PB without J

Mr. Miyagi (the irish-american one) recently brought to my attention the need for more golf musings (since I am in the ancestral seat of the game and all that). The Sensai also indicated that he would be extremely disappointed if highly flattering remarks to himself were absent from any such anecdotes. As I must attempt to accommodate my readership... Besides, while I know most of you don't care a fig about overly-involved golf yarns, do you really want to read yet another post about the rain in Spain or Scotland/Glasgow/whereever? [For those of you who like the reflections on nearly-arctic climate, I've got a charming piece planned on abandoned umbrellas.]

Now, you may not have had the first-hand opportunity to observe the oddity of the Scottish, but trust me when I say they are very special. For one thing, they are proud of securing a world championship; that it is in Elephant Polo doesn't seem to detract from the splendour of the accomplishment though they do call it Elephant Pole in hopes that the naive will think that it is a track and field event. I've only been here a few months, but I've yet to see any Elephants in Scotland. (For those of you unfamiliar with EP...it's literal.)

And then there is "football" which they claim to have created. For the rest of the world, this is historically significant though most Americans probably scratch their heads and wonder why anyone would voluntarily confess to such an act. Whether they actually invented the sport is rather immaterial. That they are completely daft about it, is not. For whatever reason, watching a live tie (match) is provocation enough for very round men with pasty white legs to don kilts. (And I was foolish enough to think that this was merely an urban legend and move here anyway.)

Then there is that activity they thought up which has placed them continuously atop the most-hated-nation list of golf-widows the world over. By this point, I should hardly be surprised that sanity and Scottish golf don't exactly walk hand-in-hand. Then again, they caught me off guard. Minutes prior to the start of today's match I was asked if I preferred to play off mats or out of the first cut. I couldn't possibly have heard that correctly... so I took out my headphones and asked them to repeat. Yes, I was being asked if I would rather carry a mat around with me all day to hit shots off of or merely move all balls into the first cut. The fairways, they explained, were so wet that playing off them would ruin them for the winter. (Maybe the fairways are trying to tell us something... ever think of that?)

I might be in Scotland but I've still retained my reasoning ability. A quick back of the scorecard probability distribution indicated strongly that I was likely to be in the first cut anyway --on the margin, a mat would be superfluous. As it happened I hit an unusually high percentage of fairways on the day, though I quickly started aiming for the side of the fairway so as to enable the shortest walk between where the ball was hit and where it would be hit from. It was sort of like cart-path golf, just with sink-holes, boggy fairways, and bunkers-turned water hazards (and I'm not even going to start on the "winter greens").

At the end of the day, a pair of triple salchows followed by a double axel/eagle lutz had landed me atop the leaderboard. I blame my sensaishea... after all, he was the one who showed me that golf without comedy was like peanut butter without jelly. In other words, it would be a sane Scot!

Saturday Reading

I picked up the novel "To Kill a Mockingbird" from the library yesterday. As a result, today my host family (and their two cats) discovered what happens when I get lost in a book. I think they found it mildly amusing to be utterly unintentionally ignored. Mr. Tom, the ornery cat who often as not will dig his claws through my shirt, finally decided to curl up between my sweater and t-shirt. It took me a few minutes to notice his cheeky locale. When he proceeded to lick my face I merely altered the angle at which I held the book. He seemed satisfied with the compromise.

As the cat can attest, I was thoroughly involved in the novel. It is a well-written, powerful tale of fear, integrity, and fighting battles that can't be won-- at least not yet. I know most folks read this book (or the synopsis-- definitely not the same thing) in high school and considering that many individuals stop reading when assignments are no longer being doled out, maybe that is the only way thebook would be read. Depressing thought albeit unlikely. This however is not children's literature or even adolescent. Not due to the subject matter, but entirely because of how well it captures childlike curiosity and understanding. It is unquestionably written for adults, framed by a child to challenge the attitudes of an older generation.

I ought not to generalize. All I mean to say, is that there is a certain level of emotional understanding, maturity even, that this novel inescapably requires. To be honest, I might yet have been too young... it felt that way. Stories of innocence lost and of innocence regained are heady plains. The world will shift ever so slightly, ever so subtly. Rather unsettling.

As I finished the last line, I gently moved the cat off my lap and realized that I needed to reread Last of the Mohicans.

Hardly Worth Reading (Really)

Vindication has this tendency of being sweet. Knowing that you can tell the world or even just one person "I told you so!" is an amazing emotional high even when basic manners restrain you from actually verbalizing those four words. Who needs Prozac, alcohol, or even chocolate when vindication has come aknockin on the door? Talk about endorphins?!!!

But lets be honest, when we have the chance to herald our "rightness," how often do we actually pass up the opportunity? Even when we attempt the near impossible exercise of restraint, our body language will inevitably give us away. Of course, that's no excuse for not at least trying to demonstrate a modicum of self-control. After all, pride is considered the deadliest of the seven deadly sins. Pause and contemplate-- is all that endorphinal-causing-rightness really worth possible eternal hellfire?

Warnings aside, vindication, like a good wine, gets so much tangier with age. A good "I told you so" will mature into a swagger exponentially more powerful if given a bit of time... say, 21+ odd years. Throw in multiple doses of ridicule over such a time period and... (need I really say any more?)

Imagine, if you will, a man, a self-professed sale-rat, insist that his very pregnant wife drop everything and proceed without delay to a closeout sale to purchase a heavy, thick, bulky coat in the midst of a warm California winter. True, the coat may never be worn, may be absolutely useless, but it's on sale. OCD kicks in. The man insists!

Following decades will see many wars waged against the Gestapo-Coat (as it is snidely called) in futile attempts to win back prime-closet space. OCD persists. The GC remains.

Many moons observe the tentative cease-fires and uneasy occupant/occupier relations, all too indicative of irreconciable attitudes and beliefs. The GC is no longer just a coat--it is undeniably a representation, a talisman, of a man's right to his own closet space.

Dad, smile! The GC has finally been worn and lovingly christened in a proper Glaswegian downpour. It is a great coat, warm and dry-- it was just in the wrong city! And all I can say is, thanks... thanks for keeping it... cuz I absolutely LOVE it.

Oh and yes, we know... you told us so!

Would you say I'm cold?

As I bounced out of bed early this morning... Oh, wait... my nose just got longer. Hmmm, wonder why? But, as I was saying, early this morning as I awoke from my peaceful slumbers I energetically began my... Oh dear, my nose is looking abnormally long. :-(

Fine, Jimmy Cricket, I'll try to keep this slightly more factual.

I rolled out of bed this morning (late morning) doing my utmost to not fall on my laptop. I think I was successful. After stumbling into the kitchen for some porridge (with lots of added brown sugar and milk) I managed to open my eyes enough to take in the brilliant blue skies and occasional lazy cloud that awaited me in the great outside. I wasn't fooled. Sure it looks lovely and all, but its ffrr-ffrrigid.

A few weeks back I made the mistake of wearing only a t-shirt on a day like today and was outside only a nanosecond or so before I darted back inside to begin the normal layering process. The point is, here in Scotland, the sun won't actually generate heat during the fall, despite what the bright blue skies would indicate.

Compared to the past few days, I ought not to complain about 6degrees. That is until I look up the high temperatures in New York (11) or in San Jose (21). In fact, the projected low in SJ is 10. Yes, that's 4 degrees warmer than our high.

Now I recognize that ya'll warned me that Glasgow was a bit cooler than even Salinas. In fact, my Dad was very helpful before I moved here and showed me on a globe just exactly how close Scotland is to the Arctic Circle. (For the record, I thought the globe was exaggerating... its not!)

Maybe its time to stop wearing shorts...

McYucky

So I have the flu. That's the uncomfortable, germladen, can't-be-too-far-from-a-bathroom, reality. Its ok. I didn't have class or a soccer match or anything terribly important to do today other then writing a few odd essays due (soon), cleaning a room that has taken on FEMA like qualities of disorganization, and preparing for my upcoming LSAT that will only determine my career. Like I said, not a problem...

Being sick in a foreign country has its advantages though. Not once today was I sprayed down with Lysol, advised to lie in the "teenager on the phone" position, or reminded of just how much nicer I become when I'm sick. Like I said, there are advantages...

As a proactive sick person, I've utilized all the family's favorite remedies:I've been drinking lots of liquids (mom), taking my vit.C (dad), watching TV (DeedleD), sleeping (oh wait, that's mine), and I even did the whole "exercise till you're better or collapse" routine which my big brother swears by.

The final diagnosis? There is such a thing as too much tea and it might have been better if the apple juice wasn't expired. Seriously!

Married in Mexico

An Open Letter to my Mum and Dad

I can't recall the first time you two told me the story of your "meeting," falling in love, and getting married. I'm pretty confident that I failed to grasp the depth of your lunacy. Had I understood, no doubt I would have run away from home desperately hoping that this sort of thing wasn't genetic. (Ok, so I didn't actually know about genes and stuff like that at 4 years old...).

By the time I was a teenager, I began to wonder whether this was just a really long-running joke. After all, you tried to convince us that there were people living alternate lives in the mirror, so maybe, ages before, the two of you concocted this story about getting married in the back of Tijuanan barber shop after meeting only once. I could imagine Britney Spears doing that sort of thing (wait, that actually sounds like something she did do), but not my upstanding parents.

The point is, every anniversery I expected, I hoped, you would come clean... "No, we were married in Conneticut in a church with a white picket fence... the whole Tijuana thing was something that got laughs on a nationwide stand-up tour we did in 1983. We never told you that we were a famous comedy duo? I'm sure we mentioned it... honey, are you sure you never told them? Well, alright... we have told you where babies come from...yes?" (You did always know how to get out of a conversation.)

In recent years, I've grown quite attached to this tale and I sincerely request that should it be in fact, well... a hoax, that you will never ever admit it. Let your soon to arrive first grandchild believe that back in the day, "gramps and nana were pretty cool." Sure, its not what most people would term dignified or even "romantic"... but nobody ever said that about Rocky & Bullwinkle, Abbot & Costello, or Bert & Ernie and thought less of them. All I'm saying, is that from where I stand, you guys are in pretty good company.

So allow me on the eve of your 31st wedding anniversery to lift my can of Lysol and offer up this traditional Scottish toast to the two of you and to the entire family (especially including my brother and his absolutely gorgeous wife).

May the best you've ever seen
Be the worst you'll ever see;
May a moose ne'er leave yer girnal
Wi' a teardrop in his e'e.
May ye aye keep hale and hearty
Till ye're auld enough tae dee,
May ye aye be just as happy
As I wish ye aye tae be.


Sincerely,

the kid not in the picture

Signs

Someone is trying to tell us something.
It may be inconvenient.
Will we heed the signs...


Global Warming: the Cause, Duration, and Cure (look closely-- it's all there)

Strangely reminiscent of how Congress allocates money for environmental purposes

Thou shalt not engross on thy neighbor (#s 6-10)

Harmonizing the marginal cost curve you face with the marginal social cost curve you create



The holidays have been dangerous for a long time...



Don't expect to blame belated Christmas gifts on a shipwreck. That excuse was old in 1887! Shop early, ship early, and even if you go postal from all the insipid holiday cheer...I'll have gotten my presents. Better yet, be environmentally sensitive and just e-transfer the cash.

The above is intended strictly for educational purposes... the writer accepts no liability for practical applications and/or uses. Should the reader find an aspect not funny, they are advised to proceed to a part they do find amusing. In the event of a hot-flash, the reader is highly encouraged to sit in a tub of ice… under no circumstance should the reader relocate to a polar region as this could result in further shrinkage of the polar ice cap. Donations should not be considered tax-deductible, which the writer sincerely regrets. Water should only be drunk out of clean-clean glasses—it is advisable to regard all others as contaminated. Merril is encouraged to swing away.

High on a Hill (with a lonely goatherd)

11:30
Where: Loch Lomond area
Who: Catherine (member of tripartite girl pact); Paul (center) videographer;Alan our fearless leader and soon to top my "most-hated" list. Not pictured... 20 or so others from church.
What: Euphemistically called a "hill walk," Alan is taking us up to the top of Ben Ime, highest peak in the area at 3,317ft... and more importantly (if you happen to be Scottish) it is classified as a Munro. [To fully understand this significance, google Sir. Hugh Munro.]
Why: Completely beats me! Just hoping that I've got the "moderate-level of fitness" Alan tells us is required.


12:15

After about 85minutes of hiking uphill, Alan stops us for lunch. With the cloud-covered Cobbler looming in the background, Catherine, Andrew (the crazy Scot wearing shorts), and myself are discussing the possibility that Alan may not actually be human but instead a mountain goat. I ponder whether "moderate-level of fitness" was in reference to mountain goats. When everyone has caught up, Alan starts describing the next part of the day (to give the faint of heart a chance to turn back). It sounds absolutely miserable... but sitting on a really cold boulder hasn't been so much fun either. Besides, it is made perfectly clear that I don't have the option of turning back... everyone else can do as they choose, but apparently no one will let me quit. I'm starting to dislike Alan, Catherine, Karin, Mark, Andrew and a bunch of other people whose names I don't know.

With the exception of Andrew, who insists that he isn't cold... "ya dien't sieme ta liese ta mouch height thro yar leages" (he hadn't brought any additional clothing), we start layering. I don a sweatshirt, my rainpants (excuse me... raintrousers), 2 mismatched gloves, and my bright blue beanie. Within seconds I've transformed into the Michelin man which is sad, because up till this point I had looked quite cute.

13:40

We haven't been on a proper trail for nearly 30minutes but we have reached the base of Ben Ime whose summit is hidden by clouds. Beginning to think that this is Alan's idea of a cruel joke. Tripartite girl pact (no girl left behind) is beginning to demonstrate its strength. Walking through bogs (extreme casual water) has me privately reminiscing on the landscapes portrayed by favorite author, John Buchan, in his thrilling novels.

14:45

Alan said the climb up Ben Ime was a gentle slope. Seriously?!! Maybe for a mountain goat.

Stiff wind in our face isn't helping matters much. Girl-pact is doing well, though one of us (I'll just say it was the Scottish one) keeps sitting down. Her husband is pulling her up the hill currently... saves Catherine or I having to do it.

How did Paul get ahead of me... again? He keeps stopping to video us scrambling up this boggy, mud-laden slope... I get past him and then 3 minutes later he is once again above us catching for posterity this very forlorn looking cast of characters (needless to say, Alan is in no way included in this description).

Begin to remember my fear of heights... or more specifically fear of falling down. Not really problematic on the way up. But those who go up are supposed to come down and its going to be a balancing act with the wind at our backs. Alan informs me that I "can't have a helicopter pick me up" so I decide to figure out how I'm going to get back down once I've reached the top.

15:20

While trying to keep my mind off of what its going to be like coming off this mountain or just how much my calves are burning, I start to realize that the first love of my life, Richard Hannay, was not only terribly and understatedly intelligent, courageous, and charming but was also in amazing shape. Buchan had this guy running around these hills -- suffering from bouts of malaria, shot-up appendages, folks trying to kill him, all while trying to save the world-- without missing even a single clue. Hotdiggitydamn...Hannay was one hunk of a ficticious character!

How did Paul get in front of me... again?

15:45

I have climbed to the top of a Munro. Course, I didn't realize that it was the summit until Alan assured me that this was in fact the end of the line (so to speak). Given the cloud cover, we can't see much... but we are above most of the clouds... wow, that wind is blowing them at a amazing pace and I can just catch a peek at the valley and loch below.
This has been really cool. Speaking of cool... its positively freezing up here. Andrew (Mr. I'm Wearing Shorts) is still claiming that he isn't cold. His legs have turned a simultaneous shade of blue and red. I'm starting to think that Alan may not be the "ruler of all that is evil." But maybe I'm just thinking that because I have proven that I have a "moderate-level-of-fitness" (for a mountain goat).

15:50

Catherine and Karin have made it. I point out that while we are standing at 3,317ft, I'm actually higher up than they are... at almost 3,323ft. Before we head down a bit to find a spot slightly more sheltered from the wind, we pose for a shot. What we are thinking... "Is there snot blowing out of our noses?"