Sully's Soapbox: Political Correctness

[Mario Party 8 Recalled due to disability slur]

Christ.

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agree? Disagree? I want to hear about it!

Smooth Ride?

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



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

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

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

Win Sully's boughten love!

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

Coiffeurphobic

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

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

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

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

I'd still go back to him again though.

Why?

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

Best conversation with a barber I've ever had.

My Skit

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

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

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

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

Right then - on with the show!

Typical

Oh dear, oh dear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Vanilla-Sully"

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

I am a different person during air-travel.

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

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

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

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

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

Take That Jocelyn Nova!

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

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

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



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

What the @&$#??

I've been robbed!

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

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



Look familiar?

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

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

Egregious Emotional Ejaculation, Anyone?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One From the Road - Procuring a Telecommunications Device

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cartridge World is stealing from me

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

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

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

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

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

I have three theories:

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

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

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

Which do you think is most likely?

Hooked on Phonics

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

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

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

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

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

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

At Least my Luck is Consistent!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hardest Part is Saying Goodbye...

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



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

SWAG!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sully's Poetry Corner

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

Bedtime Story

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

They didn't live happily ever after.

Real posts coming soon, I promise!

My 'Happily Ever After'

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

"We're cutting you a cheque"

Great!

Well, actually, he said

"We're cutting you a check"

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

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

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

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

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

Hope you're looking forward to it.

Vindication?

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

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



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

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

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

Giving Taking Back Sunday my Saturday

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

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

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

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


Pretty damn close.

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

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



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