Second verse, same as the first...

...a little bit louder and a little bit worse.

Jackhammer and saw, day four: when the cleaning ladies begin to comment about how bad the noise is, you know things are getting desperate.

Seminar today began with a gripe session by the residents of Richmond Place about our 9-to-5 asphalt cutting, the workman who likes to sing over his jackhammer, and the 11-to-6 scheduled water outage today, which was necessary to fix the problem created Monday. At least there was warning this time, and hopefully no one was caught in the shower, but the outage created at least one problem...

"Anyone know about the loo situation?" was asked in the kitchen this afternoon.
You got one flush, just enough to empty whatever was stored in the tank. After that, there was no loo activity until the water was turned back on, which meant potentially seven hours without functional toilets. Fortunately, the water came back by 3:30, but there was a bizarre form of rationing in the meantime, and several defected entirely.

Tonight, with the power tools silenced and the water restored, I relaxed to "Fame Academy," an Idol-esque show benefiting Comic Relief. Unlike the Idol clones, however, this show takes British celebrities of questionable fame and makes them sing. I laughed. I cried. I wanted to throw a plate at the television to make the warbling stop. The costumes were almost universally bad. But the nice thing was that suddenly I felt much better about my own voice.

Schadenfreude's theraputic at times, such as jackhammer days.

Minor annoyances

In Richmond Place's continuing struggle to make our lives as complicated as possible, this week is Drill Up The Sidewalk And Install Plumbing Week. Thus, we're treated to the sweet sounds of the jackhammer all day long. Even with the window closed, I can still hear them drilling, shoveling, and pushing the squeaky wheelbarrow right outside my window. And now one of the two jokers down there has decided it's karaoke day. Tomorrow should be fun - because of the little accident with the water main on Monday, they'll be shutting off the room water supply from 11 AM to 6 PM to fix the pipes. Supposedly we'll still have water in the kitchen, but one never knows...

My other minor annoyance of the day was this fellow at the gym this morning. Okay, I understand that people have different standards of what constitutes gym clothing. Tights or no tights, shorts or sweatpants, t-shirts or sweatshirts, the old dude with the bad legs who always ties a paper towel around his head like a sweatband...you see a spectrum of ensembles on weekday mornings, and it's fine. I'd even be alright with well-ripped men who wanted to go shirtless, as long as they used sweat towels on the weight machines. What's unacceptable is this middle-aged man who always wears the same outfit: too-short shorts and a matching midriff-baring shirt. I mean, this is the kind of outfit a teenaged girl might be able to pull off, but not this guy. Cut-off shirts on grown men are like male Speedos: never acceptable in public.

On a totally unrelated note, happy birthday to Cali!

DMV madness

Oh dear...

I sent off for my IDP yesterday, and hopefully, I'll have a shiny piece of paper in Spanish to explain to the nice Spanish rental car people that I'm road legal before I go to Spain. We leave at an ungodly hour on March 25, meaning that my application has 19 days to get to Florida and back to me. Let's just hope the extra $5.25 check - clearly marked for global express mail - helps the permit get back to me on time!

That's license number one.

My dad, bless his heart, spent three hours talking to the brain-dead incompetents who staff our local DMV, trying to figure out why my license, which I renewed in September, is set to expire in May on the same date as the old license. As it turns out, you're only allowed to renew your license within 60 days of its expiry, meaning that I was several months ahead of schedule. The moron woman who handled my license (see the September 5 entry) failed to mention this to me, and instead basically gave me a duplicate license. When I go home in September, I'll have to stand in the interminable DMV line yet again.

Why, Alabama DMV, do you let morons staff your offices?

Specific Heat must die

Let's just say that today isn't going to go on record as the best morning of my life.

I woke at 7, still a little sore from Saturday, but readied myself to go to the gym and was back to the room by 8:15, where my shower awaited. Or so I thought.

I'm one of those people who finds it difficult to move quickly in the shower, which is usually a bit of an annoyance to everyone around me. My shower sloth turned out to be a blessing this morning, as I was just reaching for the shampoo when the water suddenly cut off.

Not the hot water. The water.

Wet and pissed, I tried banging on the wall for a moment, then gave it up, noticed that the faucets were similarly non-functional, and dried off. Fine, I thought, I'll eat breakfast and give Specific Heat a moment to do whatever they're doing that necessitates turning off my water.

At 8:45, the water had yet to return, and so, now in a fine temper, I marched down to the office in my polo shirt and sandals to find out what the problem was. The supervisor explained that Specific Heat had accidentally cut the main.

"When's the water going to be back?" I asked, trying to control myself.
"They don't know. It was an accident."
"Did anyone bother to think that 8:30 AM is probably not the best time to be messing with the water supply?" I muttered through clenched teeth. "We've got class!"
"It was an accident," was all she could tell me, and so, thinking things about Specific Heat that my mother wouldn't approve of, I returned to the room and tried to decide what was to be done. Class at 10, hair wet but still dirty...then I hit upon it.

I knew that gym membership had to be good for something.

I returned to my room at 9:30, having showered and dried my hair at the gym, and made it to class in good time, where I knitted for a few minutes to lower my blood pressure. The knitting and the caffeine couldn't stave off the headache that developed, however, and I left at noon with a throbbing head and a list of errands to run.

About thirty dollars lighter, I finally escaped the post office queue minus my application for an International Driving Permit ($15 for the IDP, $5.25 for expedited return, and £5 for express mailing it to Florida). I returned to the building and checked my mail, where a note - delayed almost a month - from Accommodation awaited.

They've seen our petition. They haven't heard of any disturbances due to Specific Heat, so no, they're not going to reduce our rent.

I'd pound my head against the wall, but that wouldn't help my headache.

Excellent Saturday

Today was truly excellent.

The morning began with an 8 AM rise and a run/jog/walk around Arthur's Seat, the first in several months. Heck, it's cold out there.

After that, I bought the Daily Telegraph, which is running a Jane Austen special this week: just bring the coupon to a Costa coffee shop every day to claim a free book. Fair enough, but I spent three hours tracking down a Costa that would accept the coupon. In any case, the afternoon was mostly lovely, nearly 50 degrees and partly sunny, and I enjoyed the walk. I also did the Telegraph's giant five-grid Sudoku, which was a fine diversion.

Tonight was great fun: dinner and a movie. If you liked Shaun of the Dead or anything Will Ferrell has ever been in, find a cinema that's showing Hot Fuzz and see it already. It's hilarious. The script was quite obviously written by a couple of thirty-something British men who have seen far too many bad American cop movies and feel Britain would be much better off if everyone in the countryside had assault rifles. And a sea mine. And probably a few handguns, for good measure. The movie is over the top and the (theatrical) violence is gratuitous, but it's a great laugh.

To top it all off, we saw a lunar eclipse while walking home, and Cali reminded me of a particularly fun childhood pastime: pouring half a cup or so of sugar into a bowl of Rice Krispies, eating what little cereal there was, then scraping the milky sugar off the bottom of the bowl. Man, those were good times. No one tell my dentist, eh?

Behold, non-believers

To Sarah Snyder and all the others who doubt I actually possess any arts and crafts abilties, behold the proto-scarf:

Is it beautiful? No.

Is it large? No.

Is it particularly well made? No.

But come on, I just started learning on Monday! And if all else fails, Callie gets a lovely green chew toy this August.

Thursday

Please, God, let Reading Week end soon.

Schedule for the day:

7:30 Rise
7:35 Check e-mail, Facebook, MSN, McSweeney's, IvyGate, PhD, and anything else I can think of.
7:55 Gym
8:30 Shower
9:00 More computing in a vain effort to pass the time.
9:20 Breakfast
9:30 Knit
9:35 Fend off odd looks from others in the kitchen. Explain what the large ball of yarn in my lap is for. Explain that no one wants to wear anything I produce.
10:20 Check room, but room is being cleaned. Knit some more.
10:45 Return to room. Try to write.
11:00 Nice cleaning lady returns with fresh shower curtain. Consider going to Starbucks.
11:45 Count minutes until I can reasonably make lunch. Play Tetris.
12:15 Lunch and Bargain Hunt.
1:15 Try to write.
1:30 Look up recipes for stuffed peppers. Make a version of my own and go to Tesco.
2:15 Read.
2:45 Knit.
4:00 Try to write. Play FreeCell.
5:00 "Get a jump on making dinner."
5:45 Finish making peppers. Leave them to cool on counter. Nurse burned finger.
6:30 Figure mother isn't calling for a while. Leave to eat dinner.
6:45 Wonder why Hollyoaks is so bad.
6:50 Parents call. Weather sucks in Birmingham.
7:20 Try to write. Consider knitting.
7:25 Former boss e-mails with writing assignment. Take it.
9:45 Finish assignment. Knit.
10:00 Try to write. Hit 3,000 words and call it a night.
10:45 Blog.

Class from 2-4 tomorrow! Whoo-hoo!
Sad, ain't it?

Fun with needles

Some time in college, maybe sophomore year or so, there was an explosion of knitting. By the time I graduated, seemingly half the girls I knew could knit actual pieces of clothing, like hats. I never picked it up - my family is a little on the handicrafts-challenged side - but I've been considering it for a while.

Yesterday, as a reward to myself for getting through an essay draft (hey, it's the little things that keep you going), I went down to EBS and purchased cheap needles and yarn. Since then, I've been studying schematics all over the Internet and trying to make the yarn do something productive.

I can cast on. I can sort of knit, and this morning I managed to knit multiple rows. Purling, for whatever reason, is still beyond me.

Alisa, Emily, and all the other Glee Club knitters - I have new-found respect for your mad skills.

This is just sickening

Anyone hear about The Ringer? I didn't see it, but the movie concerns a guy who needs money, so he fixes the Special Olympics and tries to pass himself off as an eligible participant.

That's more than a little twisted, but this is worse:


Mom taught her 2 kids to fake retardation
Mother admits coaching children to collect more than $280,000 in benefits

TACOMA, Wash. - A woman admitted Monday that she coached her two children to fake retardation starting when they were 4 and 8 years old so she could collect Social Security benefits on their behalf.

Rosie Costello, 46, admitted in U.S. District Court that she collected more than $280,000 in benefits, beginning in the mid-1980s. Most was from Social Security, but the state social services agency paid $53,000.

Costello pleaded guilty to conspiracy to defraud the government and Social Security fraud. Her son, Pete, 26, pleaded guilty earlier this month. Federal prosecutors in Seattle said Monday authorities had not yet located her daughter, Marie.

According to the plea agreement, Costello began coaching her daughter at age 4, and later used the same ruse with her son. He feigned retardation into his mid-20s — picking at his face, slouching and appearing uncommunicative in meetings with Social Security officials.

Social Security workers became suspicious and uncovered a video of Pete Costello ably contesting a traffic ticket in a Vancouver courtroom.

Pete Costello is scheduled to be sentenced May 11 and faces from six months to a year in prison, as well as $59,000 in restitution.

Rosie Costello is scheduled for sentencing May 17. Her standard sentencing range was not immediately available, but in the plea agreement she agreed to repay the government.

Tea

I'm a fan of Britain's national beverage (no, not alcohol...that's a steady #2). Sadly, Richmond Place's kitchens are not equipped with many useful tools, including teapots. What we're given instead is an electric hot water kettle, which is quick and useful but less than satisfactory.

The problem is a combination of time and the teabag. I've never been particularly keen on fooling with steeping and other such nonsense - add Splenda, add teabag, add water, stir, drink. There are no saucers or teabag strainers in my cabinet. Consequently, whatever dregs remain at the bottom of my mug are overwhelmingly English Breakfast-y, to the point that my taste buds rebel.

Enter Emma and her bright, obvious idea: tea can be made in an ordinary pot on the range. Add teabags, add Splenda, heat to a near boil, and voila, tea. What comes out is fairly uniform in strength and has steeped long enough; the bags can thus be removed right away, and I get about three cups out of the deal.

Gotta love cheap caffeine.

Night of a thousand drunk Scotsmen

Hyperbole aside, last night was a little...well, special.

We went to see Mrs. Warren's Profession last night, which was quite excellent, especially the set and Mrs. Warren's amazing dresses (enter Vivian in white and Mrs. Warren in scarlet...). What made the play even better was Häagen-Dazs dixie cups at intermission - not only was food allowed in the theater, but they provided the roaming ice cream lady to sell it in the balcony. I was expecting peanuts next. Why American theaters haven't picked up on this idea is beyond me.

Leigh found a pub nearby, Footlights, and we retreated after the play for a bit of refreshment and to meet Ian when he got off work. That was when the fun began...

Let me preface this by saying that yesterday was a 6 Nations game, and that Scotland lost.

That said, the pub was packed, the patrons were loud, and the men-women ratio was something like 20 to 1. The three of us, dressed for the theater, found a table near the door, purchased drinks, and waited for Ian.

Then we started making friends.

A fairly intoxicated Scotsman, glass in hand, wandered over to ask if we'd sit with his friend, who was by himself. We explained that we were waiting for the rest of our group. Undeterred, he asked us where we were from. Our response led to a bout of "USA! USA!" and fist pumping, followed by a charming, off-key rendition of that immortal Springsteen classic, "Born in the USA," with both fists in the air. Meanwhile, we sort of laughed it off and hoped no one was going to become belligerent around us.

Dunk Boy's friend then came up, draped his arms around Leigh and Cali, and said hello. While they were extricating themselves, Drunk Boy began asking us for specific states (because that, of course, is always the next question - what begins innocently enough inevitably devolves into a geography lesson). I've learned not to say "Birmingham" because that only confuses people, especially those already under the influence, so I casually replied that I was from Alabama.

Lynyrd Skynyrd would not have been amused by what followed.

Once Drunk Boy pulled from us that we were postgraduates, he asked us where we liked to go to get "mashed and pissed." We explained that we really don't, that we're postgraduates and therefore boring.

He asked me why I wasn't drinking.
I said I wasn't thirsty.
He then dared me to get "mashed and pissed" (really, I'm not making this up) with him by doing ten shots at the bar.
I declined.
He told me I was no fun.
Somehow this led to a discussion of Britney Spears. He then invited us to go get our heads shorn that night.
We declined.

Once he started rubbing and muttering to Cali's purse, we knew he was a goner. About that time, his friend came up and started patting my head.

Never have I wanted to see Ian more than at that moment. I was telepathically willing him to walk in the door and bust the scene up (or bust someone's head open; that Sainsbury's training has to be good for something), but apparently Ian's not telepathic. Funny how that happens.

Eventually, our new good buddies wandered off, and we tried to imagine what Ian's expression would have been had he walked in. Our respite wasn't long, however, as a "ginger"-haired (yes, Ian) guy wandered over and asked if he could join us. I told him we were waiting for the rest of our party, so sorry. He walked away and kept giving our table stares of misery from across the pub.

Finally, Ian showed up, then left for the bar to procure more cider. In his absence, the redhead's wingman, who was decidedly closer to sober, came over, apologized for his friend, asked if he had been rude, and said that he really wanted to talk to us. We explained the situation, and then invited both of them to pull up a seat.

Ian seemed nonplussed by the situation when they pulled up a bench.

Cali, bless her heart, took one for the team by entertaining Gordon, the redhead, for the better part of half an hour. Apparently, Gordon not only asked her where she was from five times, he told her his entire life story in unnecessary detail. He then stood up to get another Guinness.

Meanwhile, I was talking sports with Finn the Wingman, which was actually fun. I learned about these things called "firms" in football clubs, which are essentially gangs that beat each other up at match time. Then there was talk of rugby, ice hockey, field hockey, and shinty, which is little more than open warfare, leading me to surmise that sport over here could do with a lot more padding. Talk then turned to Inevitable Subject #2, Iraq.

Almost makes me want to get the Canadian backpack flag and perfect my "Eh?"

Still, relations were cordial enough, and Finn left to answer a phone call while Cali excused herself. In the meantime, Gordon returned with a new pint of Guinness, noticed that he still had a bit left in his other glass, and tried to pour the remnant into a full pint. Beer flowed onto the table, I pulled Cali's oh-so-strokable purse out of the way, and then tried to engage Gordon to give Cali a break. The boy was on his way out, but was coherent enough to tell me he was from Dundee.

"How's that?" I asked.
He explained that Dundee was shite, and then told me about his brother getting cut in the face with a beer bottle.

When Cali and Finn returned, Gordon told Finn to tell us an embarrassing story, at which point Finn's muttered conversations to Gordon to stop making an ass of himself increased in frequency. Finn wondered aloud what the hell had happened to the beer, then berated Gordon for trying to defy physics. Gordon left to find a paper towel, but returned with a bar rag and promptly wiped Guinness onto Finn.

Cali and I backed away.

There was no fighting, but Finn explained that he'd already taken Gordon's brother home that evening. He then left to bum a smoke off someone and headed outside for a break.

We left Gordon sitting alone at the table with his two pints of Guinness, then made our way back to our side of town. Ian performed rather well his role of Being Intimidating and Manly as we passed the pubs. As we approached the halfway point, he hinted that we should stop for pizza.

Well, it was almost 1 AM, and I hadn't yet had dinner.

After eating pizza upstairs, I returned to my room to find that my mother was in a mild panic as to my whereabouts. I vaguely remember calling her and mentioning something about the pub, then stumbled into bed, where my head promptly began to pound. I don't know why.

I still had a headache when I woke this morning, but the contraband Tylenol fixed that quickly enough. Thanks, Mom.

Stupid movie night

Last night, for lack of a better idea, I caved in, got my UK Blockbuster membership card, and rented Farce of the Penguins.

Earlier in the year, I finally saw March of the Penguins, which frankly deserves every honor it received. Bob Saget's spoof, however, will be lucky to get 10% on Rotten Tomatoes.

As the man himself said, it's a movie best seen while high. Not that I've ever been high, but I imagine a little pot (or cannabis, to all you Brits) would have enhanced the viewing experience.

Here's the spoiler: it's roughly 80 minutes of stock footage of penguins, an owl, a fox, a panda, and various mating animals. They're talking, but the mouths don't move. Luckily for Saget and crew, the average layperson can't tell the difference between two Emperor penguins, so they were able to slide with really horrible cuts.

The best part of this film was the cast. Yes, it was amusing to hear Samuel L. Jackson in the Morgan Freeman role. Yes, Carlos Mencia as "Juan Sanchez", the insane Rockhopper, was cute. But what really did it for me - and I only realized this once I saw the credits and the backstage reel - was that no fewer than four Full House cast members were involved in this production: Bob Saget (Danny), John Stamos (Jesse), Lori Loughlin (Becky), and Jodi Sweetin (Stephanie). After being subjected to endless reruns of that horribly saccharine show as a kid (no, Jen, I'm not going to like it more if you sing the theme song again), I laughed to hear them all cursing in penguin guise. So who forgot to invite the Olsens?

That said, even with the cameos, there's a very good reason this dud went straight to DVD.

Friday

Today has been absolutely lovely.

Yes, it's Friday, which is inherently a good day, but even beyond that, the sun was shining, the breeze (not gale-force wind) was pleasant, and the temperature was at least in the high 40s. In the two months I've been here this semester, the sunset has been pushed back almost two hours, and the lengthening days make almost everyone happier for now.

I finished a draft of a project I've been working on this morning, too, which improved my day tremendously.

I've got some idea of what I want to do for my lit paper, I bought a book of short horror stories (Nocturnes, by John Connolly - not bad thus far), and I took an hour's nap this afternoon. I'd also forgotten how good Wheat Thins are.

There will be a play tomorrow night, and my mother has ordered me to go find something pretty and spring-like.

Yes, I'll keep Friday.

The Golden Hour

I read tonight at The Forest's "The Golden Hour," which was fun, and was helped along considerably by Leigh and Cali, who came armed with strawberry-infused White Zin.

That said, there was only one crowd favorite tonight: the 1989 safe sex video.

Picture the following: a fairly ordinary man and woman are seated on a bed in full daylight, while soft Muzak plays in the background. They are completely nude. The narrator then describes the contents of the safe sex box...

First is latex gloves, because they're just that sexy. You know, to hide calluses and sharp nails, and prevent actual bodily contact.
Then comes gel. One has been "clinically proven" to kill HIV. The man and woman seem rather bored with this.
Next is the...um...other latex glove, during which time the announcer informs us that prostitutes in many countries have wised up to the transmission of diseases and now use condoms. Then the woman does her thing. The man seems bored.
We'll skip the next bit, but it involved yet another latex sheet and more boredom. The last part was the best: the man and woman kiss through a latex safety sheet.

This is the kind of intimacy only Monk, the OCD-afflicted detective, could love. The audience found it amusing, to say the least.

Poor Ben. His piece was funny, but how was anyone supposed to follow that?

It's Mardi Gras?

Thanks to random Facebook status postings, I recently (9:15 PM) realized that today is Mardi Gras.

What the hell?!?

It was always easy to know when Mardi Gras was approaching in college. For three years, I roomed with a Catholic from New Orleans, and we all know what Mardi Gras means to them. Out would come the cans of red beans specially sent up for the occasion, and we would drool over King Cakes we'd had in the past. Then she'd do something silly the next day, like give up all sweets and soft drinks. Lent, I suppose.

Well, to everyone back in the States who actually knew what today was, happy Mardi Gras! Edinburgh, you need to get on the ball. It's not really Mardi Gras if no one even offers you beads.

Presidents Day

Today was Presidents Day, but I wasn't too upset about not having the day off. This is one of those silly holidays - a combination of Washington's and Lincoln's birthdays, no less - that only government employees get. School never closed.

Silly schools.

In any case, I was sent this video today, which is somewhat appropriate and amusing, unless you're a British child...

(Disclaimer: stupid, but at least PG-13.)

Quality journalism

Anyone remember buying cereal as a kid?

For a long time, I chose my breakfast based on two criteria: how much chocolate/candy was in the supposedly nutritious food, and what the toy was. A cereal worth anything at all had at least some sort of prize buried in the box. As I recall, it was usually right near the bottom, so that you either had to eat the cereal quickly and hope your sibling didn't steal the toy, or reach in, root around, and contaminate the box in your quest for treasure. I tended to be impatient, but there were so many chemicals in kids' cereals that I don't think the contamination ever did anyone much harm.

I buy my Sunday paper like I used to buy cereal - by the quality of the freebie inside. British Sunday papers, for whatever reason, give readers something random as an incentive. Today's offerings included a National Geographic DVD of India's empires, a Charlotte's Web color poster, a pack of cookies (to be picked up at a certain store), and my particular favorite, Culture Club: Greatest Hits, Volume 1. Volume 2 is available next week.

I'm no big fan of Culture Club, but heck, it was better than the poster, and the paper had a giant picture of Britney Spears's shorn head above the fold. That, my friends, is world news.

Bad hair day

I thought I was having a rough go with my hair this morning when my bangs half-dried into crazy positions after sitting in a towel for too long. Then I saw this, and suddenly felt better about myself.

Look, Britney: unless you're planning to rip up pictures of the pope on SNL or star in a remake of G.I. Jane any time soon, the shorn look is out. Really. The bottle-black hair was better than this.

And what's with the "dainty" wrist tattoo? And the tattoos on the back of your neck? Britney, hon, you're not doing much to improve your nouvelle-white-trash image.

Bless your heart.

American history, movie-style

For some reason, one of our four channels shows an old movie every afternoon. Don't ask me why, or how they choose their selections. I've never heard of most of them, and only some are in color.

Today's feature was The Raid, a 1954 flick about a group of Confederate soldiers who escape to Canada and then take their revenge by destroying a little town in Vermont. (See here for details.) I learned a few things about history by watching this stunning war picture:

1) Vermont looks suspiciously like the Old West.
2) It's warm enough to go around in little more than shirtsleeves in Vermont in October. Perhaps this was due to nineteenth-century global warming.
3) In the 1860s, it was perfectly acceptable for visitors to carry pistols in their trousers into church. Shooting sprees were par for the course, and no one would suspect anything.
4) In the 1860s, Southern American and Canadian accents were interchangeable. No one would suspect a Confederate officer who claimed to be from Montreal. Then again, they all sounded like Midwesterners, so who really knows?
5) When one owns a bording house, one's offspring should be free to break into guests' rooms via the windows, unless one happens to be harboring Confederate spies. Then the problems start.
6) If one of the aforementioned Confederate spies were to be the ringleader of a massive raid, perhaps it would have been wiser to leave the uniform off. The gray's kind of a giveaway.

Waiting for spring

The sky today was ominous - dark clouds and all - but the rain was kept to a light sprinkling. It was the wind that got us tonight, square in the face as we walked back from the Edinburgh Review launch. (A trumpet fanfare and a reading by Raj? Orange juice and wine? Yes!) I'm eagerly awaiting spring and this mythical summer thing I've heard so much about. Temperatures may get into the mid-twenties (that's mid-seventies for the folks back home). There will still be wind.

Things could always be worse, though: check this out. Man, I wouldn't want to be JetBlue's customer relations department this week.

Happy Singles Awareness Day!

Ah, February 14.

The one day of the year when it's perfectly legitimate to walk into a Godiva store and buy huge boxes of ridiculously priced chocolates, and then consider giving them to someone else.

The holiday that celebrates both incredibly fattening foods and skimpy underwear.

The first occasion for Facebook to introduce new gift icons (though the notorious "box with a hole" remains popular).

I celebrated by writing all day and getting Chinese take-out from Karen Wong's for dinner. But heck, it could be so much worse - how many inches of snow does New York have, again? And something like two feet more today?

Well, at least their latest blizzard is an excuse for candlelight and cuddling, even if it's just to preserve body heat.

And you thought your guest speakers were bad

This is disgusting.

Yes, STDs are a problem. Yes, the youth of America should be warned about transmission. Yes, graphic pictures can do wonders, or at least make the class go, "Eww!!!" in unison.

But teaching STD education by making your audience share chewing gum? What kind of a wacked-out idea is that? I especially like the part where they told the boys that one of the chocolate pieces was actually a laxative.

Just what those teachers needed: boys with the sudden inspiration to bake special brownies.

Trying new things

Tonight was a lot of fun for several reasons. First among them was going to see Benjamin Britten's Albert Herring, which featured Ruth's superior oboe skills and one amazing "May King" costume. English comedic opera is always fun.

Also fun was hanging out in the Pleasance Cabaret bar after the show and discussing the attributes of the various players.

I made up my mind to expand my beverage horizons tonight and actually ordered a shot of The Famous Grouse. It took me nearly an hour, but I drank it straight. Now I see why a little tiny glass of liquor goes a very long way. Not exactly thirst quenching, but that's what the Coke Zero beforehand was for, right?

Sunday

Not the most productive day on record, but tonight was fun. After a Mexican-themed dinner and some suspiciously familiar Bacardi Breezers, we settled in to watch Cars.

The two southerners had seen it before. The northwesterner and the Brit had not.

It's amazing how funny Larry The Cable Guy can be after months in Scotland. Then again, it's kind of sad having to explain why "Mater...like Tomater, but without the 'To'" is funny.

Still, "I'm happier than a tornado in a trailer park!" makes the movie worthwhile. Thank you, Larry. Git 'er done, indeed.

Quite.

Hunting down Tex-Mex ingredients in Edinburgh

For a Tex-Mex-themed dinner, I had been assigned Mexican rice (it appears surprisingly easy, and I actually have all the ingredients on hand for once...we'll see), but I wanted to make a certain dip my mom always makes for these sort of occasions. She sent me the recipe (also pretty simple), and I, rather nonchalantly, told her I'd shop for the ingredients on Saturday.

Scotland doesn't believe in Cajun. It also doesn't believe in Tex-Mex.

The basics - avocadoes, tomatoes, onions, corn chips - were simple enough to locate at Tesco. Their paltry selection of Old El Paso products offered a packet of fajita seasoning, which will serve my purposes. Then came the fun bits...

...like lemon juice. I'm using a real lemon and guessing.
...and sour cream. They have one variety at Tesco, and it's full-fat. At least there's light mayo.
...and shredded cheese. Their selection was pathetic at best, though they do offer approximately sixteen kinds of cheddar in blocks. Cheddar is big around here.
...and bean dip. Tesco doesn't believe in bean dip.

I asked an intelligent-looking clerk where I might find refried beans or bean dip, and he gave me a knowing smile, then showed me to the chip aisle and the salsa I had already nixed. "No," I explained, "not salsa, bean dip." He then led me to their corner of weird toppings and tried to sell me on hummus. "No, it's Mexican. Refried beans?" Alas, he wasn't able to help me, and so I had to fall back on other options.

Keep in mind that it's wet and cold today.

I texted Ian, but he'd never heard of the stuff at Sainsbury's. Undaunted, I set off for the weird little store on Nicholson Street that sells things like prawn crackers and canned pumpkin. The clerk at least knew what I was talking about, but they were sold out. I then pushed through the masses of Welsh rugby fans (Scotland plays Wales today, and the kilts were out in full) to Sainsbury's, where, after browsing though the entire store, I found the ethnic aisle and a couple of cans of refried beans by a brand I've never heard of. They guarantee they're "the true taste of the Americas." We shall see.

To tell the truth, I don't even like refried beans.

Learning new things

Here's to Wikipedia, the font of all useless knowledge, for expanding my pharmaceutical lexicon.

I was at Superdrug today, examining their paltry cold and flu offerings, when I found Sudafed and something called Lemsip, which resembles Theraflu. I brought both home for a little cocktail, then bothered to read the back of the Sudafed box. "Contains Paracetamol," it warned me, then advised me not to mix it with any similar products, and to seek immediate medical advice in the event of an overdose, "even if you feel well."

Okay...

The Lemsip, however, was also high in this Paracetamol, and its warning told me that an overdose can increase the risk of liver damage.

So, paracetamol is a fancy British term for alcohol, right?

Or not. I checked Wikipedia, which explained to me that paracetamol is another term for acetaminophen, which I recognzied as the active ingredient in Tylenol. A toxic dose of acetaminophen is roughly 10 grams in a 24-hour period. I halved the Sudafed dosage and paired it with a Lemsip packet, which gave me a whopping 950 mg of the stuff.

Hasn't done much good yet, but at least the Kleenex is hanging in there.

I miss Rite-Aid

As was pointed out before class yesterday, there's always one plague or another going around Richmond Place. We live in close proximity, we share kitchens, and someone still keeps leaving the windows open.

By 7:30 last night, I was ready for a pack of Tylenol Cold and Sinus. Though conscious of the fact that Tylenol seems not to exist in this country, I nevertheless set off for the drug stores to see what I could find.

Ah, silly me. This is Scotland. The "late hours" chemist across the street closes at 7 PM.

In vain I walked up and down Nicholson Street, but Superdrug, Boots, and even the tiny chemist close to Blockbuster were closed. I stopped into the convenience store that sometimes sells Reese's Cups, but they didn't do OTC drugs, and there were no Reese's. My last resort was to go back to the Co-op around 11 and buy a box of Kleenex from a surly man who pronounced "Two-sixty" and "Two-sixty-eight" exactly the same. I was momentarily embarrassed when I left the store, but then I came to my senses. It was late. I was buying Kleenex, for God's sake - it's not cool to screw around with a sniffly woman. Thinking unkind thoughts about the Co-op man and chemists, I took my tissues and went to bed.

Snow!

I pulled back my curtains this morning to get the shock of the week: this lovely dusting of snow all over Edinburgh.

It's not bad out there - New Haven has certainly provided worse - but I actually wore running pants to the gym in lieu of shorts this morning. Bare legs and snow just don't mix.

Fortunately, the building's storage heaters are working their little hearts out. The kitchen is still a mess, however, because someone constantly leaves the windows open all freaking night. By 9:30, the place is a freezer and the herb garden looks sad. I'm surprised the azalea is still with us.

Getting older

I'll be 23 in just under three months (22 and three-quarters...not as if I'm counting), but that doesn't really bother me. I might be a basket case at 30, but age hasn't done much to me yet. Then again, I'm past all the good stuff - the permit, the license, the vote, legal alcohol - and all I have to look forward to is the ability to rent a car and a condo at 25. Whoopee.

That said, my baby sister - the kid I still sometimes think of as four - turned 21 yesterday.

My kid sister can now legally drink. Not that she does, but the thought frightens me. She's not supposed to be legal, she's supposed to be in high school or something.

You suddenly make me feel old, Jen. Happy birthday!

Nothing like late-night socializing

I was feeling mildly like death for most of the day yesterday, so I decided to make another early night of it. What with one thing and another, however, I didn't get in bed until 11, and was still a bit wired. I eventually drifted off around quarter of twelve, only to be awakened by the fire alarm.

Somehow I ended up in the parking lot with the rest of Churchill House. I noticed that I had managed to put on pants (always a good thing), a fleece, and my watch, and that I had grabbed my flash drive and purse, but the first shoes that came to mind in my half-conscious state were sandals.

Okay, flecce, jeans, and sandals. Perfect for those February nights in Edinburgh.

When we realized there were no flames shooting out of the windows, several of us retreated to the laundry room, where at least we had protection from the wind, and waited for the firemen to come and turn off the alarm.

Someone in the laundry room thought it might have been sweet potatoes. Those had better have been some good sweet potatoes...

Glasgow

Just returned from a day trip to Glasgow, which turned out to be much less expensive than I had anticipated. There was shopping, but it wasn't successful. Too bad. I'll pop in to Jenners soon...

Besides the shopping, there was a trip to GoMA (Glasgow Museum of Modern Art), which was a cool diversion with a gift shop, and a side trek to the Lighthouse, another diversion with a gift shop. I sense a theme. The rain was kind enough to fall while we were indoors, for which I am rather grateful. The Princes Square Mall also has a pit where little kids run around and generally act insane, which was amusing.

On the down side, one of our party is recovering from the plague, I'm feeling kind of crappy, and I have 10 AM class. Joy.

Thank you, Pop World

Britain's non-satellite answer to MTV and VH1 appears to be "Pop World," a Saturday morning program on Channel 4 that offers music videos, news, and interviews with various performers. The two presenters, though both fairly attractive, have the combined IQ of the average reader of Tiger Beat. This morning, they introduced a new segment in which they dissect a few new videos.

Up first was Robbie Williams, a perennial favorite over here, who in the video not only performs to a club full of transvestites, but changes into drag himself. Okay. It's Robbie Williams, fair enough.

Next was The Fray's "How to Save a Life," which has been on the American charts since, oh, summer at least. Decent video, good song, whatever.

Third, however, was the stinker of the morning. The female presenter compared the group to Steps, and I think it was an insult to that other fine group of artists *cough*. Ladies and gentlemen, the newest pop sensation to come out of the Netherlands, Ch!pz.

Yes, "Ch!pz." You know there's a problem when the punctuation is in the middle of the name.

I was so appalled by this foursome's video that I had to google them. Rule of thumb, kids: if you're not singing a country song or you're not doing "urban cowboy," then for God's sake, don't set your video in the Old West. Need to see what makes most Europop so incredibly bad? Check out "Cowboy." Go on, do it. I dare you.

For the record, I did download a Steps song at one point, and I still have my ABBA, Eiffel 65, and ATC CDs. Momentary lapses in judgment, all.

Groundhog Day

Thank you, Punxsutawney Phil.

The Pennsylvanian groundhog, by failing to see his shadow this morning, has predicted an early spring.

Of course, I'm not sure how well this applies to Scotland, but here's hoping. I was able to wear sandals for most of the day without frostbite, which is a promising sign.

The sandal wearing was over the course of a few errands this afternoon, mostly centering around Tesco. I was about to head over to replenish my cabinets when I saw my collection of cornbread mix and decided that might be a good idea. My dad puts blueberries in cornbread - hey, don't knock it until you try it - and I figured I could do the same. Tesco had blueberries on sale (as well as cherries, which I'm eating slowly), so I bought a pack and took my bag of groceries home, where I discovered that I needed eggs and milk.

Back to Tesco. Thank goodness it's just around the corner.

I mixed up the cornbread, but kept the mess in my quasi-Pyrex dish and stuck it in the oven at an approximation of 400 degrees. We're never sure. Twenty minutes later, I removed it, let it cool, and stuck a knife inside. Still gooey. Back in the oven it went for another ten minutes, at which time it resembled a mass of blueberries loosely held together by baked cornmeal.

It's good, but it has the same effect as a blue raspberry slushie on one's lips and teeth. Note to self...

February

I was able to walk to the gym in shorts this morning without feeling like my exposed skin was about to freeze and fall to the sidewalk. Huzzah!

So begins the shortest month of the year. The days are growing longer, the temperature is thinking about rising, and the rain held off today. (We celebrate the small things.) It's strange to think that I have less than two months of formal classes remaining in my academic career, which leads me to the problem of summer. Sure, class is class, but it's also a nice chance to see everyone. This summer, we'll actually have to make our own social opportunities.

I'm not sure I'm ready to graduate again. Ah well, November is a while off yet.

See this film

I finally had the chance to see Pan's Labyrinth tonight, and I must say that even with the excessive gore, it's an excellent film. The fact that I gave up several weeks ago and read the synopsis on Wikipedia did little to dull the film for me - the cinematography is excellent, the fantasy-Fascism juxtaposition is well done, and now I can't get the theme music out of my head.

It's definitely not a movie for kids - a creature with eyes in its hands who bites the heads off fairies isn't your standard Disney fare. There's more of the proper fairy tale to this film than the saccharine version, anyway, which makes it infinitely more interesting. Good people die, and fairies aren't always pink and frilly. Such is life.

Definitely could have done without the sewing bit (if you've seen it, you know what I mean). The audience reacted appropriately, though I'm convinced all the gasping and eww-ing was done by a single, rather macho, fellow somewhere in the audience. Or not. I admit, I did close my eyes a few times, but I've sat through much worse - I don't remember actually seeing large chunks of The Grudge, for instance.

Hey, that kid was creepy. I don't want to hear about it.

Long distance

As I was crawling into bed at quarter of twelve tonight, my US cell phone began to ring. Seeing as the only person who calls that phone is my sister in Chicago (international calling rates are ridiculous, and her Mac won't work with Google Talk), I jumped out of bed to answer it, only to find a strange 205 number on the ID.

What the hell, I thought, answering. "Hello?"

"Hello," a young, female, distinctly southern voice replied. "My name is Jane Smith, and I'm a sophomore at Indian Springs School. Is Miss Laura Simpson available?"

"This is she, and this has to be quick, this is an international call."

"Oh." She seemed flustered. "I was calling to see if you might be able to give this year..."

"No, I'm sorry, I'm a grad student. I have no money."

The poor dear seemed confused by my flat refusal, but we parted amicably (and quickly), and I returned to my sudoku feeling slightly guilty. Then I ran the time difference and realized that my dear solicitor was calling at 5:45 CST.

Dinnertime, sweetheart? That's a no-no, and I don't care what they told you when you sold your soul to ISS.

With a lighter heart, I now return to bed. Jen, if you see this, don't call me for the next eight hours unless your funding for Africa comes through. That I care about.

Well...it's Monday

Not a particularly exciting day. I rose at seven to make gym time before class (it's great when 10 AM class is described as "the middle of the night"), had lunch out, and have been trying to write ever since. More interesting things happened elsewhere in the world, however:

1) The sad: Barbaro was euthanized (http://msn.foxsports.com/horseracing/story/6421288?MSNHPHCP&GT1=9012).

2) The, um, funky: Miami's Committee to "Discuss an event at the Orange Bowl in case expected events occur in Cuba" (http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/16872448/?GT1=8921).

Oh well, perhaps tomorrow will be more thrilling. On a happier note, the sun is coming up sooner and going down later (almost 5 PM...whoa), and we're going to see Pan's Labyrinth on Wednesday!

Missing sopranos

Today was the quarterly Communion Sunday at church, meaning that the servers all sat around the table this morning instead of out in the pews. I didn't realize this until I got there and was told that all the women, and possibly both men, would be absent from the choir.

Fortunately, we had one man, and so we decided to try everything duet-style. Emily slipped in after the first song (with a half-hour walk, I can understand the tardiness), but that still meant only three people, two of them typically altos, and three unfamiliar hymns. Fine, I thought as we processed (still without Emily), if I'm carrying the treble section, I might as well sing the melody.

Today, however, happened to be the day that most of the melodies were in the stratosphere. Fortunately for me, my nerves about reading this morning were pushing my voice up (and making my legs shake, but that's another matter), so the first E wasn't much of a stretch. It wasn't until the final hymn, "Christ is Made The Sure Foundation," that I started to feel the burn. Not only was there a written E, but it was modulated up.

"I don't like playing in A," Roy explained after the fact. "That was only B-flat."
"But that made it an F," I pointed out, wondering how badly I had squeaked.
"Well," said Emily, "at least my abs got a workout."

Over lunch, I caught a few minutes of American Idol auditions, which made me feel somewhat better.

Quality programming

Ah, Saturday. One of the two days of the week during which I genuinely don't feel guilty about slacking off. Most of the time.

I'd like to share my appreciation for several people. First is the guy who has uploaded entire episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000 to Google Video. Now I always have something to watch (as long as the network feels like cooperating).

Second is the kind soul who uploads episodes of The White Rapper Show to YouTube. I salute you, sir, for giving me a weekly dose of the South Bronx and the white kids trying to make it in the 'hood. Must admit that I was sorry to see G-Child go tonight (come on, anyone who claims that Vanilla Ice is her idol has some serious guts), which means that the female representation is down to Persia, since we also lost the British chick in Episode 2.

Now, how to get Fifty Pence on...he can't be any weirder than the King of the 'Burbs and his "Ghetto Revival."

Jonesin' for BBQ

Last night, over Burns Night drinks, I got into a debate with a certain North Carolinian about the nature of proper barbeque. Taking a more liberal stance, I admitted that I was willing to accept pork, chicken, or beef covered with a tomato-based sauce. She screamed something in the spirit of "Begone, Satan!" (not those words, but there was a look in her eye that frightened me...maybe it was just the Strongbow) and told me that barbeque can be pork, only pork, and must have a vinegar-based sauce.

Whatever, Leigh.*

We let the matter drop, but I left the pub with a desire for barbeque comparable to Leigh's nacho cravings. Only one problem: no one over here does proper barbeque.

To really make decent barbeque, you need a grill or a smoker. There should be fire involved, and the end product should have delicate overtones of charcoal or mesquite, or something else that lets you know it's been slow-cooked over an actual flame. Then there's the sauce - tomato, vinegar, and even mustard are all legitimate bases for it, and prize-winning family recipes are the way to go.

That said, I'm in a dorm in Scotland. Certain elements, like a real grill and a real sauce, just can't be had.

Undaunted, I went to Tesco and picked up a pack of chicken breasts (yes, chicken), then headed over to the condiment aisle for sauce. There was only one type of barbeque sauce in the entire store, and it was by HP. HP, the makers of "brown sauce." What the heck is brown sauce?!? Even Shaw's, the Grocery Hellhole of New Haven, had more than one type of barbeque sauce. Well, I figured I didn't have room to be choosy, since God knows I don't have a trusted sauce recipe of my own, so I took what I could get and headed back to the dorm.

My dad has started doing this barbeque-ish thing with leftover pork roasts, basically shredding the meat and dumping a bottle of sauce on top. It works in a pinch. Not trusting myself to use the grill on the stove, as it always makes my meat come out dry, I boiled the chicken (after looking up how long one needs to boil chicken...yeah, I'm a mess in the kitchen). Lacking a food processor, I settled for shredding the result, burning my fingertips in the process, then dumped half the bottle of HP into the dish and mixed it up.

It's not half bad. Jim & Nick's isn't going to come calling any time soon, but I now have a few more dinners sitting in my refrigerator. The Fourth of July is looking more promising...

*To sum up the issue (thanks, Wikipedia):
Although regional differences in barbecue are blurring, as are many other aspects of U.S. regional culture, variations still exist, and it is still possible to get into heated discussions of the superiority or inferiority of particular regional barbecue variants.

Alabama
In Alabama, there are currently more barbecue restaurants, per capita, than any other US state. Alabama barbecue most often consists of pork ribs or pork shoulder, slow cooked over hickory smoke. Pork shoulder may be served either chopped or sliced; some diners also specify a preference for either "inside" or "outside" meat. Alabama barbecue is typically served with a spicy, tomato-based sauce. Two Documentary films have been made concerning the Alabama barbecue phenomenon, "Holy Smoke over Birmingham" and "A Taste of Hog Heaven,"
Famous Alabama barbecue restaurants include:
-Dreamland Bar-B-Que
Founded in 1958 in Tuscaloosa, there are now over 8 locations statewide. In the original restaurant in Tuscaloosa, there are no side dishes, only ribs, bread, and sauce served on paper plates.
-Big Bob Gibson's BBQ
Founded in 1925 in Decatur, the people from Big Bob's have won many world championships in pork and chicken, as well as for their award winning sauces. They are particularly famous for their unique "white" sauce with a mayonnaise and vinegar base. This style of barbecue was well-documented in Fannie Flagg's bestselling book Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe, which was cooked and served at the Whistlestop Cafe that is at the center of the story.
-Golden Rule Bar-B-Que
One of the oldest barbecue restaurants in Alabama, The Golden Rule has remained a faithful representation of times long past. Founded in 1891 in Irondale, the original location was a roadside stop for travelers making the journey to and from Atlanta. Although the location has changed many times due to progress and growth, the original concept has stayed the same: Slow-roasted, finger-lickin' barbecue.

North Carolina
Within North Carolina, there are multiple regional traditions, all based on the slow-cooking of pulled or chopped pork. On the east coast, the dominant ingredients in the sauce are vinegar and hot peppers. Proceeding west into the Piedmont (as in Lexington), the sauce (called "dip" by the locals) becomes more tomato- or ketchup-based, but usually not as thick as commercial (Texas-style) sauces. In the eastern part of the state, the whole hog is typically used; in the west, sometimes only pork shoulders are used for barbecue. But under any circumstances, North Carolinian use of the term "barbecue" will refer to slow cooked pork, and not to backyard cookouts, or any sort of beef, chicken or other meats, regardless of how they are prepared although it is commonly acceptable to call chicken barbecued if the sauce is the same used on pork. Some North Carolinians will deny that "barbecue" exists outside of North Carolina.
In general, a hog half (Eastern) or shoulder (Lexington) is placed in a "hog cooker" over wood coals and cooked slowly, usually overnight. What wood to use is subject to some debate (often oak or hickory; never pine). In modern times, gas, electric, or charcoal heat are often used for convenience, although most will agree that the long exposure to hardwood smoke improves the flavor of the final product and is generally preferred. Other variations include cooking times, turning during cooking, and how finely the meat is chopped after cooking. For both Eastern and Lexington style, hushpuppies, barbecue slaw, boiled potatoes, corn sticks, Brunswick stew, and collard greens are commonly served as side dishes at North Carolina barbecue restaurants. Also popular is the "barbecue sandwich," consisting of barbecue, vinegar/pepper sauce, and sweet cole slaw served on a hamburger bun. Lexington's Annual Barbecue Festival is well known within the state and normally held on one of the last 2 Saturdays in October of each year.
A gathering centered on the cooking and consuming of barbecue is frequently called a "Pig pickin'" by North Carolina residents, and is popular for church gatherings, family celebrations, reunions, weddings, funerals and often as an event which occurs before the start of a collegiate football event.

Burns Night

Today is a national holiday in Scotland, a celebration of the life and works of Robert Burns, Scotland's Bard and notably the author of "Auld Lang Syne." Since Burns also wrote an ode to the *cough* noble haggis, there are many haggis-themed activities involved. Paramount is the actual consumption of the haggis, which many of the Americans in the building avoided. A bit of a nasty trick some locals play on dim-witted visitors is the "haggis hunt," akin to the Snipe hunt. As Roy the organist explained, you give the exchange students butterfly nets and whistles and send them into the woods in pursuit of the elusive haggis.

Right...

Being a haggis-shunning American myself, I joined some friends for an hour out at The Peartree. Strongbow doesn't qualify as a wee dram, per se, but it serves my purposes. Richmond Place had a Burns Night party for us, but we elected not to go - it's all well and good to serve haggis to unsuspecting foreigners, but when you don't provide the dram that makes you forget what you're eating, well...some things just aren't cool.

Random mirth

While killing time on Wikipedia this afternoon (What? Everybody does it...), I ran across a listing of the worst films ever. Having now read the plot summary for Plan 9 From Outer Space, I can honestly say I don't feel compelled to ever see it. The Star Wars Christmas Special, yes. Plan 9, not so much.

I did, however, find a link to the people who made my favorite B-movie, Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter. (The name doesn't begin to describe it...it's a Canadian film with a Mexican wrestler, among other things.) Much to my amusement, their website has a downloadable version of the end song, "Everybody Gets Laid Tonight." In the realm of "so bad it's good" films, anything featuring a song with the lyrics, "He came from Heaven/Two stakes in his hand" has got to be near the top.

Thank you, YPMB, for showing me this cinematic gem. I still have no idea where you got the video.

Giving credit

Props go to Ryan for orchestrating tonight's entertainment, the monthly "Golden Hour" at The Forest Cafe.

Props also go to Nick, Ben, and David for reading.

Props should go as well to the musical acts, especially the guy with the bass. You have to seriously love your instrument to be a bass player.

Some consideration should be given to the adorable border collie who made a guest appearance, though not as much as would have been given if the dog were brown and white and answered to Thunder Lizard.

Special thanks to The Forest Cafe for £1.20 pots of tea and £1 corkage fees.

The Dubious Achievement Award of the night goes to J&H Productions. Below is the link to the article Ryan was talking about...and yes, it was a long way to go for a punchline. There are thirteen minutes of that letter, which was mercifully cut off after ten. Not all was lost, however, as a drinking game has been devised:
-Drink every time he says "J&H productions," "Cincinnati," "coliseum," "producing," "label," "stars," or "agencies".
-Drink twice every time he says "pertaining".
-Finish the bottle when he says "P.S.".

Dreamworks SKG Signs J&H Productions To Six-Year Deal

CINCINNATI-Steven Spielberg of Dreamworks SKG confirmed the industry rumor Monday that Cincinnati-based J&H Productions International has been signed to a landmark six-year contract.

Research

No one tells you this at first, but creative writing often involves a significant amount of research. Eventually, "Write what you know" turns into "Write what you like, but make it convincing."

I'm not afraid of a little light research - I spent a good few nights with the Big Book of American Tornadoes (TM) for a literature class last year (we love you, K. David Jackson), and I've grown rather fond of Wikipedia, that catch-all of potentially verifiable facts, since then. I spent most of the summer online, doing research on everything from Texas hotels to Civil War battlefields, wildlife parks, and bespoke gifts. As I recall, I spent one enjoyable afternoon with the Cedar Point website (http://www.cedarpoint.com/public/park/rides/coasters/) which lets one "ride" the coasters from the comfort of one's desk. Since I don't do well with roller coasters, watching the track from the POV of the camera mounted on the cars is about the closest I'm going to come to riding any time soon.

Given that background, I wasn't daunted by the prospect of research for class this year, as long as it didn't involve thousand-page biographies or in-depth studies of World War II, or something else along those lines. I've become overly chummy with Wikipedia since September, and I've found a little bit of everything (thanks to Google) along the way.

There have, however, been some interesting moments. In no particular order:

-For a novel I wrote in college, I ended up researching ferry times between England and Ireland.

-The piece I've been doing for class all year involves a lot of roadside Americana, much of which I've yet to visit. There are some great sites about this stuff, including pictures, but two sites stand above the rest. The first is the Graceland site, which offers 360-degree panoramas of some of the rooms. Second is Historic Route 66 (http://www.historic66.com/), which takes one turn-by-turn down the Mother Road.

-Speaking of roads, I've logged a few hours on Mapquest this year, too. That aerial view Google Earth-esque thing they're doing now? Priceless.

-When my semester portfolio was returned last week, my professor told me to research the Church of Elvis. Turns out that it's a subgroup of the Universal Life Church, which will ordain anyone with only the completion of an online form. For $4.95, you, too, can become a Jedi Knight.

-I've been called out a few times, too. Someone in class suggested that a severe burn victim couldn't take morphine because it would leak from the skin. I don't know about that, but I did find that third-degree burns are less painful than they appear because some nerves are destroyed.

-Best yet though, by a large margin, goes to my friend in China who read a draft of one of my pieces and spotted a D&D anachronism - I was using terms from the wrong edition of the game. Since most of my knowledge of D&D's rules and characters comes from Wikipedia (honestly, Ian, I swear), I was most grateful to him for having that particularly obscure knowledge set.

Exercise video

Now this would make the gym much more entertaining...



Of course, I'm not that coordinated at 8 AM.
Or any other time, for that matter.

Football madness

The Super Bowl is almost upon us, bringing in its wake its unique form of insanity. The commercials are the best part, of course - I watched the game last year in the Dive, sitting with a copy of Malory's Works in my lap for those boring bits between commercial breaks - but the casual viewer is also treated to the antics of some really, really strange fans.

My dad just informed me that this afternoon is playoff time - one game at 2, one game at 5. Some fans take this more seriously than others. Consider this poor woman, who had her labor induced so her husband wouldn't miss the Bears-Saints game today: http://msn.foxsports.com/nfl/story/6391994?MSNHPHCP&GT1=9012.

Labor of love, eh?

I have made fire!

Or...erm...casserole, but the feeling was similar.

Tonight, I attempted to act like an adult, by which I mean I actually decided to prepare a dish whose directions did not include "add boiling water and stir." I went on Cooking Light's website (thanks again, Rosanna!), printed a recipe for a broccoli-rice casserole, made a shopping list, and went to Tesco at a time other than ten minutes before I wanted to eat. I made substitutions (cream of chicken for cream of mushroom), added ingredients (Tesco had pre-cooked chicken, but no water chestnuts...curse them), made conversions (just how much of my 500g box of uncooked rice will constitute a cup, anyway, and how much of a 250g block of cheese is 4 oz? Also, where's the danged F-C calculator site again...), and managed not to set anything on fire. The dish made it out of the oven without landing on the floor. More remarkably, the casserole was actually palatable. (Let's see if it still is by the time I finish it, say Wednesday or so.) It resembled what it was supposed to resemble - a bunch of melted cheese mixed with soupy rice atop a bed of broccoli and chicken.

(Yes, disbelieving family, it worked. It was not nearly as visually unappealing as my rice stuffing, the picture of which you can take off the fridge any time now, nor did it turn out to have a weird consistency, unlike the result of Jen's and my unrelated oatmeal cookie incidents. You remember the cookies with that lovely nickname...)

British television

I've harped on British programming before, but now it's getting ridiculous in an all new way.

On Channel 4's nightly news yesterday, there were three main stories. Besides the 80-mph gusts that knocked down buildings and trees and killed seven people, and the station's continuing coverage of global warming, live from Antarctica (and let's not forget Princess Anne's interview down there, since she's such an expert on climate change and all), the big news of the night was the "Celebrity Big Brother" debacle.

Haven't been following this sordid affair? To summarize, some of the C-list inhabitants of the studio bunker, who are mostly of the white trash variety (notably Jade), have been saying some rather unflattering things about Shilpa, an Indian actress. Could be that Shilpa's the most attractive person down there and that Jade's career is in the toilet, but in any case, charges of racism are being thrown around, Carphone Warehouse has pulled its sponsorship of the program, and some 4,500 complaints have been recorded, a station record. There was an eviction tonight, but the usual crowds were not permitted to gather around the exit and heckle the loser. Wonder why. (See http://www.channel4.com/news/special-reports/special-reports-storypage.jsp?id=4408 for further details.)

And I thought American Idol generated a lot of media flak...

Snow!

Well, I never said it was a lot of snow...

The rain mixed with some vaguely frozen precipitation this morning in intermittent bursts, producing this effect on Arthur's Seat. Other than up there, and in the Pentlands on the other side of town, it's just wet today. And cold.

At least I came prepared. Thanks to college, I now have a variety of Davenport-themed winter apparel, including a warm fleece hat that does horrible things to my hair.

Who am I kidding, this is Edinburgh. The most popular hairstyle is "windblown," followed by "wet."

Suburban logging

I just saw a web update from home about the Bradford Pears lining the median in Vestavia, one of the Birmingham suburbs adjacent to mine. The trees, which resemble enormous white (slightly odoriferous) puffballs for about two weeks before going to leaf every spring, are apparently a safety hazard because drivers can't see oncoming traffic when cutting across the highway.

Granted. Vestavia's section of US-31 is annoying for several reasons, notably visibility, traffic density, and the smart-ass traffic cops who park at the bottom of the hill and wait to catch speeders. Some wise guy decided that Vestavia should be a 40-mph zone. Is this a safe idea? Undoubtedly. Does anyone between 16 and 65 actually keep to 40 in Vestavia when no cops are visibly present? No.

The current plan is to cut down the strip of trees, beginning last night, and to replace them with low-growing alternative foliage. I see the logic behind it, but something in me protests the removal of the Bradfords - they're gorgeous, right up there with the Japanese Cherries and the tulip trees for all-out spring blossoming. It's a shame to lose these lovely trees, especially because they've been in the median for so long.

Then again, I don't want to get broadsided by oncoming traffic, either. Decisions...

A winter wonderland it ain't

Edinburgh...tsk, tsk.

Apparently, while I was taking my half-hour nap at eight tonight (hey, Pasta Coma happens, and at least I'm no longer taking pre-bed naps on the floor during L&O: SVU like last year), it snowed. You couldn't prove it by me. When I looked out the window, the pavement was wet, but nothing flake-like was falling. The only way I knew anything had happened was by a few "Is is snowing?" IMs from Anurag. Maybe his side of the building got snow. Mine got jack.

Another thing: it was beautiful today, cold but lovely and clear-skied. Where did the hypothetical snow come from, and why is it wet now? Edinburgh, for all of our sakes, make up your mind!

Off topic, I highly recommend Brookstone's "Nap" socks, which are quite warm, blue, chenille-y, and fit nicely over the other socks I wore to class (you know, with the suede boots, since it wasn't raining today...oh, wait...).

National holidays

I had approximately the following conversation with my mother this afternoon.

Me: What's up?
Mom: Just got home from work. Your father is making me potatoes.
Me: (Realizing it's about 9:30 AM in Alabama) What's Dad doing home?
Mom: It's Martin Luther King Day...
Me: [Silence] Yeah, I thought MSN was saying something about that...

Amazing how one can forget those national holidays. Ah, MLK Day...when all the other schools got off but Springs was still in session...when the Native American group staged "Indigenous Peoples Day" on Cross Campus...when Levin finally relented and gave us a national holiday off...

Well, it wasn't like I was in class today, anyway.

Twister, British-style

Amazing. Simply amazing.

I just watched part of a special entitled "Tornado Britain," which covered the '05 Birmingham tornado and the December '06 London tornado (how did I miss that?). Oh, Equinox...not so hot, people, not so hot.

I've never personally lived through a tornado, thank God; the closest I've come is straight-line winds as a kid. I am, however, from a state where tornado drills are mandatory for grade schoolers, and I have many fond memories of being freed from one class or another to sit in the tunnel with my head against the wall, giggling at the inanity of the exercise and of the ungraceful butt-up position we were required to take. I was watching ABC 33/40's tower camera when a tornado came over the mountain into Birmingham in 1998, and I know that 10 AM on the first Wednesday of the month is siren testing time (believe me, one was across the road from my high school, and class had to stop until the test was over). I've seen what tornadoes can do.

After listening to half an hour of this documentary, you would have thought a pack of rabid, hungry Yetis had descended upon Birmingham and London and started smashing things up. The reactions were unbelievable and frightening - no one expected it, and so no one knew what to do. One shopkeeper tried to rescue his sidewalk merchandise. People stood by windows, taking footage with their mobile phones. A TV cameraman, who just happened to be in the park when the Birmingham tornado came through, was blown to the ground but kept the camera rolling. People were frightened, obviously, but completely clueless.

In the aftermath of the Birmingham storm, the announcer told us, 112 roofs were damaged and 90 cars wrecked, though no one was killed. Considering that this was a neighborhood of old Victorian row houses and that the tornado had a seven-mile damage path, 112 roofs doesn't seem like much, but to the announcer, this event was roughly on par with Hiroshima.

Enter the tornado experts from Texas.

I love these guys. First, they cut to Texas Tech's debris lab, in which burly guys load beams into a cannon and shoot them at various types of housing materials, supposedly for research purposes. The announcer seemed suitably impressed with the way a flying beam could punch a hole in your average Victorian brick wall, and I was suitably impressed by the producer's show of restraint in not subtitling the Texans. Next was the tornado chaser and wind expert (he's seen something like 175 tornadoes live in the last 26 years), who did two things that made me grin. First, he said the Birmingham twister was probably an F2, nasty but hardly earth-stopping. Secondly, he pronounced 'Birmingham' correctly - you know, like we do in Alabama.

Did I mention that I love these guys?

If Equinox is right and Britain is going to be seeing more tornadic activity due to global warming or stampeding Yetis or whatever, someone needs to put out a PSA with some basic guidelines. Seek shelter away from windows in the lowest floor of the house or basement. Don't try to outrun a tornado headed your way. And folks, just because there aren't any cows flying by, you do not have license to stand outside and gawk while your lovely row of Victorian houses disintegrates - this is common sense time.

Also, TORRO, I don't care how fancy your scale is, Fujita it was and Fujita it will stay. It was an F2 (excuse me, T4-5), and by American standards, that's pretty wussy. Deal with it. Just by comparison, the Birmingham, AL tornado of 1998 was an F5, 31 miles long, and killed 32 people. If using the T-scale, it would most likely have ranked a T-9 or T-10.

By the way, I know of some folks who make great storm shelters...

One of those days

Let's begin with the rain. When I woke at 8, the crack in the curtains was letting in a particular shade of deep blue light reserved for overcast, pre-dawn mornings, the rain was coming down, and the wind was picking up. I hit the snooze button and rolled over.

The Creative Writing class had been told to expect the results of our semester hand-in on Friday by 5, but sadly, I was informed at 5 that mine might not come today.

It didn't.

That didn't stop me from checking my inboxes compulsively all day long, which at least gave me a respite from the second half of The Satanic Verses. The book's excellent (too bad about the fatwa calling for Rushdie's death), but it's 547 pages long, and I didn't want to spend the weekend with it. Struck me as strange to be reading a book that's still banned in some countries almost 20 years after publication. Granted, I can see where certain passages might be construed as blasphemous, but no more so than, say, the entirety of Dogma, or that scene at the end of one of the Vampire Chronicles where Lestat meets Jesus. Fatwa or no, Rushdie writes quality fiction.

The bright spot of the day was making (thanks to About.com) a halfway decent shrimp fried rice. The plusses? More shrimp than I'd get anywhere else, no scallions or sprouts, no soy sauce in those ridiculous packets, and significantly less fat (I used a Pam-like spray instead of butter or oil). The minuses? Scrubbing the pan when I was finished, egg that likes to stick to the pan, wrong kind of rice (all long grain or basmati at Tesco, curse them), and a slightly higher price tag than takeout (with student discount, Karen Wong's is £4.95, but I paid at least £3.50 for the shrimp and £1.50 for the rice packet. At least I had eggs and soy sauce on hand). Oh well, I'm learning, and I would have had shrimp left over if they hadn't been stinking up the fridge. I already pop popcorn in there, so I'm not going to subject the rest of the floor to odoriferous seafood.

Best worst SF story ever written

Thanks to the fine folks at the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest (http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/), I was reintroduced tonight to what is widely regarded in SF fan circles as the worst story ever written: "The Eye of Argon."

TEOA was published in a small magazine in 1970 by one Jim Theis, who was only 16 at the time. All I'm going to say is that there's no excuse for it. It's horrible. For the curious, the copy circulating on the Internet was transcribed from a mimeograph of the original, and is presented with Theis's typos. Regrettably, the accompanying drawings have not been reproduced. (http://www-users.cs.york.ac.uk/~susan/sf/eyeargon/eyeargon.htm)

I didn't know one could query bustily until I read TEOA. Thanks, Jim, for opening my eyes, but I really didn't need to know that Grignr has a g-string. Too much information, man.

Perhaps it's not fair to be quite so hard on Jim Theis. In a recent interview, he was rather miffed that TEOA was still being mocked 30 years after its publication, and though he had gone on to get a degree in journalism, he never wrote fiction again. Theis died in 2002, four years before Wildside Press reprinted his immortal classic. His legacy lives on in the form of a TEOA-based game: each participant takes a turn trying to do a decent reading of the text, misspellings and all, but is forced to pass to the next person when he (almost inevitably) cracks up.

If TEOA could get published, maybe there's hope for me yet.

A new tour low

Every winter break (and sometimes, spring break or summer break), Yale's sixteen or so a cappella groups and the Glee Club go on tour around the country (or, if you're the Whiffenpoofs, you take a month-long world tour. The Whiffs can do that). All that quality time togther means that craziness happens over these tours - hookups, breakups, back-of-the-bus makeout sessions, hosts who freely dispense alcohol, getting lost, getting put with truly sketchy hosts (see Whim's recent trips), skinny dipping in front of a restaurant in Melbourne at lunchtime - and those are mostly verifiable. It's Tour, though, so everyone expects a little insanity.

There's a rather common stereotype about the members of all-male a cappella groups that doesn't bear repeating (I've know many exceptions to the rule), but suffice it to say that one would not expect a group of them to get beaten up after being heckled as gay in San Francisco, of all places. Yet that's just what happened to the Baker's Dozen after a house party on New Year's Eve. One of the poor guys, a freshman, now has permanent titanium implants in his jaw, is on a liquid diet for the next eight weeks, and can't sing or play varsity squash until he recovers. "Gentle people," indeed.

Don't believe me? Here's the YDN article: http://www.yaledailynews.com/articles/view/19384. For the morbidly curious, the photos are available on IvyGate.

Employment

As I'm currently living on the Mom and Dad Dole, I'm trying to pick up a little spare cash in the form of a part-time job. This is trickier than one thinks - legally, I can work only 20 hours per week, and then there's this business with an NI number (basically, I pay into a service I can never use), plus scheduling issues.

I've submitted an application to the Edinburgh Woolen Mill, which is one of the few stores on the Royal Mile that doesn't continually play bagpipe music. Barring that, my friends have begun to come up with suggestions:

Bean Scene (coffee and bad nachos)
Starbucks (more expensive coffee, no nachos)
Kilimanjaro (coffee, not sure about nachos)
Favorit (nachos, and Belgian waffles with ice cream)

See a trend?

Thanks, y'all.

Grade shock

After awaking from my afternoon nap today (yeah, still a little jetlagged, in spite of it all. And come on, it's cold and wet out there, and it's 4 PM, so the sun's going down), I received an e-mail to the effect that our Postmodern Lit final essays - the ones that determine 99.9% of our course grade - were ready for pickup. No preamble, no warning.

Well, it's been a month. About time.

I popped in to see Anne Mason, the registrar, for the second time today, and she laughed when I told her I'd come to take one off her hands. She said I had no cause for worry. I told her that the professor had warned us that she'd be tough, and had given the Americans a repeat of the "chill out, the grading scale is different" speech, then made my exit and tore into the envelope.

Funny thing about British universities - no grades are permanent until the end of the year, when readers from other British universites go over our stuff and modify the grades as necessary. I suppose this is a good way to keep professors from taking out grudges on students, but it seems a waste of time to me. Anyway...

She'd given me a 68. Considering that 70 is the beginning of honors, I wasn't too upset, but I wanted a more formal conversion.

One of the lovely study abroad websites, however, explained that there really is no formal conversion between UK and US grades, but they offered four charts of rough UK-letter grade approximations. 68 is probably an A, maybe an A-.

Hmm. Thanks for telling me, guys. I can live with that. It's Postmodernism, for crying out loud!

Hibernation

My jetlag finally caught up with my yesterday after lunch, and I crawled into bed for what turned out to be a four-hour nap. I had to wear my bathrobe over my pajamas, as my lovely storage heater had no heat to release at the time. (Actually, it's just now started to heat the room, and it's 7:45 AM. Thanks, heater.)

I felt pretty good upon waking, and made dinner, though I discovered that Tesco doesn't sell much in the way of dishes and pans. Aluminum pie plate? Uh-unh. I settled for a Pyrex "roaster" and went on my merry way.

With dinner cleaned up, I returned to my room and bummed around for a bit before deciding that an 8:30 bedtime was in order. I woke a few times during the night, but it took the alarm to wake me just now, almost twelve hours later. Must have something to do with the lack of sun and the now-functional heater.

Now, to figure out the gym...

I'm baa-aack...

It's 9:25 AM, on a looks-to-be bright, sunny Sunday morning. The sun's still coming up, so time will tell on that count. I landed in Edinburgh about an hour and a half ago, I've showered and unpacked, and I'm feeling slightly more human again. The fact that my body has absolutely no idea what time it's supposed to be (3:25 AM, but who's counting?) means that I'm currently riding the jetlag high, and that I'll sleep like a log tonight. I'm trusting myself to go to church, pick up the assignment for Tuesday, make a run through Tesco, and maybe make gumbo. That's about all; I'm still a bit too scattered to do anything of extreme importance.

The flights, thank God, were uneventful, and my luggage arrived both on time and intact. The only real snag in the evening was the flight from Jersey, which was completely full. A third-year at St. Andrews and I were in seats D and F, respectively, and would have had a more pleasant evening if seat E hadn't been occupied by the Creepy Professor. (Well, he struck me as a professorial type...) CP read something about the rise of the middle class work ethic in America or some such (didn't pay much attention, as I was reading Everything Is Illuminated, which is quite good), then drank a mini bottle of cabernet sauvignon and proceeded to take a nap. I have nothing against people who can sleep on planes - more power to them - but St. Andrews Girl and I were a little peeved because CP tended to list in his sleep. Also, his knees kept slipping into my space, which was cramped enough because the **** jerk in front of me decided to fully recline his seat. I couldn't recline mine because the row behind me was against a wall, and the man would have been awfully cramped, so I was stuck in a tiny hole, fighting for space with CP's knees and my backpack, looking for my lost battery (found it), and trying to convince myself that vertical sleep is possible with a stiff back.

Nice try, but at least the book was good.

On a special note, the Yale Glee Club performs at my high school tonight. Guys, I love y'all dearly, but our timing sucks. In any case, knock 'em dead!

Another special note: my parents have been married 29 years today. Congrats, and I love you, Mom and Dad.

Leaving the Mother Land

My bags are packed, my groceries are purchased, and I've had my last steak for eight months. Yes, the time has come - 7:30 AM, to be precise - for me to leave home once again and take the three-hour drive to Atlanta to catch my flight out.

The unfortunate bit about this trip is that the flight isn't direct; I have to hang out in Newark, home of the $7 sandwich, for two hours. Whichever idiot dubbed New Jersey the "Garden State" never spent time in the airport. Reinforcing the difference between North and South, Newark also lacks something Atlanta gave me last September: free Wi-Fi in the international terminal. No, Newark wants me to pay to get online after I purchase some overpriced cold cuts. Well, screw you, Jersey. No one likes you, anyway.

If all goes according to plan, my box of gumbo mix and I should arrive in Edinburgh around 7:30 AM Sunday, theoretically in time for church. I'll consider it, but I'm willing to bet God would give me a pass if I skipped this once...

All I need now are three pair of oxen

Just about any kid who grew up in the States in the '90s remembers Oregon Trail. You know that bit at the beginning, when you give the other members of your party inappropriate monikers and skimp on the goods, assuming you'll just buy replacement axles and shoot buffalo down the road?

Yeah, we all remember how that turns out, even without the cholera and dysentery.

Having learned my lesson the first time out of the country, I went to my friendly neighborhood Bruno's today to procure a few rations in anticipation of my trip back to Scotland on Saturday. Besides my 50 or so pounds of clothes and shoes (hey, Santa was good to me), I've squirreled away the following:

Six boxes of cornbread mix
Four packs of assorted biscuit mix (Biscuits, Ian. Not cookies, honest-to-God biscuits.)
Seven packs of Zatarain's yellow rice, which will not end up on the kitchen floor this time.
Greek seasoning
Meat tenderizer
More SmartPop, this time (accidentally) in Kettle Corn
Two boxes of 25-calorie hot chocolate (Time to discover low-cal varieties, Tesco.)
Splenda, as Tesco has decided not to sell it any longer. Curse you, Tesco.
Vitamins, since they're cheaper here, and because I miss my Viactiv chews.

Leigh, Cali, if anyone wants to bring Reese's Cups, now's the chance...

Kubrick confuses me

I finally watched 2001: A Space Odyssey for the first time last night, thanks to my friend, and I'll give it this: it's interesting. If I had read the novel (written concurrently with the film), I would have better understood what was going on, and why the men in the monkey suits were screeching at this black rectangle thingy. I knew vaguely about the Star Child, thanks to the back of 2010, which for some reason my parents acquired at some point, and I knew about Dave and his good buddy, HAL 9000, but a lot of it looked like Kubrick was having fun with acid.

We have lots of looooong, slow shots of spaceships and floating astronauts (and that scene in Spaceballs suddenly makes more sense...). We have the trippy light show at the end of the film. We have the Chorus From Hell. We have Dave turning into a fetal sort of being.

Huh.

The sequels are trippier. Clarke wasn't a big stickler for continuity in his novels; he claimed instead that each was in a separate universe or some such. As a result, we have monoliths and lifeforms on Europa, Jupiter turning into a short-lived star, HAL being awakened and turning into another Star Child to be Dave's companion, that guy from the start of the movie whose kid wanted a bushbaby being split into human and Star Child, HAL and Dave merging into Halman to save Earth...

My friend insists I should read Foundation. Asimov liked robots, granted, but he seemed to be off the drugs.

Goodbyes

Today was a national day of mourning for President Ford, meaning that my dad and the rest of the federal employees had the day off to mourn, watch Fox's live coverage of the funeral, do housework, or just goof off. Extended vacations are always nice; no one wants to go back to work after New Year's.

We also put Jen on a plane back to Chicago tonight. Her classes start tomorrow at 11, and her plane just got in (it's about 9 PM), so she's going out with her friends to party and catch up. Winter quarter is apparently a pain at Northwestern because Evanston is so abysmally cold this time of year, but at least she's off the crew team and can now sleep in past dawn. For me, soon to be back in Edinburgh, this would mean sleeping until at least 8:15. I will miss Alabama's significantly earlier dawns next week, though I won't be too sad to leave Jack, the neighbors' dog, and his 7 AM bark-fests.

Happy New Year!

First post of 2007...

Jen and I had an awesome night last night, during what would turn out to be a 25-hour beach extravaganza. We headed south after church, armed with a single piece of luggage and the green Beetle, and wound up in Gulf Shores five hours later. The first stop was Scoops, the adorable ice cream parlor on Highway 59, because 1) it's so cute, 2) we were hungry, and 3) I was Fluffy-hunting (if Mary ever sees this, she'll know. But no sightings. He had the night off). Satiated, we then checked into the Holiday Inn, dressed for dinner, and headed over to Lulu's.

Jimmy Buffett's little sister started her own restaurant and moved it to Gulf Shores a few years back, and it's now a happening spot on the Intracostal Waterway. Though the wait was an hour and a half, it was in the low 60s, the Wet Willy Band was playing, I had a frozen key lime pie drink in hand (vanilla ice cream, Licor 43, and lime juice), the locals were sloshed, and the ring toss game was in full swing. They gave us beads at dinner (quality shrimp...Edinburgh, "prawns" don't cut it), and around nine we drove over to the Wharf for their "street party."

The "party" was more a gathering around the stage for what would have been a bad 50th high school reunion band, but the beer was plentiful and the big screens were showing muted football. I was getting cold and we were a little bored, so we headed for Starbucks (inevitably), then stood on the balcony for the rest of the concert/muted broadcast of Dick Clark's Rockin' Eve. At midnight, they dropped a light-up anchor (this is Gulf Shores, after all) and shot off fireworks, and we somehow managed to beat the line out to the road.

This morning, we had a nice hour on the beach, which would have been better if the air and water temperatures had been out of the 50s. Sadly, the sand was freezing, and an hour was all my feet could take. Numbness is unpleasant at 8 AM. We tried to go to our favorite breakfast place, but they were closed (New Year's Day? Who'd have thought?) and so we continued out of town.

Five hours later, we were back in Hoover, and I had managed a beach trip without a sunburn. Amazing.

There would have been video, but I sort of suck at it, especially in the dark. Sorry.