Of course, you need proof of address to get a PPS number too. They recommend using a recent bank statement. For a moment, I thought I was in a classic Catch-22 situation. Upon a moment’s quiet reflection and a quiet reminder that Ireland is a good and reasonable place, I stumbled upon a solution.

The Social Welfare office will not bat an eyelash if you show up with your passport, residency card, and your Irish spouse’s proof of address. I brought my marriage cert to provide the crucial link between me and my spouse, something I considered necessary given we have different surnames, but the civil servant waved it away and said “We don’t need your marriage cert, this is fine.” Apparently being able to place your hands on a piece of mail is both necessary and sufficient for proving one lives in Ireland.

Then again, it might have been that the mail I chose was a confirmation letter regarding the wire of money from my American bank account to the Wanderer’s Irish one. Wires are serious business, as was the quantity of money being wired. (Pro tip: If you’re wiring money abroad, verify the receiving bank can deal with foreign currency and wire the money in your home currency. The rate will be better. Free money is a good thing.)

The stars have been aligned for me this week. Registration was painless and almost enjoyable. The weather has been sunny and mild, even straying into Angelino levels of lovely. And when I showed up at the Social Welfare office armed with hours and hours of knitting, expecting to queue behind hundreds of dole/welfare recipients signing for their cheques, there was no one there save a cheerful civil servant who watched me take a ticket, then called me over. The entire PPS number application process took about ten minutes, and that was only because I took the time to fill out the form in legible block capitals.

Now I really don’t have an excuse for not finding a job.

Of course, it was that easy.

The immigration office had moved since I last had to deal with it, and had upgraded significantly. I insisted on getting there as early as we could to avoid day-long queues, so by 9:45 we’d arrived and had gotten a number. By 10:30, we were walking out the door with a registration card (it looks like a standard ID card and has a chip with my fingerprints on) and permission for me to stay and work for 5 years.

There was no: trouble over having a different surname, questioning over what exactly I plan to do here, request for evidence of cohabitation, suspicious looks implying somehow I am trying to cheat them out of their lovely country and culture, fee of any kind.

There were: smiles, clear and kind instructions, fast and efficient service, and astonished respect that I’d managed to preserve my registration documents from when I was here years ago. (“That thing is ancient,” I had been told at passport control. The people in immigration passed it around with reverence, flipping carefully through the pages as if they would crumble into dust if poorly treated.)

I suspect many things contributed to my experience, some of them a result of hard work and planning, others mere luck of birth. They did not check my qualifications or ask for my title, but I did list my occupation as “scientist.” Not only was I married to a local, I had an Irish marriage certificate and it was clear that the marriage had taken – after four years, such things stop being convenient and people start taking you seriously even if you’re applying for a visa. I think being American, fluent in English, and white helped significantly, though I did notice people ahead of me from Afghanistan and Cameroon who were processed just as easily as me without being white or American (though they may well have been fluent English speakers).

In any case, it’s done now and I have no excuse for not finding a job.

Instead, you can have a written account.

The convention this year had several surreal elements to it. The first one was the Friday night was better attended than before. I have to say that I was impressed with the numbers. People came down and played in the LARP, and we were introduced to the fact that Doom had taken the lead of a platoon of L5R-playing Germans, who he led through the con and straight into the Sudetenland.

The LARPs seemed to run fairly consistently well. I heard good things about the Fan & Sabre, including the fact that the whole LARP were dancing in a courtly fashion, which must have been quite the scene.

We had at least 4 tables for tabletops for each event. There is a definite correlation between having BRO as your RPG dude and good RPG attendance. It’s been shown at Gaelcon and Leprecon now. A Kudo each to him & Siskington.

The Guest for the Con was Richard Borg, creator of Memoir ’44. I have to say, Richard proved a superlative guest. He added a friendly, avuncular quality. Richard was very eager and joined in games, told interesting stories, and even spent some time playing with the two baby con attendees this year. I had the honour of victory over him in the inaugural Battle of Hoth, under Rebel Alliance General Honan’s direction. The real heroes of Hoth were Princess Organa, and her unit composed of elements from the Echo Base Reserve Fizz Band, Woodwind section. Led by Senator Organa, the Bith managed not only to inflict critical damage to an AT-At, but drive the 20 metre tall walker back across the open, snowy battlefield. Though none of the Bith survived a second engagement with the Imperial Walker, another unit under my command delivered the killer blow after Gorman made me re-roll my victorious grenade result.

2009 will live as a year of infamy for another reason. This year, Le Mysterieux Table Cinq de Monté Cristo was defeated by Sample Number Nine. I am still in considerable shock, but suffice to say that we will be back next year, with a fully armed and armoured battle station.

The staff and committee this year were awesome. The Con went off with surprising ease, and all the good numbers (attendees, kotei, players at games) were up. We even had free pizza from Just-Eat, which rocked.

The closing ceremony was fun. Noodle instigated Order 66, which left the committee a smoking ruin of nerf-clustered corpses. We also had a short slide show to remember icecream by. I will leave that below for your perusal.

Closing

In the interim, I have a few fun internet things to post. None of them is a post of its own, but together, they might be nice.

Irish Lawyer Fergus O’Rourke points to interesting figures from the Economist, that explore the details about the mind of the Irish electorate.It seems that Europe is still popular in Ireland, and the final analysis seems to point to the notion that the case was simply not made for the treaty. It points to the fact that there is a clear need for an Irish political body which is pro-Europe, but more skeptical than our current parties.

Techdirt has an article on university patents and how they have harmed basic research. It’s an area of considerable interest to me, especially as I am moving towards a big research project. There is huge pressure in Ireland to get IP income out of research, but it seems to me that since most of the IP goes to startups, and that very few patents anywhere make money, the restrictive nature of the current model *is* hurting innovation. On the other hand, patents can work. The University of Nottingham has MRI (I think) machnes to thank for being differentiated financially from a whole slew of Universities in the UK.

You probably missed Hug a Developer Day, if you did, shame on you. Code Monkeys are people too.

Ok, I know everyone is sick of the election already, so I held these to the end: Hating Obamawith Gerard Baker in the Times. McCain is a lying liar by Krugman in the NYT.

Perhaps I should serve cake at my viva voce.

For the uninitiated, I was best man at the wedding of Eamon and Lizzy at the weekend. The event was held in the grandest of venues, St. Patrick’s Cathedral. The synopsis is that the ceremony was glorious, and the bride stole the show. My main job was to keep Eamon standing and pointed in the
right direction for the day.

As per usual, I had been flying around in last-minute order getting haircuts, rehearsing ceremonies and collecting presents on the day before. There had been several sizeable setbacks, but these were
overcome with the power of love (and a flame thrower). For the most part, my duties had been completed some time ago, Eamon having been brought to stag in Dublin and North Wales.

The Wedding Day itself began early in Eamon’s House. A promise of Tootsie Royale cooking brekkie was the payout for an early morning journey, and delish it was too. Trips to town for cuff-links and
trimmed beards and socks left us dressed for the event with only minutes to spare.

The Groom’s party were all dressed in white cotton shirts and John Buform Memorial Club ties.

We had hoped to take a taxi to the door of the Cathedral, but our driver was a man of infinite shortcuts beset by transfinite traffic. A short dash through the gardens of the cathedral was the only way we got there near to time.

It has often been said that organising gamers is like herding hyperactive cats. The process of trying to get Mr.Target, Savage, Kindermord and I in the same seats at the same time was a powerful example. Due to late sword arrival, Savage was outside a lot; the Groom was doing his duty and
pressing flesh, but I was the one under the keen eye of the vicar, charged with timing.

It was a process of “I’ll go get him – No, stay here and I’ll get him” and so on. All through, I could see icecream popping up and firing off shots with his camera, and my mental “priest smiting photographer” guage was reaching the danger mark.

Everything settled down to the ceremony, where I was left on watch to notify Eamon of the approach of his dearest. I stood just behind him and to his right, with savage beside me and Target taking the extreme right.

The whole day was defined by being the first of the party to see Lizzy walking down, and to hear Eamon’s gasp as he turned at my signal. The poor man must have been on fire trying to keep his face forward as he heard the approaching bride. Still, he held out and all for the bettter.

The actual ceremony went very well, despite being out of order compared to the schedule and the rehearsal. We murdered the hymns – if I were a praying man I would be in penance for the
pain we have no doubt caused the innocent authors of those songs.

I didn’t drop the rings or get them stuck on my hand. Every time I looked at the floor, my grip felt less firm and the gratings looked more like deep, endless chasms into which I would doubtlessly cast the delicate bands of light.

The sword arch which savage organised turned out extremely well. Savage and I were lucky to have
the best view of the newly-minted couple sharing their first public kiss, and we avoided giving Eamon
an extra shave as he walked past.

There were some lovely pictures taken in the grounds of St. Patrick’s before we left for the reception. I’d like to apologise again for closed eyes / wayward limbs while we were posing.

The reception was held in a unique building. The house on Henrietta St. was pared back to a state in part of on-going restoration. The Early Georgian décor and large, echoing rooms made for a perfect feeling in character with the rest of the event.

There were speeches, drinks, excellent food and cigars. I elicited more wrath by leading Siskey, Lynn and BRO into dangerous, aunt-filled waters by taking main course food at an inopportune time. We had to exile ourselves to the garden in order to remain safe.

My own speech was rather a nice experience, despite the terror I felt. I felt that I stumbled through it, and it was all the harder to deliver some of the points with the happy couple standing on the stairs beside me … ready to push if I put a word wrong.

Thankfully, I had a generous and indulgent audience, and so I was not left with too much metaphorical tumbleweed.

The rest of the night is largely a blur, though I have distinct memories of Siskey running drunkenly down the street, and of Gorman securing a bottle of Jameson from what was doubtless the very most reputable licensee.

I’d like to extend my thanks again to Savage, Target and Honoraray Groomsman Tootsie for all the Honan-wrangling. I would like to thank everyone who attended either of the two events to honour Mr. Honan’s passing, and finally, I would like to thank Rose of Skye and Icecream for their photos.

When it comes to the EU, Irish political debate goes from the stupid to the random. The yes side trot out the dire warnings about lost influence and lost opportunity. They tell us that Ireland will be so hated that the only food we will be able to import will be leftover Soviet-era sausages, still in rusty radioactive cans.

On the other side, the No people warn us that we will all be conscripted into a European Vierte Reich, and that this new super army will be used to oppress the free dictators of the world. The No camp is somewhat undecided as to whether EU fascism is a puppet of American Imperialism, or its own brand.

The most recent additions to this movement have been a rejuvenated Catholic extreme right, who are anti-gay and worry that the EU will make us all gay. As Dixie has shown, the damage that gay rights have done to California have left it a dry, arid wasteland.

My favourite poster is one presented by flickr user Editor_tupp:

The vote is on Thursday, June 12^th. In ‘Coven tradition, I am not going to tell you how to vote, but I am going to say that if you don’t vote, you’re letting the terrorists/neo-cons/gays/straights/lolcats* win.

*delete as appropriate

Many refugees found a reasonable shelter in Mahaffy’s, named for the celebrated Egyptologist, John Pentland Mahaffy, friend and mentor of Oscar Wilde.

Mahaffy’s was also a home to gamers for many years, and a literal home to Computer Science postgrads, who lived in the apartments above the pub. There was even a direction antenna built
from a pringle can on the roof.

After the owner of Mahaffy’s, a man named Paddy (I think), died, there was a need to refurbish the building, which is listed as protected. Despite a recent renovation, and new tape on the seats, the watering hole’s clientele moved away from TCD and towards locals.

Most recently, Mahaffy’s has been re-renovated once again. The paintwork is rather nice, but there is one glaring problem:

The name. Mahaffy’s memory is gone, in favour of a new name, the Lombard, complete with a white square.

I am sorry to bring grim news to you, my friends, and I hope the shock will not cause too many womenfolk to swoon in dangerous places.

As soon as I have the chance, I will post a review.

Things are a little different now, and it’s not just the templates and the truncated archives.

I can’t stop making jokes about Bertie Ahern’s resignation, probably because he’s the only Taoiseach I’ve ever known. Yes, I’m familiar with names of previous ones (Charles Haughey springs to mind as one I’ve read a bit about), but Bertie has held the improbably spelled office since before I even considered Ireland as a possible place to study during college.

Naturally, my first thought was “Geez, he found out the Wanderer was back in the country and hightailed it out of there.” Isn’t Bertie from the Wanderer’s district?

It’s been a turbulent week. The annual group meeting looms large on the horizon, and while I have most of my slides done the talk still isn’t ready. There are a few reasons for this. One, I found out this morning I should get slides from other people in the group, so I can offer a broader picture of the methods rather than stupifying the audience with picture after picture of butoxamine structures. Two, it’s still not clear how long the presentation is supposed to be. Last time I checked, it was scheduled for 15 minutes, but it might go down to 10 or up to 20 or 25.

I have 26 slides of my own, and that was without trying very hard. I’m going to be delivering this presentation like the Micro Machines guy.

Meanwhile, the house is shockingly empty. Without the computers, paints, and Penny Arcade books strewn about, there’s a chance the place will be clean and tidy once I manage to get home and hoover. Once that’s achieved, I’ll start packing the essentials (books, wool) and throwing out stuff I don’t really need. (I have office supplies from the mid-90s that have been carried from dorm room to dorm room for nearly a decade.) The Wanderer and I learned it costs an eye-popping $80 to send a modestly sized 18-pound box from LA to Dublin, which means a lot of stuff is going to have to go.

As a long-time packrat with a terror of waking up one morning and needing something I once had but threw away in a fit of decluttering, this will require a significant amount of willpower.

Speaking of willpower, the New York Times writes a little on it in the context of “If you have to cut down on spending because of the recession, you’re probably going to gain weight because you just don’t have the willpower.” They include a list of activities that “deplete willpower:”

Other activities that deplete willpower include resisting food or drink, suppressing emotional responses, restraining aggressive or sexual impulses, taking exams and trying to impress someone.

No wonder academics are such lushes.

Personally, I’m handling the recession by sending half the family off to earn euros. That’s what everyone else would do if they could.