The New Hotness

A miscellany of pictures for you to look at today. And by the way, my dad has made a few people a lot more impressed with myself (him included) than he ought to have. He was under the impression that poetry slams did not involve pre-meditated poems but that I had performed by drawing a topic out of a hat and coming up with a poem on the spot. He thinks I can freestyle. And told people so. And now there are a lot of people who are quite impressed. Even I am, just a little.



If it was culturally acceptable to have a favorite pen (and then take a picture of it), then I'd tell you that this was my favorite pen.


My booty. Not like that, genius, I meant my prize.

Honestly, a beautiful pen, is it not?

(I don't know why, but oftentimes, when I write these entries, my grammar goes out of whack and I sound very Yoda. Ah well, it's just you, lonely reader.)

The Pringles Rant No One Was Waiting For

Apologies that this entry and the last are laced with what appears to be anger and bitterness. I'm really, really, having a good time here. I still can't get over the high of last Thursday night. I like my friends new, old, and really old, and you guys actually make it really hard to write frustrated entries because y'all are so nice, even if you don't read this. With that said...

I don't think this can design would survive in the United States because of the reaction it would provoke. Maybe I'm placing too much faith in activist groups and their sensitivity when I say this, but I think folks would protest the heck out of this depiction of the Thais. Now, cultural caricatures are fine to an extent. And there's nothing I love more than to make unPC jokes and sweeping generalizations about other people's cultures. I can't find any one thing in the picture that is straight up offensive. But I believe the picture is borderline enough in the grey, murky area, that someone could find beef with the chili crisps. In fact, part of what bothers me about seeing this can isn't so much that the picture insults or offends me, but that no one else seems to have been offended. No one has raised concerns yet. No Thai groups here has resisted being depicted like that. Is that really how you would like to be portrayed? When your country can look like this?



Now, the juxtaposition with the Texas BBQ flavour. Am I being fair in wanting people to be upset about the Thais and not Texans? I actually think I am. Are cowboys not just another cultural caricature? Why don't I want Texans to be in uproar? I think it's because of the cultural connotations implied. What's being compared here isn't exactly trailer trash (which are apparently, all over American movies?) or Texas redneck farmers versus Thai small-eyed, bad-teeth, innocent farmers. In that case, I'd say both sides should cause an uproar. But this isn't the case. The pictures look drastically different. As false as the cowboy, wild west myth is, as much as they are part of a dying breed, they are a glorified dying breed. They are positive, glamorous, strong- it's actually in the title, it's wild. The Texas BBQ was introduced as part of a special promotional (and apparently short-lived) series called Taste the World. The Thai one was not. And similarly, the myth of the rice paddies, shanties, and simplicity give off quite a different impression. Thai sweet chili.

(Sigh) I know, I am an oversensitive soc major. I am reading too much into a can of what used to be my favorite potato crisp brand. And I am causing too much uproar about poor advertising depictions that have gone on for far too long and I am coming into the game much too late. I know. But these rants overtake my mind because I have so much free time here it's not even funny.

And yes, Mr. Pringles's hair, upon closer inspection, is starting to creep me out and yes, it's a shame that we don't get such nice flavors. I thought it was just my good ol' Taiwan that had the really savoury, awesome ones but no, good crisps can be found all over the world except in the US. But whatever, if I don't whine in my blog, then who will?

BTW, did you know that Snap, Pop, and Crackle look different here?

The One With The Boy From Uptown

There we were, a bus full of Butler kids in a strange town, waiting in the dark at what seemed to be the side of the road. We had left Scotland behind an hour ago, and was now in England. The bus driver, without announcing anything, just pulled over at what we assumed to be the spot to meet our host families for the weekend. (Butler being the school that I'm doing Uni of Eddie Bert through and not an Alfred) After a long while, a lady finally stepped on board, "Do you know which one you want?" The bus driver asked her. She wasn't sure, and had to go back to the car to fetch her list. Ah. She wanted a Heather and a David, as if we were fresh meat. And one by one, our hosts came and claimed us, and thus, the homestay weekend began. The idea of the homestay was wonderful, the execution, however, left more to be desired. What more to be desired? Oh, I don't know, a fire? Plague? Death? Anything to break the discomfort of the whole stay.

To be fair, it could have been worse. And the family was very welcoming and very nice. The food was great. We got to try new cheeses. The view was stunning and tranquil and learning about a new place was always interesting. Both Kate, the other Butler girl they were hosting, and I got our own beds and rooms and everything was nicely prepared. We got to sleep in for as long as we wanted. Their pets were adorable. It felt really good to be in a home. And it was great coincidence that Kate was from Colby by way of Ipswich, so we had two ties in common. Unfortunately, the niceties ended there.

I don't know if you recall this wee little sitcom of the bygone era, Friends, but in one episode, Ross is torn between two girlfriends and he says of the one uptown:
I want to give her another chance, you know? She lives so close. And, at the end of the date, the other time, she-she said something that was—if she was kidding was very funny. On the other hand, if she wasn’t kidding, she’s not fun, she’s stupid, and kind of a racist. Then later, talking about the same girl, he says:
No, it turns out that the one from uptown was making a joke. But it was a different joke than I thought—it wasn’t that funny.

The girl from uptown is my host parents' 23-year-old-son, who was a fountain of commentary on America, the French, 'the Arabs,' the Irish, and the Welsh. (That's a picture of him, with the dog Spice.) Most of the time, we think, he was trying to be funny, but no, it just didn't work. And other times, he just said really wrong things.
(Kate and I have shared this a few times with other kids and at this point in the story, everyone always asks, "So he's racist?" And I would always pause, because I seriously hadn't thought of using that label on him, just pompous and ignorant, but then I'd think and say, "Yeah, I guess he is.")

A mild example: Describing how trashy his local pub was, all filled with 14-year-old boys, he said, "Just think Texas trailer park." To which we all replied, his mother included, "What do you know about Texas trailer parks?" "I've seen it in movies and on TV." And no, he wasn't joking.

Sad thing is, he was just one of the many bumps in the homestay, which also included being deprived of a shower, watching the three worst movies ever made (Londinium, Alfie, and The Village), the worst British TV had to offer (the notables being American Idol and an hour of a comedy-sketch show from the late 1950's) and taking the most depressing walk in the history of humanity. Oh, and it was awkward when the host mom confided in us a. that she suspects her dead mother was disappointed in her b. she wishes her son could have studied abroad like us so his could grow up a little and c. explained why she needed to be on a diet. Yes, I was very tempted to use 'hellish' to describe the weekend, but the house was much too cold for the comparison. Wore my fleece around the house most of the time. But indulge in these pictures, they make the weekend seem nice.

The view was beautiful, yes, but the terrain was just miles and miles of nothingness. We just walked over patches and patches of grass and rocks for a really, really, long time, with nothing to look at but more grass. Was so full of melancholy I didn't know what to do with myself.


Yeah- people in the UK have the oddest problems.





Anyone else think that's an odd place for a mail slot? Is the ancient ruin of a castle (where King Arthur's dad may or may not have been born) really receiving that much mail?


PS. I love my friends and hate the rest of you lot.

The Worst. The Very Worst.

I don't even know how to begin.
(I edited most of this entry out because I feel weird writing about it like this.)

The story starts last week. So I'm walking along my Eddie Bert streets the way I've been doing for a week. And I notice a sign for a Slam. Slam, you say? They have these in good ol' Bert? That's awesome. Well, maybe that's not what you say, but that's what I said. And I also checked if they've got a Poeting society at the Uni (as they call the University). They don't. So random slam in Bert was going to be my only chance at hearing poetry. Of course, I jumped at it. Told a few people about it. My three good friends were psyched. The rest not so much. After passing the poster a couple more times, I wasn't content with just doing the time and place. I needed to know more. So I took down the email address on the poster and emailed the contact. Just randomly like that. I'm never this gutsy. She said they still had slots open for the Slam, would I like to join?

Long story short (but not that short). Yes. I would. And I did. And boo yeah.
I am so overcome by shock and glee that nothing has sunken in yet, except that perhaps the Scots aren't as demanding in their poetry as folks at the Bo'. I just kept saying, "But this never happens to me!"

And I must say that angry political poets are the sweetest guys in the world. They are so pale and scrawny and serious but so, so, nice and earnest. They were so kind and supportive because they were tired of these two comedians winning slam after slam (see, comedians don't care about the important things in life, and that's not right). Some people meet cute guys in clubs, I meet (people who think they are) suffering artists who are excited about angry Asian girl poems.


















That's the club in daylight. The Bongo. It's actually mentioned in my guidebook as "legendary" which got me all excited. Then I actually showed up to the venue. And went, "Oh. Maybe times were different back then." It's just a room. And I'm pretty sure the Pub at the Bo' can seat more people. But I'll take it any way that I can.

Compact City

I know. Second lamest title ever. You know what? I'd like to see you write better entries from Scotland.

On Tuesday, because I didn't have class until 4pm (did I mention that I'm only in class for eight hours a week? That's right, read them and weep), I took a few hours to wander around the city and see the more touristy political attractions- the Scottish Parliament and the Queen's Palace. I didn't actually pay for the tours, just lurked around the two places. Although the Parliament had a lot of gates that should have been closed that weren't. Was really tempted to just walk in. But alas, didn't. Now here's what I love about Edinburgh. They hate their Parliament building because it took 500 million pounds to build. After the building costs reached about 200 million pounds, they sort of just didn't have a budget anymore, 'cause it was just so expensive anyway. And that logic is freaking awesome. And they always mention that they didn't even have a Scotsman design it. Crazy, post-modern Germans. Also, I love how efficient and compact this city is. So I'm walking along, here are some cafes, apartment buildings, and oh, two feet away is the Scottish Parliament, and the Queen's Palace is literally across the street, and between them is some weird science thing called Our Dynamic Earth and all in the background, just standing there, is Arthur's Seat. That big mound right there. Just chilling.



People love to climb Arthur's Seat. It's good exercise and gives you a great view of the city. But come on, people, it's not even a pretty hill. It's just patches of overgrown grass, most of it brown. I don't hike back home. But I do know that you cannot get away with calling this 'hiking' in New England. This is not nature, people. It's a hill with lots of little paths on it leading to the flat, barren top. You can do better, People of Eddie Bert, you deserve better nature.






See these paths? We just don't do nature the same way.





Grass, grass, all over the hill. And a sad view of the Parliament because I didn't want to climb the whole hill (we're saving that for another day) and because it got really windy and I remembered that our guide during orientation had warned us that sometimes, the bottom of the hill might look calm, but the weather will change suddenly and get really scary up top and, "then you die." His words. Yeah, kind of scarred now.

Harrison's Big Break

Fine. You won't talk about them Pringles. We'll get to them later, we will. In the mean time, People of Scotland, as I like to call them, aren't very good at graffiti. Honestly, I can do better tags than these. And I go to school in Maine.











And now onto this again, toilets. Scottish people are just very weird with their toilets. Case in point:


Why is it a three-part contraption? Is that not one of the more complicated toilets you've seen? And not complicated in the Japanese-modern sort of way where it squirts water and plays songs and has self-disposable covers. No. This is just a plain toilet that comes in many forms. And that extra ridge? I don't know what's up with that either. And who is that handicap railing supposed to help all the way tucked behind two obstacles? But if thinking about all this stresses you out to much, that's ok. There's a cushion you can lean your upper back against to rest your weary body and mind. All together now: What were they thinking!?

I Don't Support The Team

And I'm getting punished for it.
It's been so long since I've had to get up at ungodly hours like 6:30am (ironically, for God, and prayer breakfast) that I've forgotten how to function at such early hours. Definitely bonked my head on my desk while bending over to put the socks on. Now my head hurts. There's already a bump. My feet are cold. And I'm still sleepy. I can't believe I'm going to be doing this every week.

What Do You See?

Before I go into the rants, I just want to test things out.
Look at these cans for a sec for me. (Sorry, two of them are just that fuzzy.) What do you think of the pictures?

Ok. I know. By asking I am firstly (as they like to say here), stepping into ground I don't like to use for this blog and secondly, totally revealing how few people actually read this. But whatever, the one of you out there, what do you think of these pictures, if anything? Nothing fancy or tricky or eloquent. Just comment on what you think.

My thoughts to come in a couple of days. First, need some sleep for waking up at 6:30 am tomorrow.

North By Northeast

Today, whilst sitting in BeanScene, a Scottish cafe chain, I noticed that they advertised their nachos as "the best nachos this side of Mexico." Now, I ask you, gentle reader, what side of Mexico? I don't know much about either Scotland or Mexico, but I think there's at least an ocean in between? Are you allowed to just pick a place and pick a side? Mexico is sort of long and wide. In that case, I have the best fingernails this side of Lebanon.
And whether you want to go north or east, I'm pretty sure that Texas is where you would find the better nachos, "this side of Mexico." Especially since nachos, though invented in Mexico (on the border), is pretty much a Tex-Mex creation and tradition. It's a snack food made popular by Monday Night Football, people, and that makes it pretty far removed from Scotland. I'm on to you and your lies, BeanScene- your lies and your unreasonably overpriced cocoa.

Swept Away

The 10-day weather forecast for Eddie Bert is as follows:

rain, rain, rain,

rain, rain,

rain, rain, rain,

rain, rain.

I am afraid to check the next ten days.

Although, this might shut the rooster next door up. Yeah, did I mention that? Somehow, in this very compact city, the neighbors two buildings down have managed quite a collection of chickens in their backyard. And a rooster crows every fifteen minutes when the sun is out. (So, that's fifteen minutes a day...) Funny thing is, if you look to the street, two doors down is a place called Dixy Chicken, a chain-store that sells fried chicken. Now, nobody really thinks those chickens make up Dixy Chicken, but it's still a mighty coincidence that there would be chickens in the front and chickens in the back, no?

Stirling, Not Shaken

Today, the International Student Center took a bunch of us international kids to the city of Stirling, but apparently, the Center didn't bring back all the kids that it brought there. After much counting and recounting, it was concluded that we were missing one kid. A lengthy attendance was taken, at the end of which we discovered that we were actually short three people. Another attendance was taken to ascertain the identity of the three. And then we just drove off. Yeah, I was a little concerned too since the bus ride was a good ninety minutes. I hope they got back ok...



Stirling, for the less learned, is slightly north west of Eddie Bert and is the site where the great Sir William Wallace (Mel Gibson) fought his battles and not where he was betrayed by his fellow Scots, hanged, beheaded, and disemboweled. There's also a castle here where royalty used to hang out, including James VI, the last king of Scotland. ('Cause then he became James II, of Great Britain, and England and Scotland became one. The number system is very confusing.) But why did I just tell you all that boring stuff when I've got pictures to show you? (The ones above are just general ones from the castle. The ones below are disturbing heads around the castle. Simulation people really stress me out. And there's one of a unicorn because the royalty really dug them. The rest get their own titles and subtitles.)

Random Pictures of Stirling

I was surprised how good it made me feel to see the open country and smell some fresh, albeit extremely cold, air. There is a busy bus stop right outside my flat and there is always a steady stream of exhaust that greets me when I step out of the door, first thing in the morning. Quite lovely, really. So here, for your indulgence and mine, pictures of space.

My Friends, My Friends?

Believe it or not, I've made some friends in Scotland. Well, it's only been a week, but let's keep our fingers crossed that we remain friends. There will be more pictures of them from this trip in the future, methinks, once we all get our cameras and pictures sorted out and exchanged. The kid that is second from the right in thesecond picture, and on the right in the first, may or may not look familiar to some of you. I don't know why she should, as she is a completely new friend I have met in Eddie Bert and not someone I had already taken 8 classes with back at the Bo' and definitely not someone that had lived within the same housing complex as me for the past three years, totally not. She's my new friend Vita-L. As always, these kids are nothing but trouble. Here below, Jemila (sp?) is getting scolded by the castle staff at the 'Great Kitchen.'

Handling Hygiene (Just Hardly)

This picture does not do the sign justice, and I apologize that you can't get a close enough view of it. It's ok. I will explain it. It's a sign warning people of the different things they shouldn't flush down the toilet because apparently, these are issues in Scotland. They have problems with people flushing down large quantities of cotton tips, as you can see in the center. Not only so, people also flush down unopened packets of all sorts of goodies and of course, lots of plastic razors. There was a guy version (or more gender-neutral?) version of this poster in green, in which the hand also flushed down inordinate amounts of pills. Such, my friend, are the social ills in Scotland.


You have to look pretty closely to notice, or just take my word on this. That toilet seat is not a completely smooth oval. The inside is rather wavy, or rippled. I don't know about you, but that struck me as rather odd. Cara (or was it Kara?) suggested that it was perhaps to provide a better grip. None of us would be surprised if falling into the bowl was another trouble the Scots had with their toilets. In that case, a rippled seat would be just the invention to solve their problems.

Now that, to the left below, is a plush throne fit for a king. And to the right? I just have this thing about cute, little sinks. When I see one, I have to take a picture. This is the teensiest yet I've seen in a normal-sized bathroom. Smaller, even, than the sideway sink in that closet of a water-closet in France. Qu'il est beau, le lavabo, non?

Soon We'll Have No Kilts

Before we get on with today's entry, some boring facts about me first. I. Hardly. Drink. Ever. I did not drink outside of my house (except in Taiwan, Canada, and France, where it was legal) until I was 21. At home, I might have had a beer or on special occasions, wine with dinner, but that was it. And now, as a retired senior way past my 21st, I still drink about the same as I did before. My actual views on drinking aren't very exciting, you can ask me if you want, but I just wanted to preface my habits for upcoming entries. Being in Scotland, the land where the 'water of life' refers not to anything Jesus-y, but to whiskey, the land where scotch comes from, the land where our professor invited us out to drink with him, after class, at 4pm, alcohol is very much a part of daily life. Just wanted to put it out there. If you see lots of references to pubs or drinking, it's not because I've become a lush, it's the city. I am almost always the most sober (though also the most red) kid anywhere, even in Eddie Bert.

We now return to today's entry:

The entire city of Eddie Bert is running on low, people. A girl told us that last night, the bar she went to ran out of vodka. At 10PM. Now, I'm no expert on this, but I know just enough about drinking to know that a. bars should have booze, b. vodka is an integral ingredient in many drinks and c. 10PM on a Thursday night is an awful busy drinking time. But in Eddie Bert, these things happen and people accept them. Tonight, we went to a different pub. They had their vodka, but somehow ran out of shot glasses.

Don't they have a Costco or Sam's Club somewhere so that the entire city could learn to buy things in bulk? Broccoli. Chicken. Garlic. Vodka. Glasses. What's next, people!?

Speaking of drinking, I think I found some cool Jesus freaks to hang out with. Today, going to the birthday party of a girl I'd never met before (yeah, that's always socially acceptable), we realized that one of the guys in the small group I'm going to join lives in the same flat as me. And these guys, are all about Christian love.

Andy: So where do you live?

Moi: South Clerk Street.

Andy: Oh, so do you know Dave?

Moi: Yeah, we just met.

Andy: Yeah, it's a shame that he's not very good looking. He's a bit ugly, but he's a nice guy.

Moi: Yeah, I try not to look at him when we talk...

It's A Cruel World After All

First, they mandate that in order to connect to the internet, you have to send them an email, and now the city bike lane shares the same space as the buses and the truck loading/unloading zone? Life is just so hard here. I haven't seen an accident yet, but I'm expecting to witness one any day now. Those bikers stand no chance against the double deckers.

Definitely sang some folk song about missing my ol' Johnnie with old Scottish people last night at a pub. Awesome, is all I can say. Can't wait for next Thursday.

Hung Wet

Beginning to suspect what I had previously assumed as the communal hand towel actually belongs to a flatmate. Oops. I keep finding new smudges on the hand towel. But it's so small and so communal hand towel looking.

Put A Record On

If I ever become an MC or DJ, or any other title that can be written out with letters, I am performing under this name:


More specifically, Stitch Master P.

Way better ring than 'OJ.'
Wait, you don't know the story behind OJ. Oh well, I guess it'll just have to be one of those mysteries in life you'll never know...

There was a fire alarm in the library today. Instead of being alarmed that there might be fire, I at first thought it was just that alarm they have when people try to steal books and tried to ignore it. After it was determined that the alarm was indeed a fire alarm, I still ignored it and actually tried to continue checking out my book. I just stood there and thought, "Well, let me just finish this first. I'd really like to take this book back." Yeah, I am just that studious people. And that fearless when it comes to fire. Or maybe, after being woken in the wee hours of the day by a fire alarm earlier this week, I don't quite care for them anymore.

Speaking of libraries, it is the fourth day of classes and that place was already so packed it's scary. Well, I thought it was packed, at least. There were hordes of people on every floor, study rooms were in use, and lots of reserves were already taken out. But the flatmate described it as "near-empty." Which is sad. Because, not even speaking in numbers, but just percentage wise, that place was carrying at a fuller capacity than H&L will ever be during exams. It was fuller than the Pub on Thursday nights. It was even fuller than your mom after a trip to Grand Buffet. (I know. Completely uncalled for. I don't know what came over me, I just had to make a your-mom crack.) I don't dare imagine what that place would look like come reading week. Or even tomorrow morning.

How To Talk Like A Sociologist

I love the ambiguities and pretentiousness to the language of Sociology. I really do. Half of the stuff I spit out during lectures don't really make sense, and the other half make sense, but it's all too common sensical, just dressed up for lectures. (Of course, I tend to not dress up my words enough, and use terms like, "whack," "what's up with," and "wicked awesome." Also have poor habit of addressing people in class, sometimes profs, as 'dude.') They say that the newer someone is to an area of expertise, the more they talk the talk, and that the people that are really established in their fields are the ones that know to tone it down and talk like normal people. I totally agree with that. But what's the fun of sounding like a normal person when you can be patronizing? Here are some handy terms, good for every day conversation, that could make you sound like an impressive sociologist. But remember, you can't use too many at once, or else people will see right through. The key is in moderation.

1. Discursive regime.
I forget what Foucault was talking about most of the time when I use this term. And have to look it up all the time. But it has such a nice ring to it. And you can pretty much accuse anything/anyone of controlling the discursive regime.

2. Hegemony. Especially moral or cultural hegemony.
Again, anyone can be accused of being hegemonic, which is fun, especially if the accused is a white male. Sociology hates them. But sociology is also full of them, especially since dead white guys created this field.

3. Anomie.
Good ol' Durkheim and his anomie. This term is awesome for critiquing modern society. Or critiquing anything that involves lots of people. Not to be confused with an anemone.

4. Grobalization/glocalization.
The term 'globalization' is entirely too common for sounding smart, and entirely overused in today's debates. Your best bets are in grobal and glocalization, the two ends of the spectrum of globalization. Homogeneity and heterogeneity often get tossed in there, too, but again, all too common terms. You don't want to use lingo that natural scientists can relate to, you want to talk down to them.

There are way more you can use, and it's always fun to throw in terms like modernization or neoliberalization and critique the heck out of them. And feel free to add your own. There are a lot of more specialized terms out there, depending on what you're talking about, and many terms that don't sound fancy, but are still fun, like 'backstage behavior,' 'broken window theory,' and 'second shift.' But those four are my favorites because they're so easy to slip into every day conversation without really committing to anything, and that, my friends, is what sociology is all about.

In other news: Weather in Edinburgh is absolutely psychotic.

Neither Here Nor There

Dudes, have discovered that I totally have a Midwest mindset. I am a student of an Indiana institution of higher learning. So I happen to attend the Bo’. And I’m currently in Scotland. And I’ve never actually set foot in Indiana. Did go to Illinois once, that was nice. And Kansas. And Missouri, too. Do they count? I don’t really know what the Midwest is, or why Microsoft Word keeps capitalizing it. But I’m at the U. of Eddie Bert through Butler University and Butler, as we all know, or as I just read from my “preparing to study abroad packet,” is a private, coeducational university of 4,300 students based in Indianapolis, Indiana. Maybe I was supposed to read the packed before I arrived, oops. But that’s right. I’m actually currently enrolled in an Indiana college. That’s more connected than most so called Hoosiers I know. Then again, I don't know a lot of Hoosiers, or why I have to capitalize that word, too. It's almost as if Microsoft Word doesn't think New England is the center of the universe...

Reason #00004 Why It's Cool To Go To School In A City

On my way running up and down the hills of Eddie to make it to my class (totally made it with time to spare, by the way), I had to smile at the novelty of the situation. Rushing out of a shoe store to go to class? That never happens in fair little Maine.

Alas! Internet Access!

The (rather depressing) view outside my window-
I look out to the U. of Edinburgh's vet school and some random little buildings.














And this is just a random building the school uses for conferences, I think. Honestly, gorgeous buildings like this are just everywhere in Edinburgh.


Five days after moving in, after two phone calls to the student reach desk (amazingly, however, they don't put you on hold hours on end like some college IT departments... then again, their hotline is only open from 4-8pm everyday), hours of virus scans, frustrations, setting and resetting my computer, I finally have internet access. I used to be able to think back and remember what it was like to live without the internet, but I can no longer imagine life without it. Computers are so lame with the information super highway.

Apparently, in Edinburgh, grocery stores can run out of food. Yeah, I thought the idea of those stores was to sell food, too, but no. I don't know if it's a city thing or just a Scottish city thing, but the local grocery chain, Tesco, is was out of broccoli and chicken breast the first time I went, around 9pm. Tried again earlier the next evening and they had no garlic. These are basic staples, people, who runs out of chicken!? The constant shortage at Tesco means that I've taken to the much cheaper and consequently sketchier grocer, Lidl's, where things come in bulk and I've been told to stay away from the dairy...

I am not homesick yet. I am still in the "honeymoon phase" of my study abroad experience (which I am told, will come to a crashing halt very soon, yipee...), but one thing I do miss is how easy the Bo' was to navigate. We were so spoiled. And everything was labeled so nicely. Trying to find the soc department office today to pick stuff up and maybe add/drop classes (classes that are often not when/where they're supposed to be), the thought, "God, I so miss Lori right now" actually ran through my head. Lori, as in Soc. department coordinator back at the Bo'. It was that ridiculous. An example of thebureaucratic absurdity here? My email address is s0571033@ed.ac.uk. That's actually not as bad as my password, which is just as long, has actually more random letters, and is, best of all, case sensitive. And no, I can't change it. Apparently, everyone here is smart enough to memorize these and not whine about them, if only I was as mature... Hopefully, the s051000's aren't as popular as my Bo' address. Oh, I can't wait for the mistaken identities to commence.

This is the street I live on, South Clerk Street. One of these days, I am sure, I will be run over for looking the wrong way when crossing the street, or not looking at all, which is what I'm more accustomed to. Thank you, summer in Dorchester.

Dropping The Ball

If, on the spectrum of college bureaucracies, the Bo' is at the end of "runs like butter," as the ranking systems tell us, then the University of Eddie should be more toward the end of wading through pools of animal milk. Things aren't very smooth here. I would tell you more about it, but I'm trying to focus my energies on setting up internet access to my room and checking out library books, two very simple tasks at the Bo', but very daunting here in Old Country. It's such cruelty that in order to hook up to the school internet system, one must first email the school using a university-connected computer...

In other news, I am going to Stirling this weekend to pay homage to Mel Gibson.

I Can Only Imagine

Imagine living with three first-years.

Yeah, it's kind of like that right now.

Will write more when internet access to my own computer has been set up and no longer sitting in random, sketchy, internet cafes...

As The Eyes Could See

Today was a day full of orientation-esque activities and lectures, which makes sense as I am still on the orientation part of my trip. Learned quite a lot about Scotland. Then, in the afternoon, they released us into the city to see Edinburgh. I thought it was a very beautiful city until I fell asleep during toward the end of the tour.

That's Fatigue: 1 Eddie: 0.
Even in my dreams though, it was still a beautiful city.

In other news, grades are in. I don't think I'm going to medical school... if only sociology could be used to be a physician, I'd be so golden.

Houston, We Have Landing

Touchdown.

And I am officially in Scotland, a land that is pretty much as everyone has described. Way to ruin the surprise for me, everyone. The flights were, as always, torturous and will be commented upon at a later date, when I have access to my own computer and a keyboard I am familiar with, but in the end, all was well. Everything here is, as was expected, smaller. And I don't just mean the size of cars and storefronts, but the width of the toilet paper rolls are definitely more narrow. Word. And the weather? Dark, foggy, and damp, just as everyone had described. But then again, so is winter in Maine. To all those skeptics that mocked all those years of harsh times at the Bo', I say to you, aha! Cold weather really does build character. Way more prepared for this weather than those shivering girls from S. Carolina and Florida. So how do you like them apples, suckas? (Note to self: Should work harder on new year's resolution of not excessively alienating and/or mocking lone reader.) Now that I've moved ever farther up north, to Edinburgh (henceforth known as Eddie. Or Burt. Or EddieBurt.) I'm building up even more character. Now if only all these years of cold sufferings could mount to something, like character, and that character could be traded in for something else useful, or perhaps lucrative... we can only hope.

Heart of Gold

Casey, the humanitarian, commenting on how cold-hearted it was to dissect cats for anatomy classes: That's disgusting and cruel. I'd rather kill someone with a feeding tube than kill the cat.

Oh. These kids grow up so quickly. And have such big hearts. And should I ever fall into a coma, nobody tell Casey.

Hustle and Huh?

People of Great Britain: I don't understand your monetary system. I'm just glad that I still have a little over 24 hours with the USD system. I understand base 10, People of Great Britain, why can't you stick with base 10? And there's English and Scottish currency? Oh, God save me.

In other news, I mean to brag because I'm good. I am perhaps the best communion juice pourer I have encountered. No little pump needed, I relied purely on hand-eye coordination and poured much better than my competition, the minister, and garnered compliments from a very-grateful deacon (all the while ignoring possibly sexist comment about how he was in desperate need of a sister to prepare communion...). While setting up the trays, spotted bottles of both red and white grape juice, which brought back memories of a familiar and favorite debate, a question I used to love to pose:

Say you're in charge of communion and it's Easter Sunday, very important day. You get to the grocery store and they're all out of red grape juice. What do you do? Do you go with the white grapes, or do you choose cranberry juice? And would your answer be the same if instead of cranberry juice, there was only white grape and fruit punch to choose from? Do you choose color or flavor? How do you interpret the letter/spirit of the tradition?

Lonley reader (I don't even bother with plurals anymore), do humor me with an answer.

Famous Last Words

Last night, we tried to name some famous Scots. This was all we could come up with:
Sean Connery
Craig Ferguson (Drew Carey guy/talk show host)
Mary Queen of Scots



(The picture is a scene from my desk. Oh. I'll miss you, desk. And make my clutter somewhere else in the world.)

For lunch, the Nashua youths gave me an awesome send off and some parting wisdom:
Do kiss the Blarney stone.
Beware of the potato famine.
Find a four-leaf clover.

Yeah. They're not very good with their world history.