately describing our comically grisly demises made for much mirth in the dark hours in the staff house.


Another of the photos from our first night... Pre-spirit breaking, of course!

Bear in mind that I’m only speaking on my behalf, but these are my better memories of the time I spent with Dermot in Belgium. Dermot was an oasis of intellectual stimulation in a barren desert of ignorance, and as a result was quickly catapulted into the ranks of my better friends and trusted confidant!

Anyways, I’m going to leave it at that for now; tomorrow should see the final entry or entries of Belgium Week, so be sure to check that out, and remember, comments are hugely appreciated!


Figgs gets special props for not being a plonker - cheers Figgs!

Belgium Week: More Co-Op Reportage

"Hey Dermo! I'll give ya a tenner if you skewer my heart with that corkscrew!"

This is the second instalment about my Co-Op Report, and this entry should see the scathing remarks intensifying. Rather than post in the entire thing (there’s some boring technical stuff that I won’t bore you with), here are the choice quotes from the Summary page, starting with the opening line.

The time I spent at the Louvain Institute for Ireland in Europe was a waste of my time. Reading this report may very well be a waste of yours. […] The Louvain Institute for Ireland in Europe scams its employees with the €110 a week 'trainee wage', which remains at that level regardless of the hours put in. It scams potential workers by telling them they'll be working 9 hour days, when 12-16 are more of a reality. It scams the Universities by misinforming them about the work and living arrangements their students will be a part of (we had to lie to the police about where we resided – what kind of an ethical organisation asks that of their workers?). […] Why should an English student have to make beds and scrub toilets? New Media and self-degradation have what in common? If I were doing European Studies, I could maybe understand why I was there, but since I wasn't, I considered it a failure of the coop office that such an option was being offered to students like myself. That's not to say UL should sever all ties with the Louvain Institute – if they ever offer a Janitor Studies course, it might justify the two organisations getting back in touch.

Shortly after my spirit broke, my back followed. Despite being diagnosed with Discus Bulging of the lower spine, and presenting my Doctor's note to my employer, I was still forced to engage in tasks of physical labour. I attempted to reason with the management to no avail. No amount of pleading would sway their decision, as they simply didn’t care about my welfare. When I brought the issue to the CoOp office and made my health-concerns known back home however, the institute dropped me like a sack of bricks. If I could glean nothing else from the CoOp, at least it has given me some peace of mind about the spinal defect that I have to live with for the rest of my life, as it spared me a month and a half of misery at the Louvain Institute for Ireland in Europe.

This picture was taken on the first night. It was six months before I ever saw Dermot Murphy smile again...

So that’s the Summary... So I’m ready to paste in more stuff from the Learning Opportunities page, and I honestly can’t believe some of the stuff I wrote here! Without further ado;

The learning opportunities were minimal at the Louvain Institute for Ireland in Europe, in terms of what can be applied to my course of study, or even life. It did, however, present me with numerous opportunities to indulge in drunken, drug-fuelled revelry and fornication. Here is a non-exhaustive list of the Learning Opportunities afforded to me by my Co-Op Experience, many of which I knew of already, some are activities that those who were content at the Institute got up to, so they're here just to take up space.

● Smuggling illegal drugs such as marijuana and hashish into Belgium is easily facilitated by a quick train to Amsterdam and a rucksack
● Cleaning caked-on human excrement off a toilet seat is best accomplished by squirting cleaning product directly onto the faeces, then leaving it to dissolve away the faecal matter until the smell rises, after which a damp sponge may be employed in a vigorous scrubbing manner.
● Without mental stimulation at work, a human being is capable of going into a trance-like state, wherein they carry out their work in a robotic fashion, all the while thinking of the other place where they wish they were
● During the aforementioned state of extreme boredom, certain items of cutlery take on unique personalities based on their distinctive markings
● Changing a beer keg is not difficult. Having to lug it half a mile around a hilly, cobblestoned town to where it has to be hooked up is the hard part
● Lower back pain can be exacerbated by the motions employed when clearing and setting tables
● There are people utterly devoid of ambition in this world who put up with incredible amounts of misery so long as they are granted occasional access to alcohol and/or drugs
● Ignorant people can, and do rise to positions where they can abuse young people
● A person can spend a solid 138 days of regretting a poor decision they made, until such time as they are freed from their misery
● The medical system in Belgium is highly efficient
● Living in a mouldy, damp house is a good way to develop an intestinal infection
● 'Flushing out' an infected intestine is a messy process
● Not all Co-op is worthwhile
● Fairly laid-back, easygoing people are capable of being remoulded into misanthropic, embittered shells of their former selves

Quite the denunciation, yes? But don't get me wrong, I’m not looking for sympathy, being the sort of person I am, I can see the positive side to having something to write about on a blog! The point of these entries is to emphasise the absurdity of the situation that I was sent to that desolate place with an educational value of nil as part of a four year degree course!

Belgium Week: The Co-op Report

"Seán, please kill me"

Part of the co-op experience is writing a report where you describe the organisation, and what you learned from your time spent there. This presented me with a challenge, as I learned pretty much nothing over those five months or so, yet I was required to meet my word quota. Of course, I decided my report would serve to entertain myself while highlighting the atrocity that was the University of Limerick being willing to send a New Media and English student to stoop over toilets for half a year (although that’s not quite how they pitched it to me before I left).

For your reading pleasure, I will now copy and paste in excerpts from my actual co-op report, which has not yet been submitted to UL, but will be once it’s finished. I am 100% behind what I am saying here, and they have been in no way altered for this blog entry.

Work Skills Page
UL’s co-op site asks that students discuss skills they have improved or gained under a number of suggested categories, of which many were incompatible with my experiences (does using a mop count as ‘ICT Skills’?). Don’t worry, dear reader, for I made do with what I could!

They asked for evidence of ‘Basic Work Skills';
●Reporting to work as scheduled and on time.
●Dressing appropriately for work.
●Having an awareness of how formal personal interactions in the employing organisation are.

So here is how I fulfilled these requirements:

Basic Work Skill
Working at the Institute, the only 'skill' that could be learned is that of basic work. The work is uninteresting, difficult, unrewarding, excessive, demeaning, and entirely unsuited to an English student. What follows is the obligatory spiel about how I learned to conduct myself at work;
● I showed up on time for work. This task is achieved by setting an alarm clock to wake up oneself at a time that will allow them to report to work before they are scheduled to begin. It is important to show up for work on time, as otherwise fellow workers and managers will get upset, and that would be bad.
● I dressed appropriately for work. This involved putting on a pair of black pants – operated by putting the left and right legs into their respective areas of the garment, pulling up the zipper, and fastening the button. I wore a belt with these pants – it wraps around the pants through the designated hoops, and stays together by means of passing a bar through the appropriate notch. Belts are important because they prevent gravity from removing one's pants – which could lead to the exposure of one's underpants or even genitals during work. I wore a white shirt to cover my arms and torso. The shirt works in a very similar manner to the pants, only instead of surrounding your legs, arms are what holds the garment in place. The buttons are then fastened, and the shirt is tucked into the aforementioned pants. This tucking is the hardest part of the job, as one must uniformly have the same amount of shirt hanging over the brim of the pants.
● Formal personal interactions were never explicitly outlined to me, but being an intelligent type, I assumed that swearing, sexual advancements and screaming were all examples of inappropriate behaviour in front of guests.

Cultural/International Awareness
● I learned the basic pleasantries in Flemish – I would've liked to learn more, but the free lessons that we had been promised by the Institute turned out to be hot air, and attending lessons at the University in town would cost me more money than I was willing to pay.
● I learned a lot about the Belgian culture while not at work, such as their bars are only legally required to close for one hour a day to clean, and certain denizens seem to have an affinity for headbutting strangers in nightclubs

UL Sez Communication Skills involve;
●Listening to others in an effective and attentive manner.
●Participating effectively in meetings and/or group settings.
●Developing the ability to read and understand written materials.
●Communicating ideas and concepts clearly both verbally and in writing.
●Recognising the importance of non-verbal communication.

I think I illustrate my proficiency in communication with these easily digested, bulleted points;

Communication Skills
● I learned that when the boss says she doesn't “give a shit” - it means that you've lost your argument and it's time to give in.
● Non-verbal communication is used in many interactions. When you can feel your boss's evil glare burning a hole in your forehead, you know that she doesn't care about what it is you're saying.
● I learned that unless you get something written down and signed, it means nothing. Furthermore, the early warning system of that person who promised you something avoiding eye contact / any contact with you lets you know when you are about to get screwed over for the umpteenth time.
● The most motivational weapon in a trainee-manager's arsenal is the word 'fuck'. Examples of this include “If you don't get this done by two o'clock – you're fucked”, and “I don't care if your shift was supposed to end four hours ago – just fucking do it”.

This report has not yet been submitted to the UL co-op office, and it seems I must also get someone from the institute to sign it, which should lead to some interesting correspondence. Tomorrow, I will be posting a few more bits and pieces from my report that continue this diatribe.

But what do you think? Does come across as a tad bitter? Do you think it's funny? Will UL appreciate my unflinching honesty in my attempts to stretch what little educational merits were to be found in the Louvain Institute for Ireland in Europe?

You guys know where the comments section is by now, yes?

Belgium Week: Dermot's Limerick

After e-mailing Dermot asking him to contribute to this 'special' feature week, he replied with what I think is a hilarious Limerick that sums up our initial experiences nicely. I was going to post it later in the week, but since it sets the tone of us laughing at ourselves, it makes more sense to put it up here first!

The only thing you should know before reading this is that our co-op was organised by 'Searson'; a woman who is not on my Christmas card list.

Take it away, Dermo!



What do you guys think? I'm going to leave my comments in the comments section, hope to see you there!

Doing What I do Best...?

It's the 28th of January, 2007. This is a significant date for me, and my old friend Dermot, who, one year ago, boarded a plane to Belgium, eager to begin our learning experiences as University of Limerick students outside the classroom, commencing the obligatory Co-Op segment of our respective courses.

Over the next five days or so, to 'commemorate' this occasion, I will post a few entries that pertain to the time I spent working at the Louvain Institute for Ireland in Europe. Allow me to set the tone by saying I hated it the second I got there, and hoped it would get better, but it never did!

Not saying it was all bad, truth be told, there was a certain amount of fun to be had when I was as far away as possible from that place (I got a chance to fall in love with Germany all over again one weekend). I made a few friends that I still remember fondly to this day (which is rare for a misanthrope such as myself).

I've asked Dermot to contribute something over the coming days, and I'm hoping we can fill the next week with some interesting posts, but that is quite a daunting proposition with all the schoolwork I've to catch up on because of my weekend in Chicago! Be sure to comment and steer this feature where you want to see it go, and enjoy some of the more voyeuristic posts on this blog!

Spam: Saviour of Human Race?

While clearing the hundreds of Spam e-mails from my Yahoo! (they spell it with an exclamation mark, so I do too) Mailbox, something startling came to my attention; see for yourself.





In case you're like me, and rarely enlarge those pictures, or you just missed it, here's a close up of what I was hoping you'd notice.



It seems that at 10.14pm, Greenwich Mean Time, on Monday, the eighteenth of January, in the year two thousand and thirty eight, the human race will finally be able to communicate with the past! I would guess that after years of government testing, the technology finally leaked to the private sector. The thirties are a desolate place for small businesses, as a handful of dictators control what little resources remain on Earth after the years of chemical and nuclear warfare that ravaged it for over 12 years.

It seems that in this future dystopia, the English language has morphed into something that scarcely reflects the tongue we are familiar with today, as most of the Commonwealth is underwater, and refugees from the various English speaking nations have failed to preserve the language in the form we know today. Grammar is loose and sloppy, and spelling inconsistent as a result.

From my observations on these artefacts from the future, I ascertain that the only consumer goods that will be allowed are replica Rolex watches. Since the introduction of curfews in the early thirties, most of humankind needs to know the time, all the time, but sadly most cannot afford this luxury. As trigger-happy guards of the hegemonic systems of government have lowered world population considerably, these businesses have begun advertising in the past to boost revenues.

This is an exciting time to be alive, as we can now converse with our future selves and learn from our mistakes. Do we use it for good, and see what the next 30 years have taught us about Global Warming? Or do we use it for personal gain, and find out sound business investments and which sports teams to bet on?

My friends, we are entering a brave new epoch of humankind, and with the foresight of tomorrow's hindsight, there’s never been a better time to live on this planet we call Earth.


I’m sorry... This is what happens when English students get Spam and feel like blogging about it... In my defence, I got very little sleep last night, and I do apologise for making you read through this!

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

Wow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Internet as a learning tool? Pshaw!

Lately I've found myself using YouTube more and more for video-tutorials on Photoshop and complicated video-editing software, as both are hobbies of mine, but in the process I stumbled across a very interesting video from Dove's Campaign for Real Beauty.

It shows a not-extraordinary looking woman (I'm trying to be diplomatic withh my choice of words here) being transformed into something you'd usually find on the front of a magazine, or in this case, a billboard... Just watch it and you'll see what I mean, it won't take a minute (it'll actually take a minute and a quarter).



Staggering, yes? Seems there has been videos like this on YouTube before this ad surfaced, (which may have been where Dove got the idea) but you can see something even more extreme happening here - although it's done in a more technical style, so you'd probably be more interested in the final comparison shot.

Lastly, and just as an aside, because I personally found this hilarious - it being the kind of response I'd post to this new YouTube fad; somebody spoofed it! Here it is...

I was always aware that photos in magazines were being airbrushed, erasing blemishes and other such imperfections, but I never considered the kind of manipulation that's apparrent here! Stretching out necks? Shrinking and curving shoulders? Enlarging a girl's eyes? I'm a little ashamed that I can find a girl with such cartoon-like features attractive!

These videos also evoke a sense of jealousy from me - I want to be that good at Photoshop! Maybe then the pics on this blog will be more Calvin Klein, and less Shrek!