Scotland

December 17. 2003

They say when you fly somewhere, your body goes so fast, it takes a little while for your soul to catch up. I'm not sure if it can get left behind altogether or lost along the way like a piece of luggage -- but in any case, I'm feeling out of it. Dazed and disoriented. Gregor and Trish have been beyond gracious and hospitable in carrying my empty shell of a body from place to place, but as far as absorbing anything, I'm lagging way behind. I've taken a picture or two and will hopefully be able to post them soon. But between my mental state and Gregor's left-handed, UK keyboarded command center, I don't know when that's likely to happen. Gregor's roommate was going to be baking today. He's an underemployed musician just like they have back home, and since he has no money to buy Christmas presents, he decided to bake them instead. He was online earlier in the day looking for recipess and Trish asked him, "So you're making gingerbread men, are you?"

"Yeah," he replied. "But they're gonna be doing stuff."

I was hoping to get a photo, but it appears that he moved his baking operation off premises. Oh well. Anyway, we're running off soon to go to the Transmission gallery's Christmas party. Gregor agreed to be Santa, so he has to get there early.

I’ve been told not to apologize for boring, crappy posts, so I won't. But, just so you know, I'm aware of it.

December 18. 2003

If I make any attempt at keeping up with Gregor’s drinking, my liver will calcify into a nugget of amber.

Dece,ber 19, 2003

It was only a matter of time, and last night was the night. Haggis for dinner. The Transmission Gallery Christmas party went from 7 p.m. until about 3 a.m., so everyone was pretty trashed by the end of the night and useless the next day. After sleeping in, we took a short walk around town, and then we stopped off at a grocery store to pick up some haggis, tatties, and neeps for dinner. When we pulled into the huge parking lot of the uncharacteristically large store, Trish informed me that the monstrosity was American-owned. "It's owned by—what's it called?—Walmart?"

"So what you're telling me is that we're going to Walmart to buy haggis?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

December 19, 2003

Edinburgh was a picturesque fairytale compared to down-and-dirty Glasgow. Gregor is unusually tall for a Scotsman, as evidenced by his tight squeeze through the insanely narrow stairway of the Scott Monument. Gregor and I walked up and down and all over town until we were hungry and thirsty. But we couldn't find a pub to eat in that wasn't either a McDonald’s or a tourist trap. Who would've thought that we'd have a hard time finding a nice cozy pub in Edinburgh? We did ultimately find one. Of course, we did. Gregor lives in what is essentially the Brooklyn of Glasgow. When we took the train back from Edinburgh, he asked if I wanted to ride what is affectionately known as The Clockwork Orange. It's the Glaswegian subway system, which amounts to little more than a tiny orange subway car doing donuts around the city. Hell yes, I want to ride something called the Clockwork Orange. We got off at the closest stop to his flat, but we still had to walk a mile or so through the seedy underbelly of the town he calls home, dodging drunken neds left and right. We stopped along the way to pick up some fish and chips and a litre of IRN-BRU, which is this sweet, bright orange fizzy drink that he proudly tells me outsells Coke in Scotland. Come to think of it, pretty much everything Gregor tells me, he tells me proudly.

I'm here to report that relationships in Scotland don't run any more smoothly than in New York -- as evidenced by what Gregor said to me on the street while Trish ran up ahead. "Don't get me wrong, man, I love her. I love Trish to death. But the girl is completely bonkers." Although if you were to judge them both from this photo alone, Gregor might be the one you'd think was bonkers. And you might even be right.

Gregor rides the Clockwork Orange, Glasgow

December 21, 2003

Before I left New York, I was warned about the rain in Scotland, but what people don't realize is that I bring the sunshine wherever I go. So since we were blessed with a beautiful, sunny day today, we took a drive up north to enjoy it. Gregor is a wealth of information and was full of historical tid-bits about all the various places we drove through and around. But, by far the one historical fact he told me that stands out most in my mind is the one about Loch Lomand. He told me this: "I went swimming drunk in Loch Lomand once and nearly drowned—Naked." Trish had quite a few facts of her own. She informed us that geographically speaking, the elevation of England is getting lower while Scotland is slowly rising. "Is that right?" Gregor asked. "Yes," Trish said, and went on to explain about the last Ice Age and all that. "Good," Gregor continued, "I hope it sinks. They should just cut it off and let it float away." He also told me that if you drained all of the water out of Loch Ness that you could fit the entire population of the world in there. "That's not a bad idea," I said. "Yeh," he agreed, "Line the bottom with Japanese and work your way up." Gregor is not a man without ideas. I have some nice pictures from today, but the process of getting them online is such a hassle, that it'll have to wait.

December 22, 2003

Gregor was in a panic last night because he hadn't figured out his Christmas present for his flatmate, Rob, yet. "I wanted to make him a wee man out of plasticine, but I didn't have time." So he got even more creative and made him a spray-painted ball of newspapers. He made some eyes out of bubble wrap and scotch taped them on the front, then made a beak and some wings out of lasagna. "I'll call him Wesley," he said. "It beats the hell out of some dodgy gingerbread man." As I wrote earlier, Rob intended to make gingerbread men to give as presents, but he burnt them all.

Wesley

December 23, 2003

I leave this dirty old town tomorrow with a skull full of Scottish propaganda and a belly full of IRN-BRU. I was hoping to sum up my trip in a nice, well-considered post, but I think it's too soon. Nothing has sunk in yet. So instead, I'll just jam up the blog with a bunch of photos that take forever to load.

December 25, 2003

I flew in from Glasgow yesterday under a gray sky and an orange alert and headed straight to my parent'’ house for Christmas Eve -- the last one before they sell their house and move out of the town I grew up in. No one seemed too interested in my trip, which was just as well since it would've been hard to explain anyway. And after a light supper and some small talk, I fell asleep on the couch next to the Christmas tree. I woke up at six in the morning and wrote a poem. Well, I didn't write it, but while I lay still, staring out the window at black branches of bare trees, it came to me. It trickled out line by line until there was nothing left to say. I told myself I should write it down, but I was too lazy to get up and find something to write with, so I promised myself I'd remember it. I didn't

Where do things like that go when they go? And where do they come from to begin with? Did it float off into the collective consciousness to find someone with a pen? Or is it still in my addled brain somewhere, fermenting for a little longer before bubbling over another day? We'll see. But I think it's gone for good. When those puzzle pieces come together, you have to get on it. You can't make the river run upstream. Not that anything I could've written would seem as profound at noon as it did at six a.m., but it sounded good at the time.