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July 30, 2004

Mercy me!

In response to a thread my lovely and talented sister Rachael wrote over at Skillful Creamery, I've been thinking about race and race relations.

I suppose that folks should be called what they want, but there are some cases that this causes real strife. The residents of Macedonia really hacked off the Greeks when they started claiming they were Macedonian; Greece claims that Macedonia is actually a province in Greece, that Phillip (and Alexander the Great) were from there, and the people who live there are Macedonian, and their neighbors ill-advised name was wrong - although they have no problems with the country as a political entity, just the name.

By the same token, I've sometimes had difficulty with the idea of African-American taken to mean black citizens of the U.S.

Africa is a continent, America is a different continent and to hyphenate them seems like a contradiction in terms.

My mother, in the above entry, states that white America is in the majority. This kind of analysis may run the risk of creating greater dissent; my friend Steve Kacir, who is a Doctor of Biology at some University somewhere, has written an excellent article arguing that the concept of race is only useful biologically when describing the divergent evolution of speciation, where one species becomes two.

For humans, it's also useful to describe someone (so they'll be recognized by your friend who is picking up your friend Keiko at the train station while you make dinner, for example). We might want to say: She's a short Japanese girl, about five-two, with purple hair up in ponytails. She looks like a Virtua Fighter, only without the skin tight leather outfit. Just ignore her if she says "And stay down!" or "Finish him!"

Note: Keiko actually does this. She thinks it is hilarious. So do I.

Implicit in the above description is the idea that Keiko will have Asian features - slightly concave teeth, an extra fatty pad underneath the eyebrow, dark, straight hair, etc.

That's pretty useful; trying to tell Chris what Keiko looks like without mentioning her race would be a serious challenge. If she was named Lisa Graf (as a Korean friend of mine from High School is), then the problem becomes nearly intractable.

To that end, we can agree that it's okay to use just about any non-denigrating term of description to describe someone.

The problem comes in when we try to define the term "denigrating" in a universal way.

If we allow relativism to govern the definition then we have abandoned language as a method of communication. For example, if we say that what's denigrating depends on the point of view of the individual, and each person has their own idea of what denigrating is and we have to respect each person's view and interpretation - as Lacan and Derrida suggest we get to do - then we can suddenly no longer communicate, because our words don't mean the same thing.

This has actually happened within living memory in the United States, where the term Negro was favored because it was the scientific term and free from bias. This got replaced by black, then African-American then People of Color.

As a side note, Mercy was hot! She was totally smokin', but she was one of Mara's friends and in the "little sister's friends" category instead of the "totally smokin' babe" category. She's my age or maybe even older, but for some reason was in Mara's grade. Alas and alack, now she's married and has a baby.

July 29, 2004

�land, not to be confused with �land

I landed in Stockholm at one and was on the train to Kalmar by half-three.

Contintental Airlines, the foul, wretched bastards they are, may they rot in Hell, had still not found luggage, so I went to Sweden with no "going out" clothes. Continental lost my luggage (again) when I flew from New Jersey back to the U.K. Because of colossal incompetence on Continental's part, I didn't get to fly from New Jersey to Edinburgh, but instead to Birmingham and then to Edinburgh. But never mind that. I'm just trying to put it all behind me.

The train to Kalmar wasn't really a train to Kalmar, but a train to Alvesta and then a switch to a train to Kalmar.

The trains in Sweden run on time. Exactly on time. There are signs everywhere that say: "We apologise if the door shuts in your face, but the conductor must ensure that the train leaves on time. Next time, perhaps you could show up early for your train." I'm not joking - that's really what it says.

I paid heed and got on the train as soon as it arrived. Swedish trains are also incredibly clean. The first train, the futuristicly named X2000, was immaculate. It's supposed to be a bullet train; flooding slowed it to a crawl. If it were not for the fear of a missed connection, this would have been fine. The scenery was breathtaking. The lakes along the track had risen to the point where it felt as though you could reach out the window and touch them.

The slowing and stopping was preceded by announcements. In Swedish. I don't speak Swedish, or at least not enough to be able to understand the conductor. Two girls who were on the train took pity on me and translated.

When they asked where I was going, I said I was headed to �land, except that my accent is so thick in Swedish that I said �land. Really, they're very close...except that the girls and most of the folks on the train were from Linkoping, so for them it sounded as though I'd said �land, unambiguously.

They looked at me, slightly stunned and said, "Good luck!" in a way that suggested that I'd need it.

From that point forward, whenever I asked for help or directions and folks asked me where I was going, they thought I said �land. And I kept getting told over and over again I'd need to charter a plane or find a fisherman or rent a boat or take the ferry. And I'd have to be careful and make sure I got my passport stamped whe I entered Finland...

Eventually I gave up and just used a map. And there, the problem was revealed. I realized I'd been saying �land instead of �land when I saw �land on the map. Both are islands off the coast of Sweden. �land is halfway between Sweden and Finland; it was ceded to Finland after the war of 1809. Folks on �land have tried on numerous occasions to rejoin Sweden but have been denied. Oddly, the League of Nations settled the dispute in 1914 in a very lasting way and �land is now officially a Swedish speaking autonomous region in Finland with its own parliament and powers of taxation.

What it isn't, however, is �land. �land is a resort island off the coast of Sweden where Sweden's rich and famous come to party in the summer. Anna, Jessi and Anneli are working there this summer and I took a week to go and visit them.

This is Anna:

Heh, heh! Anna will scold me when she sees THIS pic!

And Jessi:

I used to love her...Where was Guns & Roses when I needed them?

And Anneli, whom you've seen before:

Anneli is hot, like seven inches from the midday sun.

The very first day, Anna and I went shopping to replace the clothes that Continental Airlines had lost. We took the bus into Kalmar...and came across a KKK Mart. Anna couldn't understand why I found this so funny.

Nathan Bedford Forrest would be so proud!

Suitably clothed for going out, we also bought some drinks at the local offie and went back to the caravan to prepare ourselves for the evening.

Here is a short film of Anna preparing herself for the evening. Anna is elegant as well as intelligent, a fatal combination.

Update: The film of Anna has been removed, because, well, everyone who was supposed to see it has and the URL referrers for folks coming to look at it all have "hot Swedish babe" in the search string. Basically, it's folks searching for soft-core porn and serving their prurient interests, not folks who want to see Anna getting ready for a night out in Sweden during the summer of 2004.

July 28, 2004

Trash piled high in mountains

T in the Park was mingin' after just one day; after three days of depositing trash outside it was stupefying.

Part of what made it so difficult to understand was that, in the course of a day, you were guaranteed to have to walk past a huge dumpster into which you could put your trash.

When Roddy and I left, we took pictures that showed the difference between us and them.

Roddy and I were a bit older than the average age. As in nearly twice it.

We're also both experienced campers; most of the folks are there to camp because it's easier to play musical beds. Which is not why Roddy and I were there at all. Really.

Any way, this is what our neighbors campsite looked like.

Filth

And this is what our campsite looked like. These pictures were taken five seconds apart.

Our shit didn't stink, either.

Barbie is a slut

I saw this girl at one of the concerts and just happened, purely by accident, to be reading her boobs and thought "Hey! That shirt's hilarious!"

So was this girl.

What does this mean to you?

Okay, so while we were at T in the Park, we noticed this sign.

Anyone want to hazard a guess as to what, exactly, this means?

CrowdSurfing.jpg

July 27, 2004

T in the Park

Every year, Edinburgh plays host to close to a hundred bands in a colossal frenzy of music and action called T in the Park.

'T' because it's sponsored by Tenants Lager, which is basically the only beverage you can drink. This doesn't bother most folks, who show up and start drinking beer at noon and stop sometime after three am.

The music is fantastic and, like Glastonbury, you can camp there.

I did, with my friend Roddy.

We ate pancakes and bacon and eggs and carted in enough food to have fed an Army unit for a week. Next year, we'll plan better and pack less heavily.

They search your bags for 'offensive weapons' and contraband alcohol.

Naturally, we brought in an eight inch Global vanadium steel French chef's knife, a naggin of vodka, a naggin of bourbon, various bottles of other beverages and hid all of this away in nooks and crannies.

We also brought a hammer for pounding in the tent stakes; the knife was hidden, the bottles were hidden, but the hammer was strapped to the outside of Roddy's pack. They confiscated the hammer but didn't take anything else away from us.

At any rate, here's what was showing:

SlamSchedule.jpg

Chemical Brothers, Groove Armada, Felix Da Housecat and Basement Jaxx are all brilliant. Unfortunately, the Slam Tent was so jam packed that we didn't get in. At all. The Slam Tent probably needs to be split, since it's so immense that I don't know how they could make it any bigger.

MainStage.jpg

Okay, I owe Carol an apology about The Darkness. I said that they were a re-hash of Supertramp, Styx, Foreigner, Journey, Air Supply, Quiet Riot, Ted Nugent, Twisted Sister and just about every other eighties band you could name. They were long on three-chord guitar riffs, middle-eight bridges, power ballads, long hair and outlandish outfits.

The single most awe inspiring moment of the entire T in the Park was The Darkness. They were almost worth the price of admission, and the price of admission was $400. I forgot how much I freakin' love Supertramp, Styx, Journey, Foreigner, Quiet Riot and Twisted Sister. What an awesome show, guys. Absolutely crazy.

Scissor Sisters were surprisingly good; I'd never heard of them. The Thrills sang one song I know - Don't go Back to Big Sur - which is a Carolf Forbes favorite and it made me all misty-eyed and nostalgic.

The Black Eyed Peas were another highlight and a total crowd pleaser; what a great time that turned out to be.

Pink was rank; I hope she comes back next year, because after a few festivals, I'm sure she'll learn how to play to an outdoor, festival crowd, which is very different from playing to Americans or indoors. The Black Eyed Peas were, admittedly, a tough act to follow, but she could have fed off their energy. Instead, she just reeked.

We only caught the end of Faithless; it was a good ending, but I have the feeling they had been even better, because the crowd was already heaving when we showed up.

Franz Ferdinand didn't capture my interest. The Strokes are always awesome, but we were too shattered to see them; we left early to beat the rush and get some sleep.

NME.jpg

We spent most of our time back and forth between the NME stage and the Main stage.

I've decided that I don't like Badly Drawn Boy and probably never will.

The Wu Tang Clan was great - they know how to get a crowd moving and are great performers. You can tell they've done this whole performing on stage thing a few times before.

N*E*R*D was okay; both Roddy and I enjoy their studio stuff and have liked a few hits that have been re-mixed for the club scene, but just couldn't get into the groove they were laying down. The night before we were torn between whether we'd see Massive Attack or the Strokes, but in the middle of N*E*R*D, Roddy said, "I just can't get into these guys." and I said, "Let's beat the rush home. I'm absolutely f*cked." so we left.

WahWahSchedule.jpg

There only thing in King Tut's Wah Wah tent that interested either of us was Snow Patrol, but they were a distant third to The Strokes and Massive Attack. At any rate, we saw none of the three and never went near the Wah Wah tent, which has a ridiculous name.

Here's a few shots from the gigs. Most of my pictures are too unsteady to reproduce here, for reasons that should be self-evident when one spends three days at a festival sponsored by a brewery.

This is Jen, giving us Jazz hands! Jen is sixteen years old and is proud to be starting school as a cosmetologist! Behind her, looking distinctly miffed is Alice, her friend who is sixteen years old and starting a life of cheap, slatternly misery! Jen and Alice stole beer from a neighboring tent and gave it to me and Roddy; they tried to chat us up, but frankly, the only thing interesting about them is that they were sixteen. When they asked our ages, Roddy told them he was turning 24 in a few months (ha!) and I told them I was 70.

They believed both of us.

Not the brightest of girls. Jen was a sweetheart, though, and someone who would make a great friend. Alice, on the other hand, was a useless cow. I couldn't stand her from the moment I met her and the feeling was mutual within minutes. She hated that I spoke to Jen instead of letting her be the center of attention.

SheSaidSheWas16.jpg

Here's a bit of the Black Eyed Peas gig, which was awesome.

BlackEyedPeas.jpg

Some more Peas.

MorePeas.jpg

And some N*E*R*D.

Nerd.jpg

July 26, 2004

Anneli Stefansson

I hope I spelled your name right, Anneli.

I met Anneli through Anna & Jessi. Anna & Jessi lived here in Edinburgh for about a year; I dated Jessi briefly. That's what I'm calling it, anyway.

Well, Anneli is a beautiful young lady (ung kvinna) - she kind of looks like Ingrid Bergman, but with seventies hair, if that makes any sense.

She's as sweet as human beings come. Since I promised you all that I'd post a picture of the Swedish vacation, and haven't yet, she's an excellent place to start.

I've been having weird dreams lately. Last night I dreamt of Liza & Jen, two ex-girlfriends. Very strange indeed. I never expect to see either of them again - Jen because she died of brain cancer many years ago and Liza because, well, I never expect to see her again, basically.

But on to the little girl from Sweden who dreams of silver screen flirtations.

This is Anneli. I don't know what she was actually doing here, but I'm going to pretend that she was taking her top off.

Anneli is such a lovely girl.

July 25, 2004

The Drive

Drive we did.

From Alexandria, Virginia to Stowe, Vermont.

It took eleven hours.

This was our glorious chariot - a black Chrysler Sebring Limited edition convertible. Ah, I miss my car.

The Car

That's Paul sitting in the back seat, deep in contemplation about how to purge the last remaining shred of self-respect from his system. You can almost hear the thoughts.

Blow goats? No, that won't be enough. I need something that will really alienate my friends. Somthing that will earn me a new title of self-loathing.

And here's Chris, come to join us on this great Odyssey.

Secret Agent Man

Chris has two modes - focussed, efficient action and full stop. Both are a bit infectious. If he's moving full tilt, you want to get caught up in whatever it is he's doing, even if it's scrubbing the tub. If he's indolent, his listlessness is a powerful soporific. It even puts the cat to sleep.

In this photo, he is in his Action Man mode.

Some of you have never seen Old Town Alexandria or been to visit me in Virginia. You should come in summer or early fall, when the rivers are still warm and we can go creeking and swimming out in Shenandoah National Park.

Anyway, here's an example of a random old townhouse in the Gamla Stan; I chose this house because we were parked in front of it and I was too lazy to walk elsewhere.

It's a front door.

Driving conditions were less than ideal. Most of the trip it looked like this outside the window.

Like the North Sea in winter

At around four in the morning, Chris and I were woken up by the sensation of the car trying to leave the ground. Paul was doing 110 in this fog, arms taut, beads of sweat forming and trickling down the side of his face, eyes bulging.

Vermont was gorgeous once we got there, though. Pine covered mountains, lazy cows lounging on idyllic hillsides and lots of sunshine.

Vermont Is Stunning

On the way from the hotel to the wedding site, we saw a WWII memorial and stopped to take a few pictures; I doubt if many folks know it's there.

Why is this guy dressed in white...

...but cast in bronze? Weird, eh?

Pictures from the wedding itself:

Danielle and Laura, the Maid of Honor.

The Bride and her lovely sister!

The Groomsmen walk on.

The Groomsmen. I'm out of step, not Chris.

Here comes the bride, as radiant as she should be on her wedding day.

Okay, actually, she looks just a bit unsteady. The look on her face seems to say: "My God, what am I about to do?" which seems like a pretty healthy sentiment to me. I know if I were walking down the aisle, about to marry Karl, I'd be thinking the same thing.

Da da da da

We couldn't help but notice that the little bottles of maple syrup that they gave us on the table looked a lot like naggins of bourbon. Unsurprisingly, they tasted just like maple syrup.

Chug! Chug! Chug!

Karl and Danielle started off the dancing; this is the happy couple making their way to the floor. The dinner and dance was outdoors, under a huge canopy. We could look right out over the Vermont mountains - absolutely beautiful.

Karl & Danielle

This is Gregg & James. Gregg was the photographer, but he's also one of four best friends that are still quite close: Bj, Gregg, James and me. Bj couldn't make the wedding because of other commitments, but here are Gregg and James; it was awesome to see them again. I don't see them anywhere near enough.

Gregg is a brilliant photographer; James is a brilliant politician. May they have long and distinguished careers.

Gregg and James

That night there was much rejoicing. The next morning, there was much lamenting of the previous night's rejoicing. Here is a "Maid" of, er, "Honor" being snuck back to her hotel in the black convertible chariot of Valour!

Mission Improbable

And here's a picture of Astrid, Karl's cousin from Germany!

One way. The moral vacuum.

Here's me and Gregg; the picture was taken by Gregg, who has a knack for taking self portraits at arm's length. I don't know how he focuses the camera. As I said, pure genius.

Me & Gregg

Laura Dunn, the Maid of Honor, has a more complete photo album of the wedding. You can find it here.

July 24, 2004

Where's Violetta?

I was over at Three Legged Duck this morning, as I am basically every morning, to get my dose of Violetta.

For those of you who have not partaken of the sweet nectar of Violetta's thoughts, this is a blog not to be missed, and you can still get much enjoyment by reading all of her back posts.

The thing is, Violetta is normall astonishingly prolific. She can post five or six times in a single day.

I cannot do this; outside of the professional blogging community where folks make their money off what they write, it's unheard of.

But she's gone underground. Not a peep in two weeks. She hasn't said where she's gone, she's not commenting on other blogs, she's just kind of disappeared.

Mara did say that she'd decided to take a short break from the blogging, but I'm not sure why. Well, Violetta, I miss you. Come on back! Write some more! I loved your writing.

Also, I promise that I'll have at least one picture of Sweden up before the weekend is over.

July 23, 2004

Fruit Cocktail

You may remember this post: The Definite Article: June 2004 Archives

In it, I talked about the Fruit Salad of Legend, The Drive and the triumph of the human spirit.

Today, I'm going to show you my picture with the Fruit Salad of Legend!

Am I not gorgeous? I am. I am gorgeous. Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.

There you go. We've kept the Fruit Salad of Legend on a shelf for six years, waiting for this day, the day of The Drive.


Early that morning, Chris and I stumbled out into the kitchen and Chris made one of his gloriously thick pots of coffee. It tastes like ambrosia if I get it fresh, but it gives me heart palpitations. That's what I call coffee.

Anyway, we drank it black, not because I wanted to drink it black, but because there was no milk in the fridge. Okay, actually, there WAS a container that had once HAD milk in the fridge. I bought it during my last trip home. That was in March.

Chris doesn't have much use for milk.

July 21, 2004

Then home to Virginia...

I did make the flight the next day.

It was a packed but uneventful flight back; Norah Jones & Cravin' Melon on the MiniDisc, a quick connection to DCA and Chris picked me up from the metro station.

Chris Tisdale, for those of you who might not know, is one of the men I admire most. He is the embodiment of the twin virtues of honor and integrity. He also happens to be my roommate in Alexandria.

This is Chris.

Chris is a sexy little thang, ain't he?

Chris is featured here with the number 10 tin can of fruit cocktail. That's right, the fruit cocktail of legend.

The very fruit cocktail that was to accompany us on the upcoming road trip.

Chris and I went home, hung out, had a few beers at our local pub - the Union Street Tavern, where he always gets free drinks, the good looking, sweet talking bastard! We got chatted up by some tart named Amy, who told us that she thought I was the most interesting of our lot. It would have been good for my ego except that she was A] married and B] a complete psycho.

Even if I'd been willing (I wasn't), I'd have had to have turned her down - her poor husband already has enough problems just being married to her.

I finally crawled into my bed around 0100, almost a full 24 hours after waking up that morning in the U.K.

July 20, 2004

Take me home, 95.

sung to the tune of "Country Roads" by John Denver

Almost fatal, North New Jersey.
Newark Airport, Pulaski Highway
Pollution's old there,
killed off all the trees
Trash piled high in mountains,
blowing in the breeze

I 95, Take me home
To the place I belong
Jersey City, Newark momma
Take me home, I 95

All the greenflies gather round her
Slumlord Lady, stranger to clean water
Dank and filthy, smog covers the sky
The burning trash of the Garden State
Gets cinders in your eyes

I 95, take me home
To the place I belong
Jersey City, Newark momma
Take me home, I 95

I hear her voice
From a cheap motel she calls me
Sirens remind me that the cops aren't far away
And drivin' down the Golden State I got a feelin'
That I ain't got the tolls again today, again today!

I 95, take me home
To the place I belong
Jersey City, North New Jersey
Take me home, I-95

---

Taffy Nivert is turning over in his grave, but what do I care?

I'm too tired to post the rest of the journey back to the sweet, sweet arms of Alexandria, Virginia and Chris Tisdale, my long-time male companion, but rest assured I will do so soon, along with a few pictures of us and the fabled fruit salad.

Picture of Ange

Hey, guys! Here's a picture of Ange, since she's been posting and, while Rae and Mensch know who she is, Maman & Papa have never met her - and I don't think Mara has, either.

Check out the Chest Puppies on this Hottie!

Ange and I were in the Marine Corps together, and the Marine Corps forges a special bond between people that seems to last a long time, or at least until one of them clumsily tries to have drunken sex with the other one's cat on Halloween. Not that I'm speaking from experience, I'm just saying, you know, that would about end it.


July 19, 2004

Karl is married.

To Danielle, which had a kind of inevitability about it.

For me, it involved a trip home, to Alexandria, VA. I've decided that this is as much my home as is Edinburgh. A itinerant Schroedinger's Cat, I'm at home in both places.

The trip itself was eventful: interesting. In the same way that the ancient Chinese used the curse "May you live in interesting times."

Continental Airlines recently began tempting passengers with a quick journey between Edinburgh and Newark, two destinations as unlike one another in character as Ulaan Baatar and Paris. Newark is a filthy hell-hole. Newark Airport is designed to confound and torment travellers: absent of informative signs, staffed with churls and teeming with New Jersey natives. The train between terminals costs five dollars; there are no busses and you cannot walk between them. The trains have only token seats, rude benches of white polycarbonate. The benches themselves are perforated, in a vain attempt to alleviate the sweat that instantly forms when the humid backsides of weary travellers trap the fetid New Jersey air against hard plastic. Skolaski Highway seems like a bargain by comparison.

I say that Continental began tempting passengers with this direct flight because they failed to deliver on both the outbound and inbound journeys.

When I purchased the ticket, the reservation agent told me to get there three hours in advance. She was friendly and charming and English - in an unusual customer service inversion, I was to discover that the Brits treated me far better than their American counterparts would. But three hours? If I really took three hours out of my day, it would have been faster for me to have flown a cheaper flight that involved a short layover in London or Paris or Amsterdam.

Also, the flight was at 1000. Turnhouse Airport is an international airport, but only barely. It's small, to say the least. If I was to show up at 0700, I'd need to call ahead the night before so they could leave the key under the mat for me. It's that kind of place.

Nevertheless, I arrived nearly two hours early; having flown from EDI - Turnhouse many times before, this seemed a bit excessive.

I picked up my tickets and headed for check-in. In the check-in line, there was a new feature: American style fascisti demanding to see our papers. I handed over my passport to a short, plump, boorish woman with bucked teeth and poorly, closely cropped hair.

"Where do you live, Mr. Dornbrook?" She asked, acridly.

"Here." I said.

"In the airport?" She asked. I bit my tongue.

"No. In a flat." I replied.

"Riiiiiiight. Sure you do. I don't suppose you'd happen to have a gas or electric bill addressed to you here, do you?" She queried acidly, supercilliousness further marring her unattractive face.

"I didn't plan on paying my bills here." I said, unsure whether I pitied more her for the many lonely nights she must spend or the drunken fools who punctuated that loneliness. I hoped they were few, out of malice towards her and sympathy for all men.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Dornbrook." She started, sounding distinctly un-sorry, "I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the line."

I stood out of the line for a good hour while she took my passport and conferred with her simian cohorts, dressed in the same unfashionable, blue polyesther blazers. Finally, she returned with a gleam in her eye.

"Mr. Dornbrook, can you tell me when your visa expires?" She asked.

"Some time next year, I'd guess. March maybe." I answered.

"That's incorrect, Mr. Dornbrook. Your visa expired in February. Please come with me."

I was angry. My visa was issued in February - it could not have expired the day it was issued.

"Let me have my passport back." I said. "Show me where my visa has expired."

She handed me my passport and pointed to the valid from date. It had 'valid from' printed next to it.

"That's the valid from date." I said. I pointed to the 'valid until' date, Feb. 12, 2009. "This visa doesn't expire for five years."

She stared at the passport then at me. I could only guess at what dim ember of intellect might be glowing in the vapid depths of those blank eyes.

"Oh." She said. "Get back in line."

Not even an apology!

And what should have been the denouement: as I stepped back into line, they pulled a stretch barrier across my path. The flight was overbooked and the seats were now full.

I blinked. A confederacy of dunces was arrayed against me. Not only had an illiterate ape of a woman attempted to have me deported, but Contintental had overbooked the flight. Fuck the complexities of tensor analysis or quantum physics, these morons couldn't count.

How dumb can these people be? I asked myself, in a question that should have been rhetorical but later proved probing.

I dutifully stood in line so that Emma and Emma, the Continental ticket clerks, could tell me that the only way I was getting to the U.S. was on the same overbooked Continental flight the next day.

The next day I showed up three hours early. There had been fifteen people bumped from the previous days flight (fifteen people overbooked!). I still almost didn't get a seat. As I walked up to the check-in desk, they pulled the fabric belt across the passengers behind me and the same apologetic man that had informed me of my ill luck yesterday stepped forward to inform them of theirs. The day before, I had been the first to not make the flight; today, I was the last to make it.

As I was handed my boarding card, I overheard two Continental agents talking behind the desk.

"Was anyone willing to give up their seat?" One asked.

"Just one, Mrs. McClusky. She gave up seat 14C." Came the answer.

I glanced down at my ticket. 14C. I handed my baggage over and rushed over to Emma and Emma to tell them to thank Mrs. McClusky for me - and there she stood! She looked far too young to be a Mrs. I thanked her profusely and told her of the previous days travails, the upcoming wedding, my role in it as a groomsman and the necessity of making todays flight. Her face brightened and I felt better, too.

Even with the lift from getting to thank my benefactor, I still felt as though it was the worst travel experience of my life. I was to be proven wrong.

A World in Which Horses Play the Kazoo

I'm eating Blockbuster brand toffee popcorn.

I've been searching for a writing style. One that is astonishingly bland but does not reduce to mere gimmickry.

It should convey the taste of warm, flat Coke and smell like High School. It should bore anyone with a vocabulary of more than 18,000. It should remind you of Hummel figurines in a glass corner cabinet, beige carpetting, a tan Aries K series sedan, lavelier blinds in front of a sliding glass door and sound like Lite Rock when read aloud.

It should counter the collective works of Mark Leyner and David Foster Wallace, whose florid proses have sprayed their fetid seed into the fecund minds of aspiring undergraduate creative writers and found purchase; bastard manuscripts born of this unholy union crowd the weblogs. Everyone is so clever, so cerebral, so Nicholson Baker.

Well, I'm sick of it.

I might be able to conceive of fresh chunks of watermelon in a urinal, a world where horses can play the kazoo or mandating moustache waxing rituals for women in Mediterranean countries, but I'm not going to make you read about them. Not here. Not now.

Nope. I'm headed for bland, baby, and no zeitgeist frappé is going to flavor my tone.

Whew!

Ever been on a holiday that was so exhausting that you need a holiday to recover from your holiday?

First, a trip to America for Karl & Danielle's wedding, followed by a short period of convalescence for reasons to be provided in a later post, followed by T in the Park, a huge music festival that lasted all weekend, followed by a week's holiday in Sweden.

I'll be posting a far larger series later, including pictures and maybe some video if I can figure out how to upload files that large (the default MovableType method of uploading files can't handle these file sizes).

In any event, I'm back in Edinburgh, back at work and have my nose back to the grindstone.

Send Skylor "Happy Birthday" greetings, if you haven't already; his birthday was last Saturday and he celebrated it by not dying. He's stationed in Iraq just now, so that's not as trivial a task as it sounds.

Speak to you all later!