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26.7.06

The Mandamus Project

"Well, there's only so much drama I can stand, and this is just about as far as I will bend. So get your hands off my lapel, because I think it's time to go."

From the AP wire:
Literary World Stunned As Controversial Blogger Announces 'Punk Rock Space-Opera'

Reclusive blogger Michael O'Mahony called a brief press conference in downtown Los Angeles this afternoon, announcing his intention to bring the world its first Punk Rock Space Opera. O'Mahony, who arrived at the gathering on a rickshaw driven by his man-servant, Chico, told reporters that the "book, or series of books, will chronicle the adventures of General Mandamus, a grizzled veteran of many complex and pointless wars."

O'Mahony's announcement comes on the heels of a lengthy and well publicised battle with the USCIS. This has led many commentators to speculate that the author may well be preparing himself to go head-to-head with the federal government. "Michael is a great believer in massive retaliation," said his mother, speaking to reporters on the doorstep of her home in the suburbs of London. "He clearly intends to take matters into his own hands with this Mandamus thing."

Manadamus, meaning "we command" in Latin, has its most common use in legal terminology, with a Writ Of Mandamus being issued by a complainant to a government, corporation, or public authority in order to remedy defects of justice. It is more commonly known in California law as the Writ Of Mandate.

"Really? I had no idea," O'Mahony told reporters. "My intention was merely to write the kind of romance novel Barbara Cartland would have written if you'd filled her with Black Acid, chained her to a typewriter, and told her that at least one alien shitbag had to have his ass handed to him every other paragraph."

"This is not about a personal vendetta," he continued, signalling to Chico as he climbed down from a specially erected platform. "This is about justice. The story of General Mandamus must and shall be heard. I have been in touch with many publishers, and they have offered me money and favours for my words, no Green Card required. I have proved that not even the most powerful nation on the face of the planet can stop art."

A USCIS spokesman refused to comment on The Mandamus Project or O'Mahony's quest to destroy all they hold dear and true, stating that: "We do not talk about individual cases."

"Of course they don't," laughed O'Mahony. "Give them the question in writing, they may get back to you in a year or two." With that, the heroic young artist leapt into his rickshaw, turning to briefly acknowledge the applause of the crowd before officially ending the press conference by cracking a bullwhip across Chico's bare back and screaming "Avante!" as they made a rapid departure.

O'Mahony Vs The United States Of America

"Smeared black ink; your palms are sweaty, and I'm barely listening to last demands. I'm staring at the asphalt, wondering what's buried underneath where I am."
"When a naturalization application takes longer than 120 days to adjudicate from the date of the naturalization examination, an applicant is permitted to bring a lawsuit in federal court and a judge can determine the outcome of the application (INA Section 336). Applicants have recently been filing claims under this section of law where they have completed their naturalization interview, more than 120 days have passed since the interview, and where the application is still pending due to a delay with the FBI name check."

Woo! The countdown starts today, kids! 118 days until I file a WRIT OF MANDAMUS (how fucking awesome does that sound?) on their asses. O'Mahony Vs The United States Of America? Oh, it's on.

24.7.06

Weeping And Screaming And Shaking Their Fists

"Hey, you are me, not so pretty. All the world I've seen before me passing by. Silent, my voice. I've got no choice. All the world I've seen before me passing by."

Even the longest and most dramatic of stories can end with a whimper rather than a bang. For two years, the main thread of this particular story has been a strange and romantic quest to cross the world and get the girl without being dragged away by swarthy men in uniforms.

But then, just after eleven this morning, the girl in question and I emerged blinking into the strange, bright silence of Civic Center Plaza. We'd accidentally deviated from the prescribed route, and this had somehow led us to a square of semi-developed land that was empty save for a few lost-looking strangers and a woman with a hot dog cart. We were hemmed in on all sides by faceless buildings with no identifying names or numbers. Finding the federal building looked to be a tall order.

Fortunately, we stumbled upon a helpful sign with a key that showed us where we were and which building was which. Not so fortunately, the next helpful sign we came to after five minutes of walking told us that we were in the exact same place. Clearly, this had been some fiendish sign-maker's idea of a joke.

Or maybe not. It occured to me a short while later, when the girl in question and I were sat in yet another of the clean and brightly-lit rooms full of chairs that have dogged my life for the last two years, that these waiting areas had, over that period of time, been getting smaller and smaller. As recently as last November, I'd been sat in a room at the American Embassy in London that might have better been described as a hall. As is always the case with these things, many were called but few were chosen. Since last winter, the people from the Embassy have been pared down and scattered, denied their dreams or simply sent to other cities in other states. Still others, I'm sure, have been defeated by the steep financial requirements, or become lost in the reams of complex paperwork, much of which has to be submitted three, four, even five times. The same forms, over and over.

And maybe, when all was said and done, some of the immigrants that had leapt every hurdle, hit every curve ball, and ducked every sucker punch...maybe some of those immigrants found themselves wandering around what appeared to be a half-finished industrial estate on the hottest day in the history of everything, trying to find an umarked building amongst a sea of same. And maybe one or two of those immigrants, upon realising that the sign they were reading was lying to them, well, maybe they just lost it. Maybe they are, even now, staggering around in downtown Santa Ana, weeping and screaming and shaking their fists at passers-by.

We were taken from the clean and brightly-lit room to a small office, where the USCIS woman engaged us in what appeared, on the surface, to be a pleasant conversation. But I am a veteran of their schemes now, and I understood exactly what was going on when she began asking when Jenn and I had met, what my parents names were, when and where we got married, what my date of birth was...she was checking we were telling the truth.

A year-and-a-half of these forms, remember, many of them in double triplicate. A year-and-a-half of interviews and inoculations, medicals and official documents. A year-and-a-half of the most comprehensive and infuriating background check you could possibly carry out on a person...and they needed another interview. You know, just to be sure.

Of course, everything was ship-shape and squared away and whatever other stupid fucking terms you might care to apply to paperwork we could now almost certainly organise in our sleep, and at the end of the interview I was essentially granted my Green Card. I say 'essentially' because, well...I'm being investigated by the FBI.

Sadly, that's nowhere near as cool as it sounds. It's a check they run on your name and your fingerprints, and according to the USCIS, the check on my name hasn't come back yet. Which is silly. I've seen CSI, and I know these background checks are comprised only of several seconds of speed-typing followed by some bleeps. Then again, with the USCIS involved, it'll probably be several years before we hear anything.

So that's it. I mean, I don't have the Green Card yet, but as soon as the name check comes back it'll be in the mail. I'm done. I'm a resident. It's all over bar the shouting.

But you know what? I don't believe it. Not for a second. Until I have possession of that card, until I'm actually holding the little sucker in my hand, I'm going to be sitting here waiting. You see, the way the immigration system works, and the way it's treated us these last eighteen months, I figure there's about a 50/50 chance of the other shoe dropping in the form of sixteen heavily-armed federal agents kicking down the apartment door and dragging me off to Guantanamo Bay for crimes unknown.

21.7.06

Whores Truly

I have a small request to make of you, regular reader. As you may or may not be aware, the financial aspect of my recent move to the United States has always been somewhat precarious. Unfortunately, it now borders on a crisis. This is largely due to the pathetic performance of the USCIS as regards enabling me to find work in this country.

But blame is not the issue. The issue is that I have decided to whore myself. My talents, I mean. No, not those talents. My writing. SO...if you know anybody that requires the PAID services of a creative and talented boy such as myself, be it for press releases, reviews, blog posts, or anything else related to my preternatural skills, I'd be honoured if you could let either them or me know at the earliest possible juncture. Speed is of the essence.

Thanks in advance for any help,
Michael

PS: Any offers of charity will be aggressively rejected.

18.7.06

You've Got Red On You

"Sometimes I doubt your commitment to Sparkle Motion."

Woo! It's the return of five-word movie reviews:

Transamerica: This was overrated but heartwarming.

Underworld Evolution: Vampire, werewolves, effects, mild amusement.

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang: Robert Downey Jr., my hero.

16 Blocks: Just a wee bit shit.

The Hills Have Eyes: Enjoyably disturbing, but crap nonetheless.

Night Watch:
It's better than Underworld Evolution.

Syriana: Found to be thoroughly enjoyable.

Find Me Guilty: Diesel in 'not shit' shocker.

The Matador: Great little movie. Thumbs up.

Pirates Of The Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest: Good, but not that good.

Having watched both Underworld Evolution and the new Pirates Of The Caribbean this month, I've discovered that I can no longer see Bill Nighy onscreen without turning to whoever is beside me and announcing: "You've got red on you."

Some Kind Of Mutant Blood Leech

"It's all out of context. There's nothing I'm into. Call it a complex, it's really quite simple. I'm tired of these hang ups. I wish someone would call me back. How about it?"

Long days in Orange County. The heat comes heavy and early, and even the fan can't keep me in bed once the sun comes up. Most of the time it's just about bearable, but every now and then the little things tip it over the edge of intolerable; a little extra humidity in the air, or the occasional death of the almost-constant breeze that makes going outside okay. I never understood what people meant when they described this period as the dog days of summer. Not until now.

The USCIS continues to be the villain of this lethargic pantomine. I am ready, willing, and able to work, but my details have yet to be entered into whatever system requires them so that the Social Security folks can issue me a number and make my life that much easier. At the moment, the Great Job Hunt is working around this near-crippling handicap by calling upon its protagonist's lengthy history of charm, evasiveness, and pathological lying.

The fantastic thing about the USCIS, in this instance, is this: you cannot contact them. There are no numbers to call, no addresses to write. The people processing this part of my application are, to all intents and purposes, invisible. This is beginning to bother me. I am storing up unhealthy amounts of apopleptic rage. It is giving me nervous tics. These will likely continue until some fucker finds themselves on the receiving end of my frustration.

The Great Job Hunt is, as we speak, in a state of mild anticipation. I have somehow reached deep enough into the barrel to scrape a possible job at Target off its bottom. This was the result of Jennifer's attempts to motivate me yesterday afternoon. I was feeling despondent and not a little bit annoyed, and she seized the opportunity to drag me out into the world. She was right to do so, of course, but I am weary and bored and much too hot, and every action is taken reluctantly. Target was actually yesterday's second choice, behind an opening in a sandwich shop that turned out to be run by more weird Asian people.

Maybe there's some obscure Asian nation out there that just bundled all of its mental patients onto a boat bound for the west coast of America one day. Now they sell books and sandwiches and always have job vacancies because any potential applicants run screaming from their doors.

So I filled out the super-patronising electronic application at Target, and then picked up the big red phone they keep by the computer so you can call them up and go, "Finished!" They decided they wanted to interview me immediately, and I was ordered to the Food Court to await my inquisition. There I stayed until a girl who must have been about twelve came to explain that there was nobody available to interview me. Could I come back tomorrow at nine?

Of course I could.

Cue this morning, and a bizarre allergic reaction to substances unknown that left me with an unnaturally bloated upper lip. I wasn't aware of anything more than a tingling sensation and a strange swelling when I walked into Target, but when I got home and saw myself in the mirror, I realised just what a fine job the people I had interacted with had done of concealing their utter terror at my appearing to have some kind of Mutant Blood Leech pulsating on my face.

The comedy continued when the girl at customer services called upstairs to tell my interviewer I was here. "Michael has arrived for his interview," she said, and listened to the reply before glancing back at me. "Your second name?" she asked.

"O'Mahony," I replied.

"Michael Armani," the girl told the phone.

I was once again directed to the food court, where I sat playing with my lip until a guy whose name badge announced that he was Mathew came over. "You're Michael?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Armani?"

"O'Mahony," I said, and spelled it for him.

"And your Social Security Number?"

"Uh...I don't have it with me," I said, exaggerating my accent.

"Can you remember any of the digits?"

"It starts with a five," I said. It might.

Somehow, Mathew used this information to find my application, and he returned with news. "You might want to go for a higher position," he said, and in retrospect, he may have been holding my eyes to avoid looking at The Leech. "You have, like, six years of managerial experience."

I nodded, almost smug in my confirmation of lie #1.

"And you've graduated college?"

"Yes," I said, with a modest smile, behind which lurked the savage reality of lie #2.

So somebody called Albert is supposed to be calling me at some point this afternoon, hopefully to offer me a shot at something slightly less demeaning than stacking shelves.

Fingers crossed. It may not be what I want, but it's something.

8.7.06

The Perils Inherent

"Chase down an empty street, blindly snap the broken beats. Said it's gone with the dirty trick. It's taken all these days to find you."

Lack of updates is due to time spent job hunting and sloth brought on by the heat. It was over a hundred degrees here yesterday, which is just silly.

Anyway, The Great Job Hunt is now well under way, despite my lack of a Social Security Number. I don't actually need an SSN to work, but most of the bigger companies out here only accept online applications now, and online applications tend to have many disclaimers and warnings around that place where you'd enter your SSN. Considering my status as a resident is on a probationary basis, this makes me a little nervous. I could enter Jenn's number or make one up or whatever, but I've been doing really well at walking on eggshells since I've been here, and I'd hate to fuck that up by doing something as small as messing about with a job application.

I was going to go for a job at Borders, as their online application stated that one could also apply instore. But I walked the four miles or so to Brea on Thursday (muttering "water, water," all the while) only to be told that they "don't do that anymore." Fortunately, my journey wasn't completely wasted. I stumbled on a Gamestop in the same area, and was overjoyed to discover that they're sufficiently behind the times to still be using paper applications. Woo!

All well and good, but by Thursday afternoon, I had covered all the big company bases I could without a Social Security Number. It was time to investigate some more obscure options.

Earlier in the week, Jennifer and I had gone out for burgers at a little cafe not far from where we live. On our way back to the car, I'd noticed a couple of shops I thought might be worth checking out in terms of The Great Job Hunt. One sold soccer goods and sportwear, the other second-hand books. Jenn drove me out there yesterday, and I had a quick chat with the folks in the soccer shop, grabbed an application, then headed next door to the book shop.

This isn't the first time I've posted on the subject of the perils inherent in blindly stumbling into places you've never been before, and I doubt it'll be the last. I seem to have a knack for accidentally discovering many of the world's oddest and/or most unpleasant locations. In this case, I was inclined more toward laughter than terror as I pushed open the door of the second-hand bookshop and immediately inhaled the musty scent that only ever comes from many ancient things gathered together in one location. I coughed and turned my head away from the dust-heavy air I'd disturbed by opening the door. I found myself looking at a large counter, behind which sat this man:


Okay, he wasn't actually the old man from Gremlins, but he looked enough like him that I was suppressing laughter, and when he smiled and said "hello," in a voice that had a timbre and pitch roughly equivalent to a seven-year-old girl on helium, I simply smiled and made my way into the depths of the store, where I didn't dare laugh for fear of getting a lethal lungful of the thick, dirty air. I browsed for perhaps two minutes, long enough to realise that most of the books had probably been sitting there for a very long time, and then I hurried from the store, coughing a goodbye to the old man as I went.

I'll be continuing the job search on Monday, and probably taking a good look through the window before I barge into any odd-looking stores.