daily affirmations with chris reeder

Where Have You Been?

2012-01-27T22:00:00.003-06:00

Yeah, its been awhile since I've provided a new Daily Affirmation. Sorry about that.

Its been a busy time in Affirmationland. First of course was the holidays. As usual I spent my time soaking in the holiday spirit. I read Christmas stories to retards. Well, it wasn't so much Christmas stories as my grocery list, but in fairness, I do shop at Central Market (and I bring my own bag; does that make you happy, green snobs?). I worked on my arts and crafts A LOT. Must have made about 50 or so seasonal wreaths, which I donated to a local assisted living facility. The old guys mostly sat on them. I wound up giving the rest of them to the retards, who used them to play horseshoes. Actually, I guess it would be "washers." Then I spent some time doing volunteer marriage counseling. Naturally I can't divulge who I worked with, but let's just say that a German supermodel and a total douche singer with absolutely nothing in common can now move forward with their lives thanks to me. You're welcome. Call me, H! I was also working on a screen play for an After School Special about a family of pirate robots (actually they're robot pirates), where the youngest girl (Penelope...they're English robot pirates) learns an important lesson about good touches versus bad touches while playing in the local youth soccer league, and the oldest daughter (Ffion) steals the family Prius to meet her rock singer boyfriend (Barrett-a troubled teen robot but not a pirate, to which Ffion's family objected, with an eagle tattoo and a penchant for Luden's cough syrup who fakes Tourette's attacks to skip school). Ffion crashes the car into a pet store because she's too weak from her anorexia to focus on the road. I call it "Stay Out of the Caaaaaarrrrrggghhhhh."

What, too easy?

Then of course, there's been my catching up on naps. Which you probably know as the Republican debates. I've been working on perfecting my new macrobiotic organic vegan diet. I only eat grass clippings, dandelion leaves (sunflower leaves in a pinch) and old Hillary Clinton for President flyers. Haven't lost much weight, though about once a week I dream that I'm an Oompa Loompa and Sofia Vergara is a Homeland Security agent interrogating me with maple syrup and jumper cables.

So its been a really busy time for me. I've had a lot on my plate. Haven't had much time for crafting the profound, introspective examinations of the Human Condition you count on to find here.

I also haven't been feeling good, which has contributed to my absence. Take your pick-foot, back, stomach. And I haven't been looking great either. In fact, I look like kind of like a thinner Leonid Brezhnev these days. Uh, I guess that last bit has nothing to do with my ability to write. But now you know. So that happened.

But I did write a couple of things on Facebook worth sharing, as filler. I know. Facebook. How bourgeois....Welcome to the 2010s.

The first one was a response to someone who posted something about needing a new fake name for use in clubs. I got a little carried away with it. She deleted the post before I could provide this:

"Beatriz Ferreira. But you need a back story too. You grew up in Lisbon. Your mother was a model but later became a photographer, working freelance for various European fashion magazines. Now she's a Human Rights Ambassador for the United Nations. Your father was one of the original members of Quicksilver Messenger Service, and met your mother at an Atlantic Records reception while playing percussion and keyboards on the 1975 Rolling Stones Tour of the Americas. You work at Donna Karan in New York when not doing face and runway modeling, though you have a part-time business planning international parties. Its really more of a hobby than a business, but it lets you write off the fantastic parties you throw with your best girlfriends...Gisele, Adriana, and Minka. Your sister works for Amnesty International in London, but has a part-ownership interest in a small boutique in Mayfair. You're just in town for a few days, meeting a friend to help plan her wedding and enjoy some spa time. You were married once, just after high school, but you quickly grew apart and got divorced, even though the funny thing is you're best friends now. You live on the Upper East Side, near the Carlyle, in a little coop by the park. You like French movies, walking in the rain, Moroccan food, salsa dancing and driving Ferraris at the track."

OK, that was a little much, huh?

The other one is my description of every local newscast in America.

"Later in the broadcast, a fluffy kitty story and a local boy sells subscriptions to help pay for his grandmother's dialysis. But first, a local Iraq War veteran is suspected of a heroin-related quadruple homicide in [local poor neighborhood]. We take you now to [insert name of rookie, non-white male, recent community college graduate] with the story."

If you made it this far, there's something dreadfully wrong with you, and you should probably seek professional help or call the Psychic Hotline.

Hope to post something real next time. That is all.

Where Are All the Fun Characters In Life?

2011-12-27T21:32:00.006-06:00

But there are tips that you pick up when the Braves were going to release me. It is a tough time for a manager, for your family, for the player to be told that you're never going to play the game again. And I can remember walking in the clubhouse that day, and Luman Harris, who was the Braves' manager, came up to me and said there were no visitors allowed. So again, I knew I might be moving on.

Paul Richards was the general manager and told me the Braves wanted to make me a coach for the following season. And that I would be coaching second base. So again, gone.

But that's when the baseball career started as a broadcaster. I remember working first with Milo Hamilton and Ernie Johnson. And I was all fired up about that, too, until I found out that my portion of the broadcast was being used to jam Radio Free Europe. And I picked up a microphone one day and my mic had no cord on it, so I was talking to nobody.

--Bob Uecker, 2003.

Sure hope everyone managed to survive Christmas 2011 without gunplay or other incident. Around here, it was the usual ritual of celebrating the birth of our Lord and Savior by engaging in several of the Seven Deadly Sins. Sloth and gluttony topped the leaderboard, with some avarice and wrath sprinkled in. It definitely warms the heart. Now its time to take it all down, sort out your present haul, and re-hydrate before New Year's. I'm just holding on for dear life against the diabetic coma, which is no doubt about 15 minutes into my future.

But while I am, I thought I'd drop some more knowledge on you. More truth. To wit: there aren't enough "characters" in life anymore. This is what you need to know, two days after Christmas.

Look at all the stars these days, be they actors, athletes, or the new third category, people famous because they're famous (see: "Kardashian"). Other than the ones who purposely set out to be weirdos (see: "Gaga") or the trainwrecks who become criminal justice system clients (see: "Sheen"), just about all the stars these days do everything possible to prevent their adoring public from knowing what they're really like. They trot out publicity shills to speak on their behalf, hire professional web writers, twitterers and facebookers to handle their social media, all to prevent their adoring fans (whose eagerly forked over money finances their "gotta get me a second tiger" lifestyle) ever learning their true personalities.

Now, a "character" isn't necessarily some freak show. Its someone with a unique, possibly quirky but definitely entertaining personality. Sam Hurd trying to take over the Chicago cocaine market like he was Scarface isn't a character. Tiger Woods, seemingly the most boring man on the planet until you find out he's the poster child for sex addiction, isn't a character. Yogi Berra, unassuming but barely able to master the English language, is a character. Bill Walton, following the Grateful Dead and speaking in epic terms, is a character. Charles Barkley, full of opinions and hilarious observations, is a character.

The rise of TMZ and other paparazzi types obviously caused anyone with a rich personality to shut down public access to it. "Reporters" now stalk stars like lions hunting gazelles on the Serengeti, hoping to catch them doing something human, like gaining five pounds or wearing non-designer clothes. Their raison d'etre is to bring celebrities down to earth. Good goal, but they're ruthless about it. You're all to blame, of course. As much as yall complain about celebrity culture, you still watch all those shows and buy those magazines. Most of us know more about that grimace Denise Richards, for example, than our next door neighbors. Now everyone's in on the act. Even if there's no paparazzi around, everyone and their dog Sparky has a cell phone video camera who will catch you "in the act." So if you're a star or have some public persona, you always have to worry about being caught on camera doing something completely and totally normal, like dangling your baby over a balcony or doing bong rips right after setting Olympic swimming records or hitting a car in a parking lot and not leaving a note.

Which can be a real shame in some instances. You just know some of them are enormous nut jobs of Britney-esque proportions that we just haven't seen. Like Ozzy. Of course, in other instances, they're probably so boring they'd make talking to the brick wall seem exciting. Wouldn't you be a little less inclined to see the next James Bond movie if you knew the star was about as dynamic in real life as your vacuum cleaner attachments? Can you say "Gwyneth Paltrow"?

Either way, these people can't possibly afford to let you know they're something other than totally awesome. The financial stakes now have become far too great. Like Nike cutting off rape-defendant Kobe Bryant, or everyone cutting off Lindsay "Lightfingers" Lohan, ill advised personal moves can cause the loss in millions of lucrative advertising gigs, movie roles, or other "professional personality" jobs. As is true in all other walks of life, Fortune 500 companies live in mortal fear of offending anyone and suffering the resulting adverse publicity. Its bad for business. So not only do they run for cover from anyone with "problems," they won't even deal with people deemed "at risk." And "at risk" includes people who are just quirky. Charles Barkley has about the most engaging personality on TV, but you sure don't see him in a lot of McDonald's ads (which is a real shame, because a more perfect marriage couldn't possibly exist).

It doesn't help that the richer and more famous they become, the more sheltered lives they lead. Which in turn leads to escalating bizarreness requiring more concealment. How long has Paul McCartney, for example, been world famous? Like, reluctant to walk down the street famous? Maybe 50 years. Do you think Paul McCartney, no doubt living on some well secured country estate (security that George could have used, by the way), riding in limos, and being followed by security, has much of any clue about modern life? He may know his way around the Plaza or the Dorchester backwards and forwards, but I bet he wouldn't know how to use the self-checkout line at the grocery store. Which is fine, but remove someone from enough average daily life experiences, and pretty soon they start taking anaesthesia to get to sleep or collecting the Elephant Man's skeleton for fun. What, no good?

The homogenisation of American celebrity has taken its greatest hold in sports. Remember the famous scene in Bull Durham where Crash Davis teaches the young rookie the few cliches needed to deal with the media? Listen to interviews with just about any sports star, and its painfully obvious they've taken that class. Agents mindful of the player's endorsement and marketing potential (and remembering how endorsement deals vanish at the first hint of scandal), as well as avoiding controversies that might scare away owners from paying top dollar when the players reach free agency, diligently work to mold and protect their client's public image. Teams are complicit in this, with sophisticated media and marketing operations restricting access to players so that they deliver only the "approved" message. The leagues and teams are even beginning to take over the media operations directly, with each of the pro leagues having their own TV networks and most of the teams operating a reporting department ancillary to its media operations. Their ultimate goal seems to be to channel all player/media interaction through team filters, avoiding any off-script comments. Its the same drill that the old Hollywood studios ran to prevent you from knowing what a bunch of freak shows their stars were.

Hence, the fun shenanigans from years gone by of a Don Meredith, Mickey Mantle, Joe Namath, or a John Matuszak don't happen. These guys have too much money riding on keeping clean reputations, and when they do have a human moment, you generally never see it unless the media minders approve or it channels through a governmental agency subject to open records act requirements. When someone does swim upstream, like a Dennis Rodman, he has to take it so far that its kind of like his thing. You live for moments when these robots slip up and let down their guard before the cameras (like Cameron Diaz feeding A-Rod popcorn at the Super Bowl, over which A-Rod purportedly threw a fit, or Ryan Leaf's act). As a result, these people come off as incredibly bland, focus-group tested, imitation person-like products, not actual human beings. Only when they slip up in a way that they can't control (like, hypothetically, when a spurned wife goes after her no-good cheating athlete husband and he hits a fire hydrant trying to escape) do we learn anything about their actual personalities. Hence, the sports page (or web sites) often reads like the police blotter. DWIs, domestic assaults, drug possession, positive drug tests, rampant infidelity....Hell, having multiple kids out of wedlock with multiple women seems kind of like standard procedure these days. Right up there with charging for autographs and being suspended for "violation of team policies." But true to form, once these incidents happen, everyone involved goes on media lockdown, save for the agent's obligatory issuance of a carefully crafted statement which the athlete purportedly wrote (and the team's promise to examine all the relevant facts once they are uncovered). That sort of publicly available information is just about the only non-controlled information available on these people.

The shame in this is that many of these people are quite engaging, interesting, and appealing. You can see glimpses on talk shows or non-scripted moments, when the acting stops and the personality takes over. These people would be better off just being themselves. Which is what just about everyone should do. Unless you're an asshole.

So, like many other things, the future hasn't necessarily brought progress. The world would be better served with fewer filters and more candor.

NEXT-the annotated US Constitution for the left and right. A fun and engaging look at our basic legal freedoms. I'm sorry, did I just yawn?

Great Moments in Writing-Mike Sherman's Termination Statement

2011-12-08T23:47:00.009-06:00

Back to the “great writing” series.

Today’s entry consists of former Texas A&M football coach Mike Sherman’s opening statement at his post-termination press conference. Coach Sherman wrote this himself; he didn't rely on his agent or a PR firm. For those who don’t know, Coach Sherman is a long-time, accomplished football man. He coached on several college and pro staffs, including at A&M under Coach R.C. Slocum, A&M’s last successful football coach. He was head coach of the Green Bay Packers, and most recently had been the Houston Texans’ offensive coordinator. He’s largely succeeded in every stop along the way. Its harder to imagine many coaches possessing a finer pedigree than Coach Sherman.

I know a little about college football coaching. My uncle, Jimmy Dickey, was a college football coach for over 30 years. He coached as an assistant at Oklahoma, Houston, Oklahoma State, Florida, Southern Mississippi, North Carolina (where he coached Lawrence Taylor). Uncle Jimmy was the head coach at Kansas State and led them to their first ever bowl berth. His son and my cousin Darrell Dickey has also enjoyed a long career as a college football coach. So I know first hand that while in some respects it beats sitting at a desk all day filling out forms, its a brutal profession. No job is safe, and turnover is nearly constant. The average coach not only loses his job, but has to move every 2-3 years. A coach's success or failure depends on how a group of 100 18-22 year olds responds under pressure. What were you doing when you were 18? Exactly. The pressure to win is unrelenting. At some schools, winning 9-10 games per year is regarded as a failure. Criticism is the norm; praise is rare. Jimmy's Oklahoma teams would win 10 games, and lots of fans would regard it as a complete failure if they hadn't beaten Nebraska or Texas that year. So college football coaching is an extremely difficult profession, with constant stress and tension, and nearly unattainable expectations.

Enter our good friends at the Texas Agricultural and Mechanical College. Having suddenly, after over 100 years, had enough of being the University of Texas’ little brother, they decided in a fit of pique to answer all of Texas’ slights, real and perceived, by taking their toys and going somewhere else. The Aggies decided to switch their affiliation from the Big 12 Conference to the more intensely competitive but also more academically challenged Southeastern Conference.

It has been, to put it mildly, a circus. For a team that had legitimate Bowl Championship Series aspirations as the season began, simply put, the Aggies’ 2011 season became a colossal failure. A&M couldn’t possibly have bungled its move to the SEC more. First they’re going to stay in the Big 12, then they’re off to the SEC for “stability” less than a year later. They decide to move to the SEC, incurring huge financial obligations, while their athletic director is on vacation. Does President R. Bowen ("Bowtie") Loftin have any idea after about a year how much exit fee it must pay the Big 12? Having trashed the University of Texas at every turn and in every media outlet known to mankind, they react with shock and awe that Texas refuses to schedule their teams after they leave the conference, thereby depriving A&M of a marquee intrastate matchup key to A&M’s recruiting.

Don’t think all this didn’t create turmoil within the football program. The results were plainly obvious. A good football team with the talent and coaching to make a serious run at the BCS proved incapable of holding second half leads. The Aggies went .500 on the year, losing to the likes of Missouri and hated Texas at home. All year long, “old Ags” pontificated on how they needed a true SEC coach leading the team, and practically held fundraisers seeking to raise the money needed to buy out Coach Sherman’s contract. The team also suffered key injuries to its talented running backs and wide receivers. Towards the end of the season, the athletic department CFO was found to have been posting anonymous comments on a popular Aggie athletics web site that the school President (Loftin) was a “putz” and an “incompetent puppet.” In this circus, no one could have succeeded, though the Aggies under Coach Sherman still managed to field a good team that never quit.

A&M even bungled Coach Sherman’s firing. Over the Athletic Director’s recommendation to keep Coach Sherman, the Regents, with the Bowtie's encouragement, called a special meeting and directed the President to fire Coach Sherman. Someone within the administration, presumably in the Regents’ offices, leaked the news to the Austin American-Statesman, which released news of the firing before the Athletic Director could convey the news to the Coach. AD Bill Byrne reached the Coach by telephone as he was pulling his car into the driveway of a recruit’s home before a visit.

Even by today’s debased standards, this was a shabby way to treat a long-time, loyal coach. Even the Texas A&M student newspaper, the Battalion, agreed. Unlike many, many other college football programs, A&M under Coach Sherman had not even a hint of scandal or impropriety. A&M had gone from also ran to perennial competitor. The athletic department debt had been paid off, and fans had regained the optimism they had lost in past years. A&M was beginning to recruit the best talented players. The NFL resumed drafting Aggies, something that had not occurred in some time. Coach Sherman had restored the program to respectability, in an honest and honorable way. So if ever anyone had a legitimate ax to grind for being fired, it was Coach Sherman.

Yet, rather than open fire with both barrels, he eloquently took the high road. He reaffirmed his loyalty to Texas A&M University. He paid tribute to nearly everyone who plays a part in the football program. He thanked those who’d hired him, including Athletic Director Byrne. He wished the team and others in the program well. More importantly, he reaffirmed the ideal of college athletics as an institution that can mold young people into men and women, teaching them lessons that will help them lead successful and rewarding lives. Today’s money-hungry athletics directors, regents, and even alumni seem to have forgotten this ideal as they instead focus on multi-million dollar TV and merchandising deals. “Professional college athletics” is no longer sarcasm, its reality. Coach Sherman, however, reminds us that some still resist this commercialization and truly work to educate and help young people.

I commend to you his remarks.

"Howdy. Let me just begin by saying that no one has had greater expectations for this program than I have. No one, after the season, is more disappointed than me. I feel totally accountable and responsible for everything we've done over the last four years, including this past season. But I'm proud of how our football team always came back and battled and battled. At no time did I ever feel like they gave in to that disappointment. They gave it their all. If anything they pressed too hard and missed opportunities they would normally make.

As I said, I'm disappointed and accountable, but I'm proud of these men and even prouder to be called their coach. Last night, saying goodbye to them was one of the most difficult things I've ever had to do in my life. It was gut-wrenching to say the least. I told them they could always count on me. Winning is such a fine line in the game of football and we were on the wrong side of that line each time. I take full responsibility for that. But this is a good football team. We're going to play this bowl game and we're going to win. I'm disappointed I won't be there to coach.

I believe in the last four years this program has come a long way. We've changed the culture where we are now expected to win every game. That wasn't the case when we got here. This season we fell victim to our own expectations that we created. What I'm most proud about with this football team is their character and their work ethic. I've asked a lot of these guys and they've always responded when I've put them to the task. We've recruited some good kids from some good families. Sometimes it's a single mom, but those moms are such an influence on that young man that they come to us with character. Someone in their lives led them here ready to do the things I've asked them to do.

I'm very thankful for the players' parents, they've been very supportive. I wouldn't trade the last four years for anything. I've had the chance to coach my son Matt and see him grow into a man. I've also gotten to see other kids grow and become men.

It's been an honor to be a part of this great University. I've worked 24/7 the last four years. Not a day has gone by the last four years where I haven't done something related to A&M football, whether it's drawing up plays, recruiting, working toward development of facilities.

I'm proud to be associated with the great faculty we have here. I know this is a research university, but we have a group of faculty members that embrace these kids, educate these kids, and I'm proud to be associated with each of these faculty members that care about these kids. We have a great athletic staff, and coaches in all our sports. They motivate me with the bars they've raised. I'm thankful for the sacrifices everyone's wives and family have made for this program. I'm proud to be associated with our athletic director, Bill Byrne. He's professional in everything he does. He's been a mentor to me and very supportive these last four years.

(Thanking various other parties.)

Our athletic training staff has been great. Our doctors have been second to none.

I'm going to miss a lot of things over the years. I'm going to miss walking across campus on a Wednesday or Thursday heading to mass at the All Faiths Chapel and students always stopping to be supportive, giving a Howdy or a handshake. I'm going to miss Aggie Band practices, going over to the Corps — which is the backbone of this University — and the students. At 11:00 last night, a group of students were out at my house encouraging me. I was so moved by that demonstration, it was special to me. That tells me we made the connection we wanted between our football players and our students. I always told the players that they're players on game day, but when they walk across campus they are students. I tried to break down that barrier between athletes and students, athletics and academics. Our players understand they have to be students first, and athletes second.

Our former students have been unbelievably supportive, over the last four years and yesterday. Our academic support group is second to none in the country. There is not another school in America that helps our guys like we do. It is the greatest recruiting tool we have, that we can get a young man in here and not just get him the grades but educate him to a higher level.

I don't know if I enjoy anything as much as going out and visiting with high school coaches. I feel when we came here we weren't received as we should be. Something was wrong. But we embraced the coaches and they embraced us and we've opened avenues that will help us as we move into the SEC. We've got a great group of recruits that will lead A&M to new heights. I plan to encourage them all to continue to be committed. You don't commit to a coach, you commit to a school.

I've tried to embrace the values of A&M and infuse that into our players. I believe that they're better men today because they bought into the Aggie culture, the Aggie Code of Honor. No one's perfect, but they've embraced A&M and they beleive in it and that's important to me."Since I've been here at Texas A&M, it's never been about Mike Sherman. And today is not about me. It's the end of one chapter and the start of another. I just hope that when this chapter is read later, it tells that this chapter is one that led to greater times. I hope this leads to a period of greater things as we head into the SEC."

Update on the Don and Birdie Reeder Global Emergency Fund

2011-11-21T12:18:00.003-06:00

Rather than moving on to more hilarious stories and observations, I wanted to update you about the good works that the Don and Birdie Reeder Global Emergency Fund have helped finance during the last couple of years. Profound observations, like who’s the best captain of the Enterprise, Kirk or Picard, or why Joan Jett was cool but not Pat Benatar, will have to wait for another day.

Anyone who ever knew my mother or knew anything about her knew that she had an incredible gift for connecting with and caring for children. Not only did she spend most of her life working with children here in Texas, she put that gift to use throughout the world on numerous mission trips. These allowed her to love and care for so many orphans and impoverished little children whom the world had forgotten.

So when she died in 2007, my family helped establish the Don and Birdie Reeder Global Emergency Fund as a means to honor her and carry on her work with children all over the world. Children’s Emergency Relief International (“CERI”) administers and maintains the Fund, and uses it as part of its overall mission efforts to aid children throughout the world. We are particularly gratified that our former pastor, Dr. Dearing Garner, CERI’s Executive Director, personally reviews every proposed Fund disbursement to ensure that it fulfills a purpose that our mother would approve. He has stated that he has one overriding criterion for approving a requested expense-“would Birdie have approved?”

Initially, CERI, with my approval and Dr. Garner’s direction, primarily used the Fund to address individual emergency situations. A child here or a family there facing a necessary living expense that they couldn’t meet. Other examples included money to apply for a college course or for glasses. CERI and Dr. Garner let their local workers in the various countries in which they operate know about the Fund, and encouraged them to apply for disbursements meeting the requisite criteria. During this initial period, we encountered a problem-the field personnel were reluctant to request grants. For some time, and at the time I last posted about the Fund, it ran a surplus. Though the Fund was helping people, it definitely had the potential to have a greater impact.

Fortunately, the in country workers seem to have gotten the message. Not only have Fund grants greatly increased, but we were able to expand the Fund’s scope beyond emergency reimbursements. Yet, at the same time, the Fund continues to maintain a relatively good balance, though one that I’d dearly love to see replenished.

Among other needs, the Reeder Fund has made possible the following:

*construction of two new, modern houses for needy families in Sri Lanka and Chiapas, Mexico;
*acquisition of and administering medicine and medical supplies in, and supporting medical missions to, Mexico, Moldova, Nigeria, and the Central African Republic;
*meeting living needs such as rent, medical care, groceries and school application fees in Moldova;
*planting sustainable gardens in South Africa; and
*construction of wells and water and sewage facilities in Sri Lanka.

I hope soon to post some photos showing these projects.

CERI directs much of its efforts, including these emergency expenditures, towards projects that help combat conditions leading to child trafficking. Poverty and lack of parents can make adolescents particularly vulnerable to this scourge. So the Reeder Fund’s primary goal has been and remains addressing personal situations that could easily deteriorate and make these children vulnerable. Such as when a teenager’s parents die or abandon them, or when they lack resources but cannot work. You can read about one such story in which the Reeder Fund played a role by clicking here.

I hope that the Fund will support more great works in years to come. Dr. Garner told me that the “Reeder” name has, through the Fund, acquired a certain reputation and locals have come to look to the Fund for help when children face dire situations that could threaten their welfare and survival. So an opportunity exists for the Fund to continue helping children with needs in years to come. Mom would have been extremely happy about that.

As we head towards the end of the year and you consider making charitable donations, I hope you will consider participating in the Reeder Fund’s efforts in some small way through a donation, or through making your friends aware of this project. You can read about the Fund, and contribute, at this link.

Thanks very much for reading this, and hopefully everyone will have a great Thanksgiving!

How To Survive An Earthquake (Manhattan Style)

2011-11-09T19:48:00.021-06:00

Hopefully one day years from now, when I'm 103 years old, sitting in my rocking chair wrapped under a really warm blanket, if I'm blessed with grandchildren, they'll ask me, "Grandpa, where were you during the Great East Coast Earthquake of 2011? And why do you always smell like Campho Phenique?" I'll look at them wistfully, with wry sentimental wisdom borne of experience and unfailing family love, and I'll respond "Stop bothering me, I can't hear the TV with your constant yakking." And they'll say, "you better tell us old man, or we're going to tell Mom about that time you took us to Hooter's after you picked us up from school." And I'll say, "OK, FINE, I was sitting on a bar stool and eating lunch, and didn't know there was an earthquake until half an hour later when I saw all these evacuated nimrods standing out in the street milling about aimlessly. And by the way, your mother's a total bitch." True story. Or it will be.

That's right. I didn't even know about the killer East Coast Earthquake of 2011 until about 20 minutes after finishing a really tasty Cuban lunch, when I saw all these fluorescent-light bleached out office workers standing around in the street, saying they'd been evacuated because of the earthquake. That's the earthquake, for those of you who pay attention to these things, that was located about 80 miles south of Washington, D.C., not New York, and which was strong enough in DC to knock over some of Aunt Mildred's shot glass collection. Though from the round-the-clock reports that ensued on every TV channel, you'd have thought half the east coast had slid into the Atlantic Ocean. More about that later, however.

This post picks up where I left off, two posts ago, describing a long August weekend trip I spent exploring the greatest city in the world, New York. That's right, everyone, New York is the greatest city in the world. Its taken me a long time to get to that point, and I've had to overcome a LOT of prejudice against New York. When I first went there in the late 1980s, I was sure the whole time I was going to be killed. Or freeze to death. But over successive trips (and owing to Giuliani's big cleanup) I've realized I completely misjudged New York. Its the greatest city in the world, and its not even close. Almost every culture and nationality in the world has some members living there. Ok, maybe not some lost Amazonian pygmy cannibal communities, but pretty much everyone else. It features priceless art and historical artifacts, world-leading centers of education, major world financial and corporate headquarters, leading performing arts venues and institutions, world journalism headquarters, cutting edge medical facilities, iconic neighborhoods and parks, the leading world airport, iconic architecture, and the most important professional sports team in the world. More decisions that affect the entire world are made in New York City every day than anywhere else, including London. So it deserves all the Daily Affirmation attention it gets.

OK, the next day involved getting together with my good friend Tracy and her son Jack. We spent a good part of the day together. Before hooking up around noon, I had to do a little work. I had breakfast at the Union Square Whole Foods Market, which was totally bizarre. I arrived when it opened at 9 a.m. They had their usual yuppie-friendly classic rock blaring all over the place, all the food bars were completely stocked, and all the smug, morally SOOO superior to your tortured artist employees were behind the counters. But the customers weren't there. I was the only one, at least for about 10 minutes. Sort of like a Twilight Zone episode where all the humans disappeared except one hapless guy who goes insane looking for everyone. After going back to the hotel and finishing my work (at the downstairs bar, thanks a lot), I finally ventured out into what was shaping up as a glorious day in the city.

Tracy was running a bit late (in fairness so was I), so I stopped for lunch at a place called Brother Jimmy's Barbecue before meeting them. Like Tex-Mex or Cajun, it was one of those places that obviously thought it was totally awesome, largely because it was barbecue in New York and therefore could have been only slightly better than food poison and still have been the best barbecue in New York. Its like eating enchiladas in Seattle...don't expect much. Some things just don't travel. But it was close to Tracy's apartment and I could get in and out fast.

Our first stop, after some unexpected effort, was to take a tour boat from the Battery Maritime Terminal downtown past Ellis Island and out to the Statue of Liberty, up the East River past the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges, and back around to the Hudson River as far as Battery Park City. The taxi ride to get there was just as adventurous. The cabbie dropped us at the wrong place, near Clinton Castle. Tracy had never been on this tour before and didn't know the area, so we got to go on our own little expedition through downtown. Eventually we made it to the terminal building though. The boat was pretty crowded, despite the fact it was a Monday in September. Some places in the world are always going to have tourists, and Lower Manhattan is one of those places. The Statue of Liberty was pretty inspiring. Apparently, actually going to the statue takes all day and you can only go into the base now due to safety restrictions. But actually seeing the statue up close, which of course I'd seen photos of my whole life, was memorable. I was grateful to see it with special friends too.

From there, we took another taxi ride up to midtown to check out Rockefeller Center, specifically to go on the "Top of the Rock" tour at the top of 30 Rockefeller Center. That's where they keep NBC. The tour operation is pretty efficient, given how many people are trying to get in. They run you through a video showing the history of Rockefeller Center and NBC, which was quite interesting. Then you get to the multi-level observation deck, with amazing views in every direction. Above you can see the three of us on the north side with Central Park and the Upper West Side (and the Hudson River and ultimately New Jersey) in the background. The other side offers spectacular views of the Empire State Building, Chrysler Building, East River and Brooklyn Bridge. Rather than view-obscuring fencing or screens, Rockefeller Center uses plexiglass. The tour employees were so much nicer than their bitter, nasty Empire State Building counterparts. Word to the wise-skip the Empire State Building. Horrible, humiliating experience, and the views aren't nearly as good as Rockefeller Center. Plus, if you're meeting your shipboard romance there after six months apart, she's going to get paralyzed. Oops! Spoiler Alert!

Tracy and Jack had to go home so we parted ways there. I went back to the hotel, changed, then headed back over to the Park for an incredible three mile run around the Reservoir (actually, the "Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir"). The sun was setting, and the air felt a slight chill. People filled the ash and dirt trail that encircles the Reservoir, some running, some walking, and some taking Fido out for a stroll.

After making it back to the hotel and changing, I suited up (a traditional "last night out of town" move), and headed to the Blue Water Grill in Union Square. I'd been there before and knew to expect a fantastic seafood dinner, and it didn't disappoint. I enjoyed a fantastic blackened swordfish and baby greens salad.

The next day, Tuesday, was a getaway day. But my flight (another three hour delay, thanks again Jet Blue bastards) wasn't until late so I had basically the whole day to continue exploring the city. I focused once again on areas below me, that is, below 23rd street. Before venturing very far, though, I spent a few minutes in the actual Gramercy Park. This is a private park at the foot of Lexington Avenue, located just across from my hotel.

First up was the Bowery. I halfway expected the Bowery to be like "skid row," with "bums" lined up outside soup kitchens and Sky Masterson going into the Salvation Army mission. "The Bowery Boys" and all that. But like most of 21st Century Manhattan, its gone condo. Other than the existence of a number oddly grouped appliance repair and restaurant supply stores, the Bowery is pretty indistinguishable from many other lower Manhattan neighborhoods. Trendy clothing stores, bars, restaurants, and loft buildings dominated the scene. Oh, sure, the Bowery Poetry Club still operates pretentiously on Bowery Street just up from the Village Voice offices (wow, there's a name I haven't heard since, like, 1974), but you can buy skinny jeans on the same block. One skinny jeans type store, John Varvatos, lured me in, however. I didn't jot down the name, sorry, but the window displays featured old high-end stereo equipment: Macintosh turntables, Marantz amps and pre-amps, Sony reel-to-reel tape players, JVC speakers, and the like. I walked in under the guise of shopping, and the entire store was filled with this kind of equipment. It was the kind of stuff I used to read about in High Fidelity magazine in the 8th grade. Equipment that I imagined only Hugh Hefner or Elvis actually had in their homes. I wasn't really AV nerd in school, but I was kind of sympathetic. Seeing all that old equipment fascinated me. I go to New York and spend my time looking at 1970s stereo equipment. Huh. The store also had rock posters and show bills all over the walls. I couldn't account for it while I was there. Little did I know at the time, but this was the location of the old CBGB's club. That's right. The place where the Ramones, Talking Heads, Blondie, New York Dolls, and countless other punk bands played in the 70s and 80s. When I found out I was appalled, but on reflection, considering how most Americans would gladly destroy their history to make as much as five dollars, I'm over it. At least its not an Olive Garden.

From the Bowery I walked over to NoLita, at the hotel concierge's recommendation. NoLita stands for North of Little Italy. Its also north of Chinatown and west of the Bowery. Though its also filled with shops, NoLita strikes me as more of an authentic neighborhood, with offices, apartments, and other "daily life" locations. Historically it was regarded as part of Little Italy, but now its more like Little Gen X Ville. I may have been the oldest person I saw in the entire place. The architecture is kind of early industrial revolution. Very functional yet with some ornate touches. The recommendation was right on; I saw very few tourists rearing their ugly heads. Or cameras. Or Disney Store shopping bags.

I ate lunch at an incredible Cuban restaurant, Cafe Habana on Prince Street. It opens on to the street, and on this fine day it was packed with people on their lunch hour. I sat at the bar and had the roast pork plate, with black beans and spicy sauteed spinach. It was awesome. I was so enthralled with lunch that I didn't actually notice the 5.8 magnitude earthquake that hit about 80 miles south of DC. It may have had some noticeable impacts in Washington, but I didn't feel a thing. That was some good pork, I'm tellin ya. I didn't learn about the quake until I walked out of the cafe and saw little crowds gathered outside each building. In talking to some people, they said they noticed the quake, but only because they saw light fixtures sway or something roll on a table. Ironically, experts say that people shouldn't evacuate buildings after earthquakes. Its too risky; if the building starts to collapse, you could be trapped. Instead, you should go to a door frame or other well supported part of the structure. Anyway, everyone was milling about as we tried to figure out what had happened. Miracle of the 21st Century, I was able to find out in seconds on my blackberry, instead of having to wait until I could find a radio. But for the rest of the day and into the evening, the media went into full "Earthquake 2011" wall to wall coverage lockdown. It was ridiculous, especially since lots of people didn't even notice anything in New York. I guess it was a slow Kim Kardashian news day.

After enduring the hell that is an earthquake, I needed a treat to overcome my mounting sense of survivor guilt. So when I saw the Best Chocolate Cake In the World store, I gave in. I had a piece of the best chocolate cake in the world. Actually...not so much. I suppose it could have been. It was of the not moist variety, using dark chocolate. It just wasn't that cakey. Not much in the way of frosting. Good, but not the best in the world. Still, I enjoyed a little sweet to overcome the natural disaster trauma.

I then spent the rest of my lovely Monday afternoon walking through SoHo and the Village along with about 50 million other tourists. Not the greatest way to spend my time, but still it beat the hell out of sitting at my desk at work. I made it out to JFK, just in time to start yet another three hour Jet Blue flight delay. Good times. A perfect end to a long, long weekend.

NEXT-more preachiness.

The Perfect Way to Dance (Carl Smith, Makeout King of His Fraternity Edition)

2011-11-05T11:41:00.012-05:00

You're such a pretty lady
You're such a sweet girl
When you dance it brightens up my world
Come on darling put a pretty dress on
We're gonna go out tonight
And dance, dance, dance
Dance, dance, dance
Dance, dance, dance
All night long
--Steve Miller Band, "Dance, Dance, Dance"

Debuting a new series here at Daily Affirmations, that I hope will catch on better than the other two ongoing series. Let's recall those, shall we? One is the "how to live your life series." This lays out my numerous rules and principles for good living. This never caught on. It turns out, shockingly, that people don't like being told what to do and following a three mile long list of rules. Well, no one could have seen that coming. The second one is a series on good writing. I think there I posted two or three of those. That's still a good concept. The problem is I never read anything. Maybe I should have started a series on late night TV sitcom reruns or great football plays. I did a series praising my favorite movie scenes in various genres. Also a good concept, but the number of embedded videos caused everyone's browser to lock up (hey if you're not using computers with NASA-size internet capacity, that's on you not me). So no one saw that either. Theme-based series therefore haven't fared too well around here.

Instead of learning from past mistakes, however, we're going to keep pushing that rock up the hill with a new series. "The Perfect Way." Basically, when I see examples of the perfect way to do something, I'm going to try to post them here. Not exactly trying to rework the How to Live Your Life series, just identifying examples of perfection.

Our first entry, the Perfect Way to Dance. Anyone who's read even a few posts around here knows a well-lived life requires dancing. You're welcome for that knowledge. Ah, but how to dance? Less important but still something to consider. You got to know how to get down, and, yeah, you don't want to look like an idiot on the dance floor. That's a sure fire way to romantic oblivion.

So courtesy of the 1960s, I present, in the above video, the Perfect Way to Dance. Well, at least for white guys who were the Makeout King of their fraternity, or who are working on their Vietnam War draft deferment. Look behind Petula Clark at the guy in the red jacket. That's how to dance, guys. Though I might leave the red jacket in the closet next time, unless you just got off the night shift at Avis Rent-a-Car. No one NOT named James Dean has any business wearing a red jacket.

I know. Its kind of a mix of dance styles. Equal parts Charlie Brown Christmas Special dancing, Elaine Benes party dancing, and the Famous Flames backing up James Brown at the TAMI Show. But its breathtaking. Just a guy having fun, no doubt because his date is way out of his league and he's on TV so all his frat brothers will get to see him dancing next to Petula Clark. Check out the comments about this guy in the comments section. They're dead on. Note how he's having a great time. He's using his arms AND legs. He's using more dance space than just the spot where he happens to be standing at any given moment. He's even got enough game to lure Petula over to dance with him during the instrumental break. Until the guy's date gives her the "back off bitch" look. In short, this guy dances like no one's watching.

Now, the perfect way NOT to dance is the David Schwimmer-looking character in the baby blue jacket. Sure, ALL the cool guys wear baby blue jackets. But that's not the problem. The problem is the anesthetized, arm-swinging, shuffling off to Buffalo style. I've seen people just out of surgery with more energy. This guy is to dancing what Keanu Reeves is to acting, basically setting it back 1,000 years. Do not emulate this guy's moves.

You may ask, "Chris, how do you know so much about dancing?" Good question. Its the mileage, my friends. Its the mileage....

One last word about Petula Clark. Though not the equal of her main contemporary, Dusty Springfield, she had a nice little run of hits during the late British Invasion. I Know a Place and Sign of the Times were great hits, though Downtown was her most popular. She had a great voice and a surprisingly long career. I like this video too, despite the horrific lip-syncing that prevailed on 1960s television. Petula, and all the cool kids behind her, were having a good time just singin' and dancin'. No elaborate sets, no midriff-baring black leather bodysuits, no 1980s MTV Pat Benatar "Love is a Battlefield" style choreography, no Britney Spears skankitude (that's my new word, thanks), and no crotch grabbing. I guess its Glee, only a little less gay. Far out.

NEXT-Back in New York City.

The Bronx Is Up But the Battery's Down

2011-10-21T21:10:00.021-05:00

So when you got up this morning, I bet the first thing you said to yourself, after you cursed the alarm clock and stepped on your kids' McDonaldland toys in your bare feet, was "I sure could use another Daily Affirmations post about another Chris Reeder trip. Cause there just aren't enough of them to satisfy my interest." True that. Sixteen or 150 posts about every castle and hilltop in Ireland and Scotland barely scratches the surface. "And then, I drove to see another castle. It was really old. It was also really tall, and old. Then I saw a beautiful sunset while I ran 20 miles. Then I saw a guy in a tree on my way to dinner." Why Travel and Leisure hasn't snapped me up is kind of baffling. But maybe this morning, you just went to the bathroom instead. I don't know your morning routine. Well, at least, for most of you. I know for some of you it involves Pop Tarts and a Shop Vac. Whatever. Don't foist your beliefs on me man.

But if you did wake up all a jittery, jonesing for another Daily Affirmations travel post, boy is it your lucky day. Two days, actually, because I have so many "can't miss" pithy observations about my August New York trip (hey, I know its been awhile, but I've been planning my Southern Living party and looking for a good hair implant guy, so I've been busy, OK), I decided to split this into two posts. But I promise to make it worth your while. Or your money back.

Believe it or not, I do have a job, and I spend most of my time working there. Ha, ha, very funny all of you smart people who posted comments wondering whether I'm still employed. You're all sooo hilarious. I haven't figured out how to turn traveling and taking vacations into a vocation. You're all conveniently forgetting the two or three years that I ran around like a crazy person, not having enough time to get all my work done and basically not having a life. That's back when I would forget that I had driven to the airport, and would take a cab home even though my car was in the parking lot. A real low patch, lifestyle-wise. Well, thanks to the economy and my feeble attorney skills, I've got LOTS of time to traipse around and skip out of work. Wonder whether it means anything that they don't mention this at my office. Huh.

Well, anyway, enough rambling. On with the post. Before embarking on my tour of 2/3 of the British Isles, I spent a long weekend in New York City, and wanted to tell you all about it. At some point. Because that's exactly what you need to get over that early morning "just stepped on my kids' toys" pain in your foot.

The fact that I'd just worked like a dog for a few weeks on a particular project, convinced me that I deserved to treat myself. Some people treat themselves by going to Galveston, while I go to New York. Uh, its called "class" people...step your game up.

To get there, I had to endure the obligatory Jet Blue three hour delay, which was just about as long as the actual flight, as well as the Taxi of Death ride from JFK (New York taxis are sort of like Rollerball in a car, only with slightly less carnage). Having suffered through the usual travel humiliations, I finally arrived at my home for the next few days, the awesome Gramercy Park Hotel. Its near Union Square and 14th Street, as well as the Flatiron District, but removed from the Midtown tourist craziness. This hotel screams "artsy" without going overboard. Its got two really cool bars, one located on the roof with incredible mid-city views. Sadly, some hipsters frequent these bars, but not enough to ruin the aesthetic. A very helpful and friendly staff serve hotel guests, and they strangely never seem too busy to answer questions. This distinguishes it from other New York hotels, where the staff seems put out that I was bother them with questions. Like, "where's a good place to eat?" Or, "where are all the hot Albanian women?" (that's just a joke...of course I know where to find hot Albanian women, who do you think you're dealing with here?). I also had the biggest room I've ever had in New York. It featured dark hardwood floors, two huge beds, lots of floor to ceiling windows, a big desk, and an air conditioning system that kept the temperature just above the meat locker setting. I never could figure out that one.

Park Avenue runs one block away from the hotel. Past midnight my first night there it was still bustling with cars and pedestrians, each fighting for the same space in many instances. I had a late night "breakfast dinner" at Big Daddy's Diner, just around the corner from the hotel. This place wasn't entirely retro, but 60s and 70s kitsch dominated. It featured the requisite diner fixtures (long bar, formica with metal trim tables, booths, soda fountain). Old album covers, old sports team pennants, and cereal boxes (Quisp!) adorned the walls. Several TVs showed baseball games, and the PA played cool 1970s music. The Diner features a great late night menu. I had a really good omelet, with the usual spinach and tomatoes. (what, doesn't everyone have spinach and tomatoes in their omelet...has the world gone crazy?). The place was packed with people that looked like they were either out for the night or just finishing their night. You know, party people. Greenwich Village isn't far from here, so that made some sense.

The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed, which was not unlike prying a rusty nail out of the 2x4 where its been lodged for the last 50 years. My heroic effort to wake up was all to try to run in temperatures below the "steam" setting prevailing back home. I wasn't looking forward to the subway ride to the Park just to get in a run, and particularly wasn't looking forward to taking my grossed out with sweat body back into the subway after. When I made it over to Park Avenue to find the subway station, I was shocked to find the cops had blocked off all auto traffic. Apparently the city blocks off Park Avenue between the Brooklyn Bridge and 72nd streets for three Saturday mornings during August, in a program called Summer Streets. By some bizarre chance, I timed it perfectly. For once. So rather than the usual hordes of taxis and pedestrians darting in and out like squirrels, hordes of people were running, walking, riding bikes and walking dogs up and down one of America's main thoroughfares. Subway ride cancelled. I just had to get in on this once in a lifetime chance to run toward, around, and past Grand Central Station, the Waldorf Astoria, all the way up to Central Park on Park Avenue. Despite being totally out of shape and having an injured foot, I ran for about an hour as the sun cleared the buildings and began to warm the city (cause, you know, I'm such a stud and all). Its not often that you get the chance to see the old Pan Am building (now "Met Life") in front of you as you run, or to go in the tunnels circling Grand Central Station. So even though I was hoofing it most of the way, it was one of my greatest runs ever. Oh, and when I went into the Park briefly (because they had East 72nd blocked off between Park and Central Park East too), I saw that the Parks Department was sponsoring a summer movie series, with films showed in the park. Tonight's movie was Coal Miner's Daughter. That's awesome. Had I not made plans to go to the theatre later, you know that's where I'd have been.

Smugly self-satisfied from having run so much further than expected, but still dogging it from the unexpected heat, I did the unthinkable and took a cold shower. Good for staving off inflammation and soreness, but bad for everything else. Then I ventured back out into the streets. Like Spiderman, only less gay. First stop-lunch. I had crab soup and a mushroom, spinach and crab meat omelet at City Crab, appropriately enough, located right on Park Avenue. I mean, its not like you're going to order the crab meat omelet at Denny's, at least, not if you're trying to survive the meal. Anyway, the place had really fresh seafood, and was doing a brisk business. I enjoyed sitting at the bar near the window, quietly eating my crab soup, and watch the remaining runners, walkers and bikers roll by on Park Avenue.

On my way there, I picked up a New York Times, or as I refer to it, Pravda. I haven't turned socialist or anything, I just wanted to check the city listings to see what was going on this weekend. One thing that really stood out was how the nation's Paper of Record, with "All the News Fit To Print," has apparently contracted anorexia. I've seen thicker Daily Texans (a/k/a "Daily Pravda"). Maybe 2011 just doesn't have as much news to print as, say, 2009. I know all newspapers are shrinking, but this shocked me. I'd assumed that the NYT local edition would be larger than the one they sell in other cities, but apparently not. Even the next day's Sunday NYT was considerably smaller than I remember it. Welcome to the future. Everything's on line.

After lunch, I started exploring the neighborhoods below Union Square. I must have spent the balance of the afternoon walking through Tribeca, the Village and Washington Square Park (which I know isn't a neighborhood, its just cool). The latter was hosting a pretty big farmer's market, which apparently has become all the rage in the Village. Along with clubbing. I enjoyed Tribeca's bricks streets and buildings, and the eclectic Village. SoHo, on the other hand, should be awesome and kind of is, but chain boutiques and trendy, trendy looking shoppers have nearly consumed it whole. It features some amazing turn of the century industrial style cast-iron architecture, and indeed has been designated a national landmark. But, how to put it...the Kardashians' New York store ("Dash," which, although its a retail store, strangely does not have a web site, puff, puff) is located in SoHo. People (women, to be precise) lined up down the block waiting to enter, and experience the Kardashian magic. By "magic," I mean "scene whores." 'Nuff said. How profoundly backward has years of public education politicization and underinvestment left the American public? A bunch of people held a candlelight vigil outside of the New York Dash upon hearing of Kim Kardashian's divorce. This chick became famous for starring in a sex tape with a rapper that himself wasn't famous either. How did this happen? Jesus wept.

But I didn't let that spoil my day. No sir. After returning to the hotel and cleaning up, I headed over to Old Broadway to the Al Hirschfeld Theatre. There I attended the Broadway revival of How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying, starring Daniel Radcliffe and John Larroquette. Robert Morse and Rudy Vallee starred in the early 1960s original, as well as the mid-60s movie version. I loved the movie, so inevitably I drew comparisons. No doubt the producers hoped to cash in on the Mad Men 1960s martinis and poofy hairdos lifestyle craze, and this production faithfully reproduced early 1960s interiors, fashions, hairstyles and the like. Now, I'm no drama critic, but I've never let a little thing like lack of qualifications stop me from expressing an opinion. Happily, I can say that I really enjoyed the show. It contained all the songs that the movie omitted, making it more of a true musical than the movie. Radcliffe was quite convincing as the borderline seamy Finch, singing and dancing well enough to elicit several show-stopping ovations. Robert Morse was a little better, but maybe that's only because he introduced the role and set the standard. He was also slightly less Harry Potter-like, which is a plus for that role. Radcliffe appears extremely short on stage, although to some extent that merely accentuates Finch's fundamental sliminess. Or maybe they just cast a bunch of Lurches to play alongside him. Larroquette, who won a Tony for this role, seemed to ham it up through much of the show, not unlike his Night Court shtick. But he still gave an entertaining performance. Even though the Times panned it (New York Times bastards! see above), the full house loved it.

I spent the whole next day exploring the city. After a typical late start, I tried to explore areas I hadn't visited, and to visit as many iconic areas as possible. First up was the nearby Flatiron District and Madison Square Park, where I visited the Shake Shack and saw a huge sculpture of a big flat face. Check out the photos on my flickr site; I can't really do it justice. People everywhere were enjoying the beautiful Sunday ("Sunday in New York"), filling the park. Somewhere near the Flatiron Building, I saw a woman walking the streets of Manhattan...in clogs. I recall my friend Tracy's story about twisting her ankle, because she was wearing clogs while walking too quickly along Manhattan streets. I bet that chick held a candlelight vigil outside Dash. Anyway, an "India Festival" was also taking place in the park, so I hung out there for awhile with my new Indian friends, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells. I saw a display advertising an Indian computer dating service. For some reason, that struck me as kind of funny. No I didn't sign up. I also enjoyed discovering "Eataly." Now this is something to behold. Its several shops in one. Its a massive Italian grocery store, featuring all kinds of fresh pastas, sausages, fruits, cheeses, wines, meats, and produce used in Italian cooking. It also houses several restaurants, each devoted to a certain food type (a fish place, meat place, pizza place, etc.). It has a huge cappuccino/coffee bar, a gelato bar, a wine tasting (with cheese tray) bar, an extensive wine cellar and even a home furnishings section. They also run a cooking school. You could easily spend two days there just looking around and eating. Though tempted, I stayed just for a bit and moved on.

From there I went on to the Chelsea, which appears to be a quiet, gay residential area with some interesting late 1800s preserved architecture. OK, its above 14th Street, so sue me. I didn't see many people walking around with guidebooks, a sure sign that I'd escaped the tourists. I did, however, see a lot of strollers, so the "American Family" does keep evolving, doesn't it? After walking around for a bit, I was excited to finally make it to the High Line Trail. My good friend Kathleen tipped me off to this. The High Line Trail consists of an old inner city railroad line, elevated about 10 stories, that originally ran alongside several west side industrial buildings, between West 34th and Gansevoort Street in the Meatpacking District (listen to me...I'm such a New Yorker after two days). The railroad abandoned the line, and the city in partnership with a charitable foundation renovated the track into a 15 city block or so urban trail, with native plants, offering incredible Midtown skyline views. Its pretty narrow but not overly confining. They don't allow bikes, so you don't have to worry about some crazed mountain biker/Wall Street weekend thrill seeker riding up your backside. Lots of people were out walking, though around noon it wasn't terribly crowded. Nonetheless, I overheard people speaking all kinds of languages, a proverbial Trail of Babel.

Once I made it all the way to the Meatpacking District and the end of the trail, I discovered that on Sunday, "lunch" does not exist in Manhattan. Nope. Its all about brunch. I did, however, find some lunch-like dishes right under the Trail at the Standard Grill, a French establishment with a big outdoor seating area and lots of space (despite being very full, which is kind of like the pylons in Land of the Lost, you know, bigger on the inside than the outside). And they served iced tea, which can sometimes be an elusive drink up here in Yankee-land. I had a really good chicken paillard with arugula. Even though after lunch a young, well-dressed man came up to me on the street and asked me if he could give me directions as he saw me looking at my map. He must have heard I ordered the arugula. Hey, who said I can't attract someone younger? Unfortunately for him I acted like a big bitch and hurriedly said "no thank you."

The Meatpacking District kind of reminded me of Chelsea, only a little grittier. And gayer. It featured several brick streets (how do you like those clogs down here, lady?), large brick buildings with iron railings (which I gather were once industrial operations that have been converted to retail/office/residential). The whole area appears to consist exclusively of boutiques, restaurants, bars, coffee shops, galleries, and architecture firms. Not a lot of lawyers. From there Hell's Kitchen was just a hop, skip and a jump. It struck me as being like the Meatpacking District, only less gay. By the way, if it seems like all these gay references betray some sort of prejudice (or perhaps anxiety), guess again. Its just that the gay-o-meter seems to be one of the only reliable ways to distinguish some of these neighborhoods.

Something I noticed walking around the city today. The men around here leave something to be desired. Man wise. I'm not talking about gay men. I'm talking about the men walking around with their wives, often pushing strollers or holding hands in a way that makes it obvious they're not gay. Well, possibly. Anyway, here's where I drop some knowledge on you. These guys...are [cough] pussies [cough]. New York...what the hell! Where are all the Jets fans, freezing to death in the Meadowlands swilling bourbon? Its August! Have they abandoned Manhattan to guys wearing pink Brooks Brothers shorts and cotton sweaters draped strategically over their matching polo shirts? Nine out of 10 women here look tougher than the average Manhattan guy, and that's saying a lot because this city is full of incredibly attractive women. The men look like primped, coiffed poodles. Oh, and yes, to answer the question you're probably asking, it is great to be so superior to everyone.

Late in the afternoon, I finally headed over to the USS Intrepid museum. I'd hoped to spend a lot of time here, but the late start and the time required to walk over cut down the available time. I still got to spend enough time to enjoy it fully. This is the preserved USS Intrepid, veteran of World War II and the Korean and Vietnam Wars, as well as 1960s spacecraft recovery operations. The Intrepid Museum complex also features an extensive and extraordinary naval aircraft collection, a Concorde, and a Cold War-era nuclear submarine. Visitors can tour three restored decks of the Intrepid. Several naval veterans who had served on the Intrepid volunteered as guides, and reminisced with visitors about their service as they explained various ship features. The Intrepid patrolled mainly the Pacific during World War II, and supported operations against Japan. Highlights included the Admiral's Bridge, from which Fredericksburg's own Chester Nimitz, and other fleet commanders, directed operations, as well as the Captain's Bridge. I noticed a huge sign on the hangar deck, filled with small squares. Each square was a Rising Sun symbol, signifying a downed enemy aircraft or ship. I thought about all the hardships and sacrifices these men endured, all to protect American lives, and was glad that we continue to remember their courage.

Oh, and that thing about the hair implants guy was just a joke. My hair? Still magnificent.

NEXT-New York, Part II. Spending the day with Tracy and Jack. But first, the Perfect Way to Dance.

Vacation Days Fifteen and Sixteen-Misty Mountain Hop

2011-10-11T20:37:00.011-05:00

At long last, we've come to the last vacation post. At least, until my next post where I talk about the long weekend I spent in New York before going abroad. Basically, its still World Tour posts as far as the mind can bear.

Most of what I'll discuss happened on day 15, which was hiking near Loch Lomond, largest lake in the British Isles. The next day, "Day 16," was mostly a travel day, though I did swing by the Bannockburn battlefield and visitor's center. No trace of Mel Gibson to be found, thankfully.

Now, most of you who've read my previous travelogues know my absolute inability to relate my hiking experiences adequately. Typical posts are along the lines of "I hiked through the forest to the top of the hill, and it was a really beautiful view. Really beautiful. Just...really...beautiful." Snore. Kind of like the way the astronauts described their view of the earth while on the moon, which sounded like the way it would read in an electrical engineering technical manual. So I generally turn those posts into something else. Like talking about some Star Trek episode. Like the one where Kirk gets laid on some bizarro planet. Or the one where McCoy and Spock argue, but make up in the end. Or the one where the guys in the red uniforms are the only ones in the landing party who get killed. All of which begs the question why I'm writing a post in the first place. Or anything other than "spent the day hiking and saw lots of awesome scenery, peace out."

Today's a little different because I can complain about the weather, and impliedly congratulate myself for being such a tough guy that I'll hike in the rain. Like a big boy!

Unlike the previous day, with sunshine gloriously bathing Glasgow, this was the worst weather of the whole trip. It started out gray with dark clouds and stayed that way, raining off and on, though mainly on, all day. It gave the Scottish countryside a kind of Lord of the Rings feeling, like hobbits or elves or some other creepy wood nymph was lurking around every corner.

This day I headed to Loch Lomond, near the town of Balloch, located near the southern shore. I arrived at the Scotland Visitor's office shortly before lunch, and they gave me some tips on a good trail that started (ironically) in the small town of Drymen, ran through some nice forest area, then through some mountains and descended to the lake at the town of Balloch. All told it was about an eight mile hike, taking about four hours. It runs through a national park, however.

I had some initial trouble finding the trailhead. The Visitor's Centre guy basically said to drive to Drymen and it would just be there. Of course that didn't turn out, so I had to pull into the post office to ask the clerk for directions. In the UK, the "post office" is an odd combination of a 7-11 and an actual post office, which means that the workers aren't quite as mutant-like and mass murder prone as their US counterparts (sorry US postal workers, I really love you). He set me off to find the shortcut, which after years of experience I should have immediately suspected as the wrong way to go. Take the one lane road about a mile out of town and park at the "car park." Which was located at the spot where the tree line begins. A flock of sheep (its a "flock," right?) huddled nearby, all looking at me. Those damn inquisitive sheep. Oh, by "car park," the post office guy meant the two-car space in front of the trailhead. Have I mentioned that in the UK, a "parking lot" is called "car park"? Can't remember. "Car park" evokes visions of a place where cars go to toss frisbees, have picnics and make out with their car girlfriends.

Off I trudged, just as the rain started. The first part of this trail, roughly 45 minutes worth, was downhill. Not a good thing. You want to hike the uphill part as the beginning while you're still fresh. It runs through a nice forest area. Or at least it would have run through a nice forest, except that the devolved Scottish government (don't blame this one on David Cameron and the Conservatives) decided to open the area up to logging. So all around, deforestation blight absolutely ruined the the chance at finding a Walden-like natural bliss. Yeah, that last sentence was kind of douche, but, ok, let's just move on. Who the hell decides to open up national parks to logging. Say what you will about the Republican Party, but I don't recall them allowing loggers to chop down half of Yosemite. Yet, these Brits are so preachy about environmental issues. Kind of hard to swallow after seeing this spectacle.

After moving on past tree debris, the trail leads out into a glen (valley, I think) leading uphill toward some fairly low-level mountains. This marks the spot where clouds, mist, and other yuck started rolling in, wave after wave, through the day. It would rain, then stop. Then mist and stop. Then rain again, and stop. Until about the point where I was going up on the biggest mountain and it just started pouring buckets and didn't stop. All this while, I'm going steeply uphill along a rock and gravel trail, through the rain, happy in my seemed-too-expensive-at-the-time REI rain jacket, smugly self-satisfied at my perseverance. But disappointed that the rain was obscuring what would otherwise have been some incredible scenery. Did I mention the winds were pretty strong too? Especially as the trail elevation picked up. Alone with my thoughts, I envisioned myself as one of those low-level TV reporters trying to make a name for themselves by standing on the shore as the hurricane rolls in, giving viewers a "first hand look" at the devastation unfolding before him. When Dan Rather did it in 1961, it was kind of interesting. He used his role in Hurricane Carla to get his network gig. But today...its played.

As the elevation increased, the vegetation was closer and closer to the ground. Ferns and grasses resembling some sort of ragweed or alfalfa gradually gave way to a heatherish looking plant covering lots of rocks. The trail started washing out too, with mud on either side of what was essentially a small creek with rushing rainwater. Again, towards the top, I could see that the mist and clouds were obscuring what would otherwise be amazing views of the valley on one side and the lake on the other. Very frustrating. But, hey, the alternative was to sit in the White Trash Bed and Breakfast and smell cigarette smoke. So "onward through the fog," you know what I mean Vern?

There's some line in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid to the effect of "going down the mountain is not the problem." Well, today it was. Because while on a drier day it would be fairly easy to scramble down the slope, that's not so easily done when you have to worry about wiping out on the slick, wet rocks. So going down wound up taking a lot longer than it should have. Also, once I rounded the mountain the lake came into view, but the winds really picked up, nearly blowing me down and blowing the rain right at me. Obviously I'd been on the lee side; there's a lot more vegetation on this downward side leading to the lake than where I'd been hiking. Oh joy. It was almost like a rain forest, with an abundance of ferns, and at lower elevation, more Knights Who Say Ni trees.

But eventually I made it to the car park and the small visitor's center. The local bus stops there through the day, so I took it back to Drymen. Unfortunately, the stop is about a mile and a half from my car park, so I was treated to another 25 minutes walking uphill along the road, through driving rain, past more sheep, back to the car. Towards the end I could feel myself shriveling like I'd been in the bathtub for more than an hour. Or so I would imagine....Anyway, I was like a stray dog. I just drove back to Stirling, crawled into bed, watched the NFL Red Zone on my trusty laptop to catch the Texans highlights, and spent the night packing.

The next day was mostly a travel day, but I did swing by the visitor's center at Bannockburn, as previously advertised. For a description of the battle and its historic significance, click on the link above. Within the next year or two, the government and the heritage trust will break ground on a much more elaborate center that promises to dazzle. Not a minute too soon, because considering that the Battle of Bannockburn was one of the most important battles fought on British soil, the present visitor's center is the pits. Pretty much just a bunch of models and text painted on the wall. The grounds were lovely, as this day was bright and sunny (of course). Unfortunately, it turns out that what they've preserved as the "battle site" probably isn't where the actual battle took place. Once again, we've got it all over these people. American Civil War sites are so much more informative and well-preserved. If you can, check out some of them.

After this, I headed to Edinburgh, and flew back to Dublin where I spent the night. Not much to report. I basically pulled into town, went running, then hunkered down for the night preparing to fly back home the next day. The only noteworthy thing I discovered is that St. Stephen's Green, one of Dublin's main parks, is a total make-out destination. I can understand why, the place is lovely. At every turn, couples were totally making out. Kind of hard to take, you know.

Now, I've been saving this one, because I'm not really sure whether its all that appropriate. But...how to say this? Irish women are totally smokin' hot. Its shocking, I know. But all over Dublin, and all through the countryside, everywhere you turn, you see another really beautiful woman. And its not that there's a lot of redheads either. The typical look was dark hair, blue eyes, fair complexion. Imagine a place where you see Catherine Zeta-Jones walking down the street and you think, "eh, average." I was very surprised to find this. In fact, other than South Louisiana, Irish women are probably the most beautiful I've seen yet. (Hey, no one's ever going to beat South Louisiana in this regard; its why LSU and UL-La are probably the greatest places on earth). Scottish girls? Uh, let's just say...not so much. Too much haggis I imagine.

OK, there it is. Ireland and Scotland. Sixteen days. I was exhausted. If you followed this the whole way through (or even read one of these) you probably are too. But thanks for following along. Hope you got something out of it too. Next year I'll stay in the USA. Thinking of renting an apartment in Seattle, going to Bumbershoot again, and day tripping it to various hiking locales. What would you suggest?

NEXT-more travel. My NYC recap.

Vacation Day Fourteen-A Great Day for a White Wedding (and a 1975 VW Hippie Microbus, God Forbid)

2011-10-01T10:26:00.013-05:00

Well, I had to suspend posting so that I could come home (thank the Lord). Let's just say, I was gone too long, and I'm so glad I'm Living in the USA ("somebody get me a cheeseburger!").

But I visited two other places before doing so, and I'll tell you about one today and one in the next post.

Today's destination was Glasgow, about a 30 minute train ride from Stirling, where I'm staying at the White Trash Bed and Breakfast. Oh, yeah, didn't I tell you? This place is the pits. I'm surprised I didn't see any rats or graffiti there. Basically, some older couple (he has more eyebrow hair than scalp hair, she's fresh off her appearance on People of WalMart) turned most of their house into a B&B. The lady owner smokes all day long, so that sweet tobacco carbon monoxide aroma drifts up to my room. The bathroom (which lacks a shower) is down the hall (and I share it with some ex-con soccer hooligan type). I have to use some sort of nozzle apparatus to shower, kind of like using the garden hose. The room is hard to describe. The best I can come up with is "termite mound." This place makes my friend Tracy's New York City broom closet/apartment, where the building hallways smell like cab driver feet, seem like Graceland.

One more thing before getting to Glasgow, I want to talk about the "full Scottish breakfast." Which, by the way, is pretty much the same thing as the "full Irish breakfast." Surprisingly, its not some variation of waffles, pancakes, Cocoa Pebbles and cream. Go figure. Everywhere I've been these last couple of weeks, "breakfast" consists of the following: grilled tomato, mushrooms, bacon (not strips, just sliced off the pig and fried in a skillet), sausage (cause, you know, you can't get enough pork), and eggs. In Scotland, you sometimes have a "haggis" option, while in Ireland its "black pudding." Haggis, as near as I can tell, consists of lamb leftovers, oatmeal, and lint. Not the sort of thing that I'm putting in my fuel tanks. While black pudding, which I did have a few bites of, seems too terrifying to know the ingredients, so I deliberately haven't checked. Its a solid, circular dab of some mysterious meat-like black substance, with an infusion of some sort of pod-like nodules. Its got that hard to place gamy taste that you don't normally get outside of Hudson's on the Bend, or the hot place I illegally used in my college dorm room. I suppose this may explain why the Irish and Scottish Olympic teams seldom win a lot of medals. They should instead train with Little Chocolate Donuts.

On to Glasgow. With two days left on this never-ending vacation, I faced the question of how to spend what was likely to be the one, and only one, day without rain and lots of sunny skies before going home. I could hike today and visit Glasgow tomorrow in the rain, or hike in the rain tomorrow and see Glasgow on a fine Saturday. I chose the latter, and boarded Scottish Rail for a half hour commute. Though I had a car, I took the train to avoid having to deal with driving and parking, and because gas prices are astronomical. Something like 1.45 pounds per liter, which translates to $8.05/gallon. And we think the oil companies are screwing US over? I just want to thank the oil companies for hammering the Euros twice as hard as us. Take the train it was.

I arrived around 11:00 a.m. The train station is adjacent to George Square, in the heart of town. Laid out in the late 1700s as a tribute to King George III (yeah, the one we rebelled against), its now sort of a national tribute to famous Scots with statues of the likes of Walter Scott, Sir Robert Peel, etc. Though I didn't see a Scotty statue, which represents a grave omission.

I took the "get off, get on" bus tour, like I had in Dublin. That's not really what its called, by the way.

First stop was Glasgow Cathedral, dating from the 1400s. Guess you can tell, if you've read my previous posts, I like to visit castles and cathedrals (no, that's not the name of the newest BBC soap opera). Architecture baby, architecture. Plus its fascinating that medieval people, who basically were about as well off as cave men but with better roofs, put so much energy and innovation into these buildings. Castles were fortresses, relatively ugly but functional, while cathedrals were shrines to glorify God. That and the corrupt church hierarchy liked lording them over the peasantry.

Glasgow Cathedral falls into that category. Like others on this trip, it too exudes splendor and inspires awe and reverence for God. Unlike other medieval cathedrals, largely done in by Protestant reform gangs wielding pitchforks and torches, the local merchants banded together to defend this cathedral when the hordes came to burn it down. By the way, nice going 18th century Christians. Everywhere I went I ran across the same story: "Reformation happens, Cromwell takes over, Protestants band together to torch churches and property." Hell, the Taliban thinks that was a little extreme. Let's not forget, as we so smugly and earnestly (but properly) condemn the "freedom-hating" Muslim extremists who want to burn and destroy, Western Civilization went through this stage too. Let's not forget all the abuses in the name of Christianity-the Inquisition, the Reformation, concealment of Nazi war atrocities, Northern Ireland terror, the Crusades, art thievery, witch trials, banning dancing in that town in Footloose....It doesn't excuse blowing up embassies and skyscrapers by any means, nothing could of course, but it should inform your perspective if you think they're just animals and the West is so far above that.

Rant concluded.

Now, Glasgow Cathedral has retained most of its pre-Reformation structures, and therefore has a much more Gothic appearance than other British Isles cathedrals. I know, fascinating. Like other cathedrals, the impact of the Great War and other conflicts on the congregation lies in plain view. Memorials to fallen soldiers abound at every turn. Glasgow Cathedral seems much larger than others I've visited. Its got extensive facilities below the main sanctuary as well, including several small chapels, and the last resting place of St. Mungo, some early Christian saint who brought Christianity to this part of the world. I could only think of "Mongo" from Blazing Saddles. Which is why I'm an Ugly American. "Mongo like candy!"

From there it was on to the bone yard. Specifically, to the creepily-named Necropolis. Sounds like a horror movie, but in fact, this is the fancy cemetery on the hill near the Cathedral where all the 18th and 19th century rich guys were buried. Cause good real estate is good real estate, even when you're dead. Its notable for all the opulent and elaborate tombstones and memorial structures that litter the place. It kind of reminded me of Recoleta Cemetery in Buenos Aires, where Eva Peron is buried, though its much more open (giving the dead residents, who by the way are still eligible to vote in Chicago elections, better views).

From there it was on to the Burras open air market, which at first looks like a flea market, but upon closer inspection is really more like a cross between a bunch of garage sales and the mercado in Matamoros. It like the kind of place where you'd see Henry Hill selling stolen cigarettes from the back of a 1962 Lincoln. Not exactly Portobello Road here. It kind of looks like the Sanford and Son set. This is where you go to get a fake ID, or score weed without references (and get an old Kool and the Gang album while you're at it). Finally, I've stumbled onto Detroit while I'm here.

Since that's not really my scene, I moved on to take in more of the bus tour. We passed by such landmarks as the Clyde River bridge, the Riverside Museum (which had some sort of bicycle festival going on), University of Glasgow, Kelvingrove Park and Museum (currently hosting an AC-DC exhibition), the Botanical Gardens, the Science Center, St. Andrews Square, the bee-hive looking Exhibition and Conference Center, and the People's Palace. The tour guides explained that Glasgow was a really industrial city, with shipbuilding constituting one of the largest industries, until the 1970s. At that point, all the jobs went overseas (big thank you to unions that drove up wages to non-competitive levels), and industry went away. One byproduct though was so did the pollution. The town converted to other types of commerce, cleaned all the soot off the 19th century buildings, and become a very attractive destination.

I got out and walked around the University area. Known as the West End, its American in nature. The University campus is really nice, with an incredibly impressive quadrangle area featuring some stunning architecture, specifically the main towers. West of there lies Byers Road, a fashionable stretch with lots of shops, cafes, bars and restaurants. On this really great Saturday, pedestrians packed both sides of the street. From there I walked all the way up to the Botanical Gardens. While not as imposing or extensive as those in other cities, the Glasgow version is quite lovely, with several glasshouses and nice grounds. There, as I have in many places, I observed yet another wedding (see photo above). The men in the wedding party were wearing kilts, a custom that happily never caught on in other countries. Could you imagine guys in Wisconsin wearing kilts? Yikes! The bride and groom were to be whisked off, however, in a 1975 VW microbus, festooned for the occasion. You know, nothing says class like leaving your wedding looking like you're going to follow Widespread Panic on tour. The white bow across the front was a lovely touch.

Then I went to Kelvingrove Museum to pass a little bit more time. Its not so much a museum as an attic. They don't really focus on anything in particular, and just seem to display whatever their trustees get their hands on. Like the old Spitfire shown above (next to the giraffe, which happened frequently during the Battle of Britain), or stuffed animals, or the AC-DC exhibition. Rock on! But the building itself was magnificent.

From there it was back to the City Centre, where I basically spent the rest of the time walking around, admiring the incredible buildings. The tallest movie theatre in the world is located in Glasgow. True story! Check my flickr site for lots of photos. I sensed a much more energetic vibe in Glasgow than I did in Edinburgh. Maybe that's because it was a weekend, but it seemed more youthful, more relaxed, more fun, and more about today than yesterday than Edinburgh, which seemed kind of stuffy by comparison. Glasgow has extensive pedestrian malls, and people had crowded nearly every inch of them. At the end of one, as the sun was setting, a guy was playing "Sophisticated Lady" impeccably on his saxophone. That's a guy in Scotland, playing a Duke Ellington song from the 1930s, written for him to perform at the Cotton Club in Harlem. It just goes to show, art knows no time or place. True art exists timelessly outside those constraints.

After eating at a pretty good Italian place, I headed back to Stirling, where I looked forward to delighting in my luxurious accommodations.

Next-Lake Lomond, and my rain-soaked assault on the Scottish Highlands. And...girls.

Vacation Day Thirteen-Are You Suggesting Coconuts Migrate?

2011-09-27T15:06:00.009-05:00

Today I made the pilgrimage that lots of somewhat intelligent, socially inept malcontent teenage boys (and men) dream. I saw the castle where they filmed Monty Python and the Holy Grail. At least, the one at the beginning, with the guards arguing about whether a European swallow could carry a coconut. I think it was also the French castle ("now go away or we shall taunt you a second time"), which Arthur's knights attacked with the wooden chicken ("run away! run away!"). It was on the way from St. Andrews to Callendar, where I took a hike through the Trossachs.

Today was another gray day with lots of mist and later some outright rain. The drive west from St. Andrews would have been fantastic but for the weather. I drove past an RAF base, the towns of Dundee and Perth, and crossed the River Tay. Dundee was surprisingly large, and has a well developed waterfront where people were walking and jogging even in the bad weather. The Tay is quite impressive. It must also be wider than the Mississippi, though I didn't see any maritime traffic. Otherwise, I drove through a lot of fields on a two lane "highway" which featured more and more hills the further west I got. That's because I was headed to the Trossachs, which is a sort of border region between the Highlands and Lowlands. It and Loch Lomond together lie within a national park.

As I drove, I tried listening to the BBC Radio's Gaelic channel. Yikes! Was that ever interesting. And by "interesting" I mean "anesthetizing." I'd listened to RTE Radio, the Irish equivalent, and that music almost sounded like cajun music (replete with accordions). It was pretty lively. And as I wrote when in Galway, the Irish music struck me as being similar to country music. This, however, must have been some sort of Lord of the Rings soundtrack special. Song after song which sounded like Frodo and Sam crawling across Mordor, or the Elf leaders looking disapprovingly at Gandalf and his band of merry woodland folk (those Elves were pretty damn smug for being, well, elves), and Aragorn staring pensively at no one in particular (likely wondering whether he's going to wash his hair this week or next...Aragorn may have been one bad honky mofo, but he sure needed to wash, rinse, and repeat in all three movies). Or that sounded like something playing in a spa reception room.

Before reaching the Trossachs, I detoured to visit Doune Castle, as mentioned above. Its where Monty Python filmed many of the castle scenes. At one time, it was a fairly significant castle, dating from the 1300s, and is still fairly well preserved. Its adjacent to the River Teith. To reach it, I walked through about 400 yards of pasture, which had at one time been a Roman fort. So this is quite an historic area.

The park and surrounding areas include some really spectacular scenery-lochs, mountains, thick rolling forests, glens, moors, and a number of small towns. Ian, the Scottish guy at my Austin barbecue place, just about insisted I go there. Apparently its a pretty popular weekend destination because its very close to both Glasgow and Edinburgh, and features a wide variety of activities (fun for the whole family, as it were). Hiking, horseback riding, mountain biking, fishing, boating...basically just about any kind of outdoors thing you can imagine (not too sure about hunting, this seems to be a fairly PETA-esque country). I was really looking forward to a good long hike. Unfortunately, I had to reach Stirling by 5 to meet the B&B owner, so combined with the time it took to get packed and out of St. Andrews, and the time to reach Callendar (and find the trail, get lunch, etc.) it didn't leave a lot of hiking time.

The "Information Scotland" office, or whatever its called, recommended several hikes around the area of various lengths and difficulties. I chose the "Callendar Crags" trail, with a side hike to see Bracklinn Falls. This trail is described here. Now, I never have been able to describe any of my hikes. It always reads like "and then I saw this stream, and it was totally awesome, and then I hiked awhile and saw a mountain, and it was awesome." Kind of like the Apollo astronauts describing their views ("well, its just really beautiful, really, really beautiful." Good job sending only engineers and pilots on a trip with such cultural and anthropological significance.). But I'll try. Basically the first 45 minutes or so, you go straight up (switchbacks every now and then) through a forest that looks like the home of the Knights Who Say "Ni," appropriately enough. With the rain and the mist, I thought any second now three witches were going to pop up and tell me I'd be King of Scotland. No such luck. At a certain point the trees thinned out some, giving way to ferns and other grasses. At the top of the crags (basically, bluffs), I could tell it would have given a spectacular view of the town and surrounding farmland. Today, however, fog and clouds obscured most of the view. Hiking onward, you have to leave the official trail for a more primitive trail leading to the road that brings you to Bracklinn Falls. This takes you over a lot of exposed rock, which gave me some footing difficulties (Hey Theresa, here's your ground description). This proved the old adage (I think its an old adage) that going up the mountain is not the problem). Today, with footing issues and the steep descent, going down was the problem. It took twice as long going down and coming up. [Feel free to make your own sex jokes here]. At one point, I passed a cairn erected in 1897 to honor Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee. No word on whether Vicky was impressed.

Eventually I got off the crags and onto a one lane road that took me to the trailhead to see Bracklinn Falls. I wasn't expecting much, but you can see from the photos (on my flickr site) these were really impressive. Not in a Nigara or Iguazu Falls way, of course, but they were surging hard through a pretty good size canyon.

Afterwards I trudged back to my car in the town, then back to the B&B. Obviously I'm not in good hiking shape. Too many "Full Scottish Breakfasts" these past few days. Not enough Aragorning it out in the hills.

One final thought for the day...roundabouts are the devil. Here in the USA, we rely on traffic lights, just like God intended (no, really, I think its in 2nd Corinthians). In Brit countries (this was a problem in New Zealand too by the way), when streets cross, they just plop down a roundabout and leave it for everyone to deal with the "who goes next" problem on their own. But if the Brits are good at anything its waiting in line, so this must appeal to their natural sense of no adventure. For Americans like me, however, it makes driving on these two lane roads even more tense, making sure that its ok to get in the roundabout, that you're in the correct lane, and that you exit at the right spot. Hey Great Britain (and Ireland). Here's an outside the box idea. Just, just go with me on this one. Buy some traffic lights. They don't cause cancer or steal your mojo. Then fix all your sinks (see yesterday's post). You are very welcome.

Next-Glasgow, good times capital of Scotland.

Vacation Day Twelve-Remains of the Day and Child Labor Law Violations

2011-09-25T17:19:00.007-05:00

Ordinarily I'd blow off the usual logistical hijinks, replete with all the usual airport and airline indignities, but today's adventure was a little unordinary. I had to go to the airport to pick up my rental car. Ordinarily I'd have taken a cab, but two couples on their way to the airport agreed to let me share their van taxi. It was two cousins, a man and a woman, and a married couple. Two of them were from Long Island, the others were from South Florida via Manhattan. All probably in their early 60s. They had been traveling around Scotland for a couple of weeks, and got along pretty famously with the hotel owner. They were having a laugh riot as they exchanged hugs and kisses with the guy (who looks kind of like someone getting ready to riot at a soccer match, or an Oakland Raiders fan). We had a fun time on the way out to the airport, talking about Scotland and other travel adventures, Texas, Long Island, New York, and other places.

From the airport, I drove about half an hour out to Linlithgow Palace. This at one time was the pre-eminent palace of Scottish royalty, including Mary Queen of Scots. It dates back to the 1400s, and is between Stirling Castle and Edinburgh, just off Loch Linlithgow, near the River Forth. Many major state functions occurred here, such as the Scottish Parliament, especially as an alternative to meeting in Edinburgh when plague beset it. The palace suffered a major fire in the mid 1700s which essentially destroyed it. "Destroyed by fire" seems to be a pretty constant theme for these castles. Everything must have been flammable, and with lit candles everywhere and no real means of putting out fires, the risk must have been pretty high. Must have been pretty hard getting insurance on those things. I guess the "insurance" was essentially "make the peasants work harder." Most of Linlithgow's walls remained intact, however. Scotland has preserved it and its in really fantastic shape. One thing unique about it is they let visitors go just about everywhere on the site. I guess since the place is considered ruins, they don't worry about whether Alabama will come over and ruin the place. This is one of the few castles where you can go to the lower levels where the help lived and worked. You can even go to the top of one of the four towers, which has a great view. They've also preserved the grounds in excellent shape, so its a beautiful location. Highlights include the Great Hall, which was the largest hall of its kind of any British palace, and which remains largely intact (well, except for not having a roof or furnishings). Another interesting thing is they operate a program with the local school to have student tour guides dressed in costume. Four of them were leading tours for other school kids when I visited. Now, unquestionably this represents some sort of EU child labor law violation. Are those kids receiving the statutory minimum wage? Are workplace safety rules properly enforced? Have they been accorded the right to unionize? Much to investigate here.

Another problem, none of these castles are ADA compliant. By and large there's no elevators or lifts, no accommodations for the disabled. I'm sure the Obama Administration would shut all these places down for that. Interestingly, I haven't seen anyone wheeling around one of these things in a wheelchair or a walker or the like. They're probably still waiting for treatment from the National Health Service. Today I saw a story in the paper that to reduce emergency room waiting times and meet budgets, the NHS is adopting a new program where people with broken bones cannot receive emergency services. They must schedule an appointment for the next day or later in the week, unless they hurt "very badly." Oh, and killer hospital infections are still a problem. Yeah, national health is working great over here.

From Linlithgow I drove about a couple hours to St. Andrews. St. Andrews University, where Prince William attended college, is located here. Its also the home of the legendary "Old Course" at St. Andrews, the Royal and Ancient Golf Club. That's where golf was invented. That's kind of like saying "here's where the first plague case happened." Those busy bodies still try to exercise some sort of regulation of the rules.

The drive was largely a drive through back roads. I even saw a Gulf station of all things. I'm sorry, but did I somehow drive through 1981? Is Reagan still President? Is there a Shakey's Pizza nearby? I may settle down there.

Once I got checked in at my hotel, I immediately visited the Old Course. Those people aren't screwing around. There's marshals who hold up traffic while players are teeing off. Each foursome seems to have at least one caddy, and generally two. Everyone playing looks like a CEO or Board Chairman. Or some salesman/"senior account manager" type. There's several courses, actually, as demand to play the Old Course obviously exceeds supply. Plus, this way they can keep you here longer than just the one day to play the Old Course. The course is impeccable, it looks exactly like it does on TV, only nicer. It sits right next to the coastline, however, and there's a pretty constant strong wind blowing in from the beach. More than a dozen golf shops line the few blocks near the course, and there's several townhouses and even a hotel right next to the Old Course. Yet, despite the spectacle, all I could think of was the scene in Happy Gilmour where Adam Sandler yells at the golf ball to go to its home.

The golf freaks tend to keep to the Club site and the surrounding environs. When I ran later, I saw a bunch of old guys walking toward the Club, wearing tuxedos, obviously for some sort of dinner. No women in sight, though earlier I'd seen what appeared to be a lot of wives. What exactly do you talk about at a golf dinner? With a bunch of guys. At St. Andrews. Golf, I guess. Or how to get find better help at the mansion. Or how to conceal assets during a divorce. How very Remains of the Day of them.

The remainder of St. Andrews is a nice little college town. The town pretty much consists of the university and related goings on. That is, the university buildings are located all throughout the town. They're in various styles. Some medieval, some more modern. So the whole town is the campus. I walked past the career center, and the staff was outside trying to entice people to come in by singing some sort of career-related songs. Kids are everywhere. Some were wearing red robes like Harry Potter. I thought this was all kind of weird until I remembered it was a Brit establishment. These students look a cut above. They're not the drunken yahoos I observed in Cork. Prince William would have fit right in. Though its a little surprising he didn't go to OxBridge. That guy must have had a line of women about 10 miles long throwing themselves at him during school. It shows character that he picked someone who at least appears fairly classy. And totally hot (though Pippa's better looking). Prince Harry, however....

Anyway, its not all university. The ruins of St. Andrews Cathedral and St. Andrews Castle are located there as well. At one time, before it was destroyed by fire, of course, the Cathedral was one of the largest in the British Isles. Its pretty haunting. Unfortunately, somehow I managed to delete the few pictures I took of it. The castle, however, is just kind of meh.

Around 4:45, I heard bagpipes playing softly in the distance. An appropriate way to wind down the day's travels.

Next-Doune Castle and the Trossachs.

Vacation Day Eleven-Another Day, Another 15th Century Castle

2011-09-24T17:27:00.007-05:00

OK, Theresa, today's objective: Stirling Castle. Ground: the high ground near the River Forth, upriver from Edinburgh, the highest point between the Highlands and the Lowlands.

Ah, forget it.

Today its another 15th Century castle. Yawn. Seen one, you've seen them all. Except that this is the one Mel Gibson defended in Braveheart. Except apparently the movie gets a lot of the historic details wrong. Go figure.

Well the previous day's super-fine awesome day has given way to what in Dublin is called a "fine Irish mist." By the time the train is halfway to Stirling, its a flat out rain storm. The train is a pretty great way to go. It would be fantastic if we had them in places other than New York and Chicago. In Austin, we have a train that no one rides. It took about three consultants' reports, six times of being on the ballot, followed by a bunch of court challenges, then construction delays, now it goes from Cedar Park to the east part of downtown. The problem is most people don't live in Cedar Park (or as I like to call it "West Pasadena"). The other problem is what to do once you get to 4th and IH-35. Over here the "town centers" are pretty compact. Once you get off the train, its a quick walk to your building, or you can hop on very dependable busses to get there. And because everything is in the city center, you don't really need your car during the day. Not true in most southern and western cities. The automobile's preeminence has made most Sun Belt cities pretty disparate. A successful train system would require several different inner city stations. Plus, bus service is either a joke, or a good place to get rolled.

Edinburgh has a ring of industrial and commercial facilities surrounding it, which give way to agricultural fields, and small towns. These aren't developed suburbs, they're old towns that the railroad link. It rained all the way to Stirling, and about the first hour I was there.

Stirling Castle occupies a pretty dominant position in Scottish history. It sits on the highest ground, on the River Forth (which runs down to Edinburgh), in a small strategic area between the Highlands and Lowlands. As explained on the tour, every invader that wants to take over the Scottish Highlands has to go through Stirling, and the Castle, by virtue of its high ground and fortifications, controlled everything in the region. So whoever controlled Stirling Castle in effect controlled Scotland. The English and Scots fought over it for hundreds of years.

The place is in really good shape. The government recently completed extensive renovations on the palace and the Great Hall. Both are close to their presumed original condition, c. 1500s. The photos, on flickr, show the vivid colors of the tapestries, wall coverings, furniture, and so forth. The Great Hall, surprisingly, is painted a mustard color. The tour guide explained that all castles used to be this color, because they were covered with a type of plaster with that color tint. The idea was for them to be visible from long distances. Most castles now have a bare stone appearance because the plaster wore away over centuries. At Stirling, they've restored the plaster on the Great Hall. The palace, where Kings and Queens resided, has been spectacularly restored. One feature is the "Stirling Heads," a collection of some 30 carved heads on the King's bedroom's ceiling. Those were copied from the originals, and painted like the originals. They also have a tapestry shop, where weavers make tapestries using original medieval techniques. Four of their works hang in the palace. Other exhibits show the Castle's history, the kitchen operations, and the Stirling Heads gallery. During the renovations, they found two skeletons dating back to the 1500s. Using "CSI" techniques, they created models of the two skeletons' faces as they would have appeared back then. One of them looked like the ticket taker on my train out to Stirling. Which was weird.

One kind of disconcerting thing, which everyone else seemed to really like, is that they have actors playing various roles throughout the castle. They're in period costume, and take the role of someone who would have been at the castle (like a lady in waiting or a herald). They explain what they do, or various parts of the castle, all the while acting as if they're in the 1500s. Very Ren Faire. Reminds me of Ron Livingston in Swingers, who was going to kill for the chance to play Goofy at Disneyland. They address you as "My Lord," as if though you were also in the 1500s. That's ok when its your girlfriend calling you that, but in 2011, its kind of creepy.

After leaving the castle, I walked the trail leading around the castle's base, along the ancient wall. Then back into town to take the train back into Edinburgh.

Once there, it was still daylight so I explored the "New Town" area immediately north of the river. Though called "new," it in fact dates to the late 1700s, when the city started to expand out of the Old Town area. It still retains many of the original Georgian style buildings, which then were townhouses for rich merchants. We experienced a really nice sunset, so it was fun walking around Friday evening as people were starting their weekends. Princes' Street is one of the main retail venues, and it was very busy with pedestrians and vehicles. I also passed the Princes' Street Gardens, at the foot of the hill bordering the Old Town. The gates were locked, but the gardens were obviously lush and well tended.

I got cleaned up, then went back into town (New Town) for Spanish tapas at Cafe Andaluz. Yes, that's right, in Scotland, I went for tapas. I figured I wouldn't have the chance for awhile, so off I went to Cafe Andaluz. It was really good. I had some spicy carne de res with manchego, a seafood stew, and some excellent paella. Not as good as Sevilla Restaurant in the Village, of course, but still good. Interestingly, every male server was sporting a three-day beard, like they were Antonio Banderas. You may look like him, but when you open your mouth you sound like Scotty from Star Trek, so the ladies are going to see through that.

I had a thing about the local news saying there's an excess of red haired sperm donors, but am going to give it up due to the hour. Suffice to say, women are voting with their choices and they don't choose reheads. Sorry reds. Hey! More for the rest of us. Julianne Moore, Angie Everhart, Lucille Ball...not sure what's the point. Sorry Major Applewhite.

Next-Linithgow Palace and St. Andrews.

Vacation Day Ten-Have Fun Storming the Castle

2011-09-23T17:05:00.009-05:00

Today was a fast and furious run through the Royal Mile, Edinburgh's main street and site of some of its historic attractions. At either end of the street are Edinburgh Castle, the grandest of Scotland's castles, and Holyroodhouse Palace, the Queen's official residence in Scotland. And all the stuff in between.

Fortunately it was the first absolutely clear day I can remember since I left Texas. Upper 50s, no wind, sunny and clear. It will be raining by the end of the day though.

First we have to deal with these separate hot and cold faucet taps. What the hell is going on there? About 3/4 of the places I've visited have separate hot and cold taps in the faucet. That might not be such a problem, but the hot tap is scalding hot to the point of burning your skin, while the cold is like a glacier lake that causes frostbite. Uh, hey Brits (and Irish). Its not 1940. You don't have to worry about the Jerries bombing your house anymore. We have this valve that will join the hot and cold streams. "Warm" is quite acceptable.

The United Nations has designated the Edinburgh Castle as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Not sure exactly what that means but it sounds impressive. Quebec City is a World Heritage Site too. I think it means its way freaking old. A castle has been on the site since the 1200s, but it keeps getting destroyed by fire or pillaging every couple of hundred years and rebuilt. The present one dates from the 1400s. Its located on the highest point in the city, the site of an ancient (now dormant, hopefully) volcano, giving it views of the entire city. It was the seat of Scottish kings, but now is a military and tourist site. A memorial to Scottish war dead is located in the main square across from the great hall and the old palace. Its a magnificent memorial with stone and stained glass, and lists the name of every Scottish soldier killed in action from World War I onward. The rest of the castle is in fantastic shape and has great exhibitions. They have the Scottish crown jewels, which had been hidden for about 150 years after Scotland and England became Great Britain. They're not as impressive as the British crown jewels at Buckingham Palace, but the Scots didn't have an India where they could steal a bunch of impressive jewels to put in a crown. There's also a Prisoner of War exhibit, which I didn't see because I was pressed for time. I did see the King's residence in the palace, which has been well restored.

Next I went to St. Giles Cathedral, the leading church in the Old Town. Its just down the road from Edinburgh Castle, and dates back to the 1200s. Its the "mother church of Presbyterianism." Its a magnificent place of worship, with amazing architecture. Be sure to check out the photos. Like many other British and Commonwealth churches and towns, St. Giles has an extensive memorial to fallen soldiers who were church members. As with other places, a high proportion of the honored dead were from World War I. Everywhere I've traveled in England, Ireland, Scotland, and New Zealand, you can easily and quickly find World War I memorials. That must have been a horrible war. Just an absolute grinder. No wonder the American generals refused to coordinate with the French and English once we entered the war. All they had proven capable of doing in three years was getting a lot of people killed. That war must have just decimated whole towns everywhere, who would have lost all their young men, no doubt in ill-advised charges into newly developed machine guns, whose deadly nature the Generals obstinately refused to acknowledge. They were using Napoleon's techniques, which they'd studied their entire career, not knowing they were obsolete at least forty years before that.

Most of the rest of the Royal Mile consists of touristy shops, cafes, bars, restaurants, and so forth. There's at least 12 places to buy a kilt., for example. At the other end lies the devolved Scottish Parliament, and Holyroodhouse Palace. I was running out of time, so it was the Palace. But on the way I stumbled across Dumbar's Close, which is just inside an alcove off the Royal Mile. Basically this is a four part Victorian garden, or what my mother would have called a "secret garden." Its a little oasis amid all the Royal Mile craziness. All I can tell you about the Parliament building is that it looks like they built some eight year old's crayon design, or tried to make it look like a macaroni cheese sculpture. Hey architects. Your cool building of today is going to look absolutely ridiculous in about 40 years. Best to stick with something timeless. The Parliament's right across the street from the Palace, which I'm sure was quite intentional. So the Palace it was. Its built on the site of a former abbey, and the ruins are still intact. The palace is huge, but not Buckingham large. Nor is it as uptight and formal. No "changing of the guard," for example. They kept stressing that its a "working palace," which I guess means that they have formal dinners with visiting dignitaries. Or hosting dances. Anyway, kings built the palace because Edinburgh Castle up the way was too cold and windy. Which it is. By Buckingham standards, its a little drab, sort of like it was built in the 1950s and hasn't been remodeled. The palace has really nice grounds, with lots of flowers and planterboxes. Plus, its located right next to Holyrood Park, where I ran yesterday. The palace has great views of the Crags. In the dining room, they displayed some menus for recent dinners. (Is it really a "working palace" when the work consists of showing up at your in-house restaurant all dressed up?). Mostly it was locally produced foods, such as salmon. The audio tour takes you through most of the major rooms, but not the family's living quarters. There's an option to see "The Queen's Gallery," containing selected portraits from the Royal Family's art collection, which I blew off given the time. I'll just view my own family's art collection when I go home.

Next-Stirling Castle

Vacation Day Nine-If Its Not Scottish Its CRAP!

2011-09-22T17:08:00.002-05:00

Today's a travel day. I have to go coast to coast, like Allan Iverson on one of his patented one-man fast breaks. All the way from Galway on the west coast, to Dublin on the east. From there I took an Aer Lingus (Irish for "flying bus") quasi-domestic flight to Edinburgh (not the one in the Valley, thank God). Ordinarily I'd have been worried about making it on time, especially because it was such rotten weather in Galway, but ever since I made the Kessel Run in 12 parsecs, I've not had any real concerns about going places fast.

The scene at breakfast was a little weird. The place was filled with women, all of whom looked to be in their late 50s/early 60s, all wearing the same outfit-baggy velour sweat bottoms, a sweatshirt with a cutesy design, a rain jacket wrapped around their waist, and some sort of comfortable shoes. They all had the same haircut and all wore glasses too. Hope it wasn't some suicide cult, eating their last breakfast together. There was only one other guy, and he wanted nothing to do with that scene. Maybe he's the one who has to mix the cool aid.

The long haul went ok. I stopped at a prototype new highway services store, which I think should catch on in the US. It was really nice, and very clean. It had a Burger King, an a la carte buffet, a coffee store, a gas station operation, a kids indoor playground, spacious bathrooms with showers too. I really marveled at the place. Hell, I'd have stayed there over some of the other places I stayed in Ireland if they had a bed. 50 times more pleasant than Buccees.

I totally got BOHICA'd at the Aer Lingus counter. I planned to spell out all the details at length, but I'm just too tired and annoyed to talk about it. Suffice to say, the baggage weight allowances aren't what they are in the US, by a long stretch. The airline people seemed incredulous that I didn't want to just dump some of my possessions in the trash to avoid their cattle prod baggage charges. Now, no question, I packed too much stuff. But I had no idea I'd have to pay so much for it.

Sorry to detour, but Martin McGuinness is running for the Presidency of Ireland. This merits something of a mention, though I'm tempted to write more about this later. Martin McGuinness, for those who've forgotten, was a senior military official in the IRA during the 1970s, and spent several years in prison for possession of explosives and ammunition. Then he joined Sinn Fein, and later became Deputy First Minister in the devolved Northern Ireland assembly. Simply put, this guy's a terrorist. The IRA, which he proudly and happily joined, killed hundreds of innocent civilians whose only crime was being in a public area at the wrong time. The IRA, like al Queda or the Red Army Faction, or the Baader-Meinhof gang, or the PLO, or Islamic Jihad, tried to force political change through a terror campaign against civilians. Its one thing to grant pardons or amnesty as part of a deal to end hostilities. Its quite another thing to elect one of them as President of a sovereign nation. It will be a dark day for Ireland, and civilized man, if that guy wins. Its already appalling that he holds a high government post in Northern Ireland.

Back to the story, such that it is for a travel day. I made it into Edinburgh in the late afternoon. I took a cab to my hotel, then ate a very late lunch at a pub around the corner, then took a bus into the city center. It started to clear, and became an absolutely beautiful day. Crystal clear, temperatures in the mid-50s, crisp breeze. A really welcome relief from the non-stop Irish rain.

I could tell right away that Edinburgh just has a lot more going for it than Ireland. Its a much bigger city, and its got more going on. More business, more people, more activity. If Edinburgh were Dallas or Houston, Dublin would be Brenham. Its divided into the "Old Town" on the heights in the city center, with the Georgian "New Town" below and just to the north. The rest of the city radiates out from there, hitting up against the Firth of Forth, which leads out to the North Sea. Edinburgh has a major university and is the capitol of Scotland (the devolved Scottish Parliament meets in Edinburgh). Its noticeably cooler here than in Ireland as well, something that I've noticed in the few days I've been here before writing this post. Oh, and I can't understand anyone here either, but I understand the Scots even less than the Irish. They sound like people speaking in tongues at some Pentecostal holiday service, or someone possessed by Satan, or Gabby Johnson in Blazing Saddles (the guy who spoke "frontier gibberish"). Then again, even at home, I can barely understand most people. If you don't sound like my family or the people I knew growing up, I'm going to need you to speak more clearly and slowly.

After checking out the town center, I went for a run in Holyrood Park. This is an incredible open space very near Holyroodhouse Palace, the Queen's summer residence. Its got lots of trails and other running spots, and I saw a lot of runners. Its basically a circular park, dominated by the Salisbury Crags (basically, very high bluffs looking southeast toward the sea), and "Arthur's Seat" the highest point in Edinburgh. I ran some of these very hilly trails, and though I was huffing and puffing, the reward was incredible views of the city as the sun set. It killed my foot of course. Can't wait to get back for some PT.

Next-Edinburgh, day two.

Vacation Day Eight-Off to Visit the Quiet Man

2011-09-20T16:41:00.009-05:00

This day was another quite full day out in the Irish countryside, so let me get right to it.

Today I had four objectives on my trip through the Connemara region, which is roughly in the center of the Irish West Coast. First was to get to Clifden, which functions as the unofficial regional capital. Second, drive along the Sky Road outside of town, which has incredible views of the inlet leading to the Atlantic. Third, to visit Kylemore Abbey, north of Clifden. Finally, to visit Cong, where John Ford filmed one of my very favorite movies, the 1952 movie The Quiet Man (starring John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara).

My sinus problems seem to have subsided and I'm feeling a little better today. But not as good as the guy at the table next to me at 9:15 a.m. drinking a pint of Guinness. Way to fire up. After all, you can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning. And Guinness IS good for you. But on the other hand, no one seems to look the other way at someone having mimosas during brunch, so maybe its the same.

I'm looking like Walter Sobchak today, from The Big Lebowski. Shorts, t-shirt, a vest, sunglasses. All I need is a bandanna, a bowling ball and a gun and I'd be in business. So as you can tell, I'm really cutting quite the figure out here and representing America. Though when anyone asks where I'm from, I say Texas.

Oh, a couple of more preliminary thing-gas stations are so much better here. The bathrooms are cleaner than a lot of hotel rooms I've stayed in. (I know, "note to self, never go on a trip with Chris Reeder"), and you don't have to pay for your gas before you pump it. In other words, its like 1976 at Irish gas stations.

The other is I heard a story on the radio about the former Bishop of Derry, a fairly important and influential man in Ireland and in the Catholic Church, has come out in favor of allowing priests to marry. He noted that the priesthood is becoming much more gray, and fewer men are entering it. He said lifting the celibacy ban isn't so much about letting priests have sex, but so they can enjoy the companionship of a wife. He said all the studies show that's the main reason priests oppose the celibacy ban. He said he didn't have that problem because he had a "housekeeper" to come home to at night and share his problems with. "Housekeeper"? Uh huh. I had a "housekeeper" too once. It was delightful. Anyway, he said he had been teaching in a seminary when he suggested that the Church study the question. Not change the policy, just study the issue. The head of the seminary brought him into his office and said he was giving him an official warning about suggesting changing the Church's celibacy policies. Nice going! I guess that's Catholicism for you-one guy does all the thinking for everyone. At least the Mormons have a committee that runs the show.

OK, first stop for the day was to visit the ruins of Aughanure Castle castle in Oughtergard. Just before you reach the site, you pass a golf club and extensive course that seemed like it had everyone from a 20 mile radius playing. What is the hold that golf has on some people? Its like heroin or shopping or something. You just can't kick it. You go to greater and greater lengths to get that golfing high, like going all the way to Ireland to play a game you could play at your local track any day of the week. They're like the Viet Cong, or the varmint cong, totally focused on only one thing. Playing more golf. None of them were at Aughanure Castle, which is where the action was today. "Aughanure" means "valley of the yews," as opposed to Valley of the Dolls. Middle Ages soldier used yew wood for a variety of purposes, including to build longbows and use the poisonous leaves for various nefarious purposes. The O'Flahertys built this tower type castle in the early 1500s, and apparently these guys had some really bad intentions. They were quite adept at killing lots of people in war and used the resulting power to throw their weight around. Every floor of the tower served some purpose. The tower was surrounded, as were most castles, by outer defenses. This one had a really cool "murder hole" atop the front door. As invaders would gather around and try to knock down the front door, the O'Flaherty's would open a trap door above them and start shooting. That's how to deal with those pesky trick-or-treaters or Christmas carolers.

From there it was on to the very pleasant nearly-seaside town of Clifden. This looks like kind of an arts community. Its in the middle of a two week arts festival (of course, they're not doing anything Sunday, which is when I visited). Like many other towns along the west coast, Clifden has a surprisingly vibrant commercial town centre, and lots of people were milling about. They also like their meat-I counted about four butchers. There's twice as many pubs, of course, but that's still a lot of meat. From Clifden I took the loop west of town starting on Sky Road. This runs up the cliffs that look down on the ocean. Had it been a better day I'd have had some really spectacular views of the estuary, all the farms and ranches, and the ocean with islands from the perfect height. As it was, the pea soup fog and mist had settled in, with off and on rain, so great views were not to be had this day. Nonetheless, even through the fog, I could see the lands down below. Check out the photos.

Then it was back through Clifden along some narrow winding roads through the Inagh Valley. This road runs through some of Ireland's few mountains, which aren't really so much "mountains" as extremely large hills. Sort of like we call creeks "rivers" back in Texas. Mountain goats and sheep are grazing all up and down the roads, sometimes on the roads, making it very hard to get to a high speed. Also, lots of bikers were out as well. The danger is that if you come around a corner too fast, you're on top of a bike rider or sheep before you have enough time to break. That tends to reduce a driver's ability to enjoy the scenery.

I next made it to Kylemore Abbey. Presently run by Irish Benedictine Nuns (there's a real party group for sure), it was built right after the famine by the Henrys. He was the son of a cotton merchant, and had inherited all of dad's money. Which, as we all know, was slave money, because that's who picked cotton back then. Anyway, he and the wife were visiting the area, which by 1849, as the potato famine was winding down, must have been a real joy ride. They liked it so much, they decided to settle down. They spent more than a year building the place in Victorian style, using local builders and tradesmen, and local materials. The place is magnificent. It set in front of a dark lake, right in front of a mountain. The views of the surrounding country are incredible. The castle itself was made of a very dark kind of stone not commonly seen elsewhere in the area, giving it a sort of black and white appearance. Still, I can't help but think as I walk up to the building that it looks like it was made out of Legos. The castle was incredibly advanced for its time, enjoying gas and electricity well before those things were common. Unfortunately, the wife died in Egypt of...dysenterry...not long after (at the age of, gulp, 45). That's really a hell of a way to go, but my understanding is its still a leading cause of death in many parts of the world. You get dehydrated. Sounds like King Tut's Curse. That leaves the guy and their nine children. Later, he sold it to some guy from Cincinnati who later lost the deed in a card game. Don't you know that the guy's wife was super mad about that? Just after she redecorated I bet. Besides, unless you're Michael Jordan, if you're betting the title to the castle you just paid a small fortune for, you may want to consider whether you have a gambling problem. In the 1920s, the nuns bought the place, having nowhere else to go after World War I screwed over their present location in Ypres, France. Ypres, of course was site to several important, bloody battles, so they were primed to get out of there, particularly after artillery began shelling them. They're still here. For many years they ran a boarding school for the rich and mighty (or at least their kids), but not anymore. There's really no need of that sort of thing, now that rich kids spend their time skiing, snorting coke and killing their parents. Instead, they make chocolate and fabrics now, and run the visitor operation fairly efficiently. While Bantry House was definitely a low tech affair, these nuns have this operation running in high gear. They must have hired some company to do it for them. I was going to go off on some tangent here about nuns, and the whole "married to Jesus" thing, which I'll boil down to they can't all marry Jesus, unless he's the worst polygamist the world has ever known. Maybe the Mormons were right after all.

Next, it was on to the final stop of the day, Cong. You've probably never heard of the place, but as I said earlier, its where the Quiet Man was fimed. If you haven't watched it, you should. Anyone who thinks John Wayne couldn't act would be very surprised. He plays an American boxer in the 1920s who quits the ring and returns to his family's ancestral home in Ireland, and adjusts to life in the simple farming ways of post-Civil War Ireland. Maureen O'Hara was never lovelier, and they really got the whole Irish thing down pretty well. John Ford wanted to turn that book into a movie his whole career, and went to great lengths to do it, despite warnings the movie would flop. It didn't, and its just really a lovely story. The third "character" though is Ireland; set in early Technicolor, it really dazzles. The village of Cong, where it was set (renamed "Inisfree" in the movie) was entirely charming. So while I was here I wanted to see whether it still looked that way. The answer is, not really. I could tell a few things from the movie, the Cohan's Bar, the graveyard where Wayne and O'Hara first kiss, the cross in the road (c. 1350)and layout of the main square, and one of the back alleys. Its kind of hard to tell now that the place has car traffic, a gas station and power lines. Its a shame I couldn't spend more time. The ruins of Cong Abbey (c. 1200) were well preserved. Cong Woods has an extensive trail system running near a very pleasant creek, and I'd have enjoyed spending some time hiking there.

As the sun was setting, I made a mad dash back to Galway before dark, where I packed and got ready for the crack of dawn run to Dublin to catch my flight to Scotland.

Next-Edinburgh

Vacation Day Seven-In the City

2011-09-19T17:26:00.007-05:00

I decided to sleep late and recover a little bit today, which I desperately needed after staying up too late yet again, writing last night’s post while watching new South Park episodes. This is how I spend my vacation. Fantastic.

So, I decided to throw my pity party right here in Galway, rather than hitting the road again. I’d originally planned to go see The Burren, which as described yesterday is a freakishly rocky area with very little vegetation, about an hour south of Galway. Imagine for as rar as you can see, the ground looks like the gravel under railroad tracks. I blew it off. If I want to see a barren wasteland, I can just go to Pasadena. Or Odessa.

I puttered around, then left my room around 10. It was sunny when I walked out of the room, but it started raining by the time I made it three floors down to the ground and got outside. It happens just that fast around here. Its like Mr. Freeze or some Super Villain created a weather machine and pointed it straight at Ireland. It would stop raining and then start at least twice more during my 45 minute run. And we Texans think our weather changes quickly. Huh!

Running gave me a good view of the city’s layout. Lots of kids and college students were already pouring into the city centre, along with tourists and some locals in town for Saturday. It almost resembled a week day. I saw a few other guys out running, and some more people cycling. Mostly I ran along the river (Corrib) walkway, as well as along the “Canal Walk,” which parallels the river (and apparently as a diversion of river water when, as today, the river is flowing extremely rapidly). I ran down the High Street/Shop Street/Quay Street area, where most of the city centre’s pubs, shops and restaurants are located. Its blocked to vehicle traffic, so people tend to congregate there. The pubs were already filling at 10 a.m. I’d be tempted to congratulate the Irish for living up to the boozed up stereotype, but there’s so many tourists and students around here its hard to say exactly who’s hanging out in pubs. It appears like everyone, natives and outsiders alike, are filling up the pubs. And shops, and walkways.

After getting cleaned up and having breakfast, I headed back out and walked past Eyre Square, right in the City Centre, where a Triumph Motors club was having a rally, or show or something. They lined up maybe 20 mint condition Triumphs (TR-6s, TR-7s, one TR-8, and a few Spitfires), as well as a 50s Jaguar. I don’t go for all the “guy” pursuits, like hunting and fishing, but I sure get excited to see classic sports cars like these. Triumphs always performed miserably, when they were working at all, but they sure looked sweet. [Insert misogynist joke here]. These owners maintained their cars meticulously. People were walking around oohing and aahing. Including me. I probably photographed all of those cars.

The city has preserved some of its original city wall, from when the Normans first founded the city. One, interestingly, is now within a shopping mall. The mall developers simply built around it and incorporated the wall into their design. Its great that developers will put the new alongside the old, and echoes what I perceive as a European philosophy of the past influencing and informing the new in all walks of life. Particularly architecture. I’ve noticed throughout my extensive drives that a lot of the new Irish homes (and I’ve seen many, obviously relics from the recent boom) incorporate designs and aesthetics from ancient Irish structures, such as the extensive use of stone, color types, and layout. In Houston, they’d have just knocked the wall down. And cleared out any pesky trees getting in the way too, just to show nature who’s boss. Then put in a lot of parking spaces. With a Wendy’s and a Pappasito's at the opposite ends of the parking lot (so you can get fuel up before you begin your long hike into the mall...where you'll get some pizza and ice cream later on). Don’t get me wrong, I totally think the USA has Europe beat in nearly every way, but the euros’ preservation and celebration of history shames us.

By the way, there’s some sort of big rugby tournament this weekend (turns out it was the Rugby World Cup), as I mentioned, and Ireland was playing Australia. That may account for the pubs being full, though I’m not sure the game was on yet. Maybe this is how they tailgate. In case you care, I approve of rugby. Unlike the other euro sport which shall go nameless, you have to be tough to play rugby. No flopping, no injury faking, no orange slices and candy after the games, and no douchebags. Those guys actually are a bit crazy. Anyone who goes out there and willingly gets their head beaten in repeatedly is gonna have that back up on them.

On another completely unrelated point everyone needs to know, I need to tell you that after having toured the country these last few days…I've discovered that the Irish Dental Service isn’t making the grade. Lets' just say its Appalachia time over here, tooth wise. Austin Powers thinks these people have teeth problems. That’s more true with men than women, though there’s plenty of older women with tooth problems. Maybe it’s the result of a lifestyle replete with smoking, drinking Guinness, tea and whisky, taking sugar in their tea and lots of foods, and being dependent on a national dental service (oops, sorry, national health care will save us all, just like its done for the Irish).

Highlights of my travels around the town include the Spanish Arch (literally an arch built along the river in the 16th century), the Canal Walk (where I happened upon a white water rafting class learning how to deal with being capsized, in very cold canal water), National University of Ireland, Galway (which has a really great old main quadrangle building, though not nearly as great as the quad at Rice), the St. Nicholas Church (dating back to the 1300s), the open air market right next to the church. Finally, I saw, and marveled at, Galway Cathedral. It dominates the skyline, but is Italian rather than gothic. Though it was built in the 20th century, it easily stands alongside the town’s other more ancient structures (another example of the aesthetic I mentioned earlier).

After all that walking around I was pretty tired, and stopped in Lynch’s Café for some good vegetable soup and a wheat scone, with some Irish breakfast tea. Just getting a chance to sit down and warm up was really worth it. The area was still packed at 5:30 though.

I had dinner at a pub across the street which I think was called au Poucan. Two guys playing guitar and one guy on banjo were playing irish songs. It struck me that this music has a lot, and I mean A LOT, in common with early country music (which I refer to as “country music”). Jimmie Rogers, Bill Monroe, the Carter Family, Hank Williams, Hank Snow, Tex Ritter…those guys. Some other time I’ll write down my rant about how modern country music is really just rock and roll music with a steel guitar thrown in for good measure, and sung by a guy who has a country twang and can wear Wranglers properly. Nonetheless, I hear a lot of similarities between Irish music, and authentic country music. All kinds of people are here: students, soccer hooligans, grandma and grandpa, couples on dates, families that if they were Americans would be at the Olive Garden, and weirdoes traveling by themselves. There’s other kinds of pubs, though, with groups of drunk guys spilling out, smoking cigarettes, wearing their teams colors, yelling at each other and passersby. In Texas, of course, that’s known as a “sports bar.”

The rest of the night I just worked on the logistics for Scotland and getting last night’s post together.

Next-Connemara and Cong.

Vacation Day Six-The Cliffs of Moher and Thank God I'm Not at the ACL Music Festival

2011-09-17T18:02:00.010-05:00

That dog's name is Bosby. Saw him at Ross Castle. I have no idea what kind of dog he is, but I do know that he's much more attractive than the lady holding his leash. Yikes, that was not a good looking couple. Bosby sure was friendly though.

It rained pretty hard through the night, waking me up a couple of times. But that's no mean feat, I barely get to sleep as it is. All my crimes and closet skeletons obviously have my consciousness running at ultra high octane. Oddly enough, having not seen rain for more than three months, its literally rained off and on every day I've been here, so I'm becoming an Irish rain expert. That was the first time since I've been here that it outright rained really hard for a long time. I awoke to a sunny day though...and the beginnings of a sinus infection. You may have seen photos with some yellow blooming flowers. If those are the same flowers that bloom around this time in California, its no surprise. Those things set off the last really bad sinus infection I had, which took about a week to get over. Excellent. Can't wait.

By the time I dragged myself out of bed and down to breakfast, most of the golfers had already gone. Out to the links no doubt. One couple was still there, telling the owner about how they were touring the Dingle Peninusla yesterday in the pouring rain, but they pulled over at the Dingle Golf Club and still played nine holes. They said there was a foursome of 80-something year old guys in front of them, so they figured that if those guys could get up and down, they could do. The fact that they were playing through a storm I guess just didn't dawn on them as a reason to stay in the car. I guess if the Bishop could have set the club record in a driving lightning storm in Caddyshack, this couple could have done no less. After all, I don't think the heavy stuff is going to come down for awhile. What makes golf so addictive? Why would all these people spend a small fortune, correction, large fortune, to come over here to play...golf? Its not like there's not bizillions of golf courses in the USA. Unless you're at Pebble Beach or St. Andrews or Augusta National, isn't every golf course pretty much like every other golf course? Still, I guess you could say the same thing about running. Any time I go to a new city, I MUST get in a run. Even though running is basically running. Its new scenery. Still, these guys have to spend a lot more time and money than lacing up your sneaks and heading out for a bit.

Oh, and five minutes after I came down for breakfast it had clouded over and was raining. Five minutes. Literally. Then 15 minutes later it was sunny. I thought Texas weather was weird, but this is just insane. It never really stops raining.

Yesterday, and I skipped over this because I was so tired, I heard a really interesting radio report. I like to listen to local radio when I go on a trip, especially talk radio or local news. Its a way to get a handle on what people think. Well, the weirdo people who call radio talk shows at least. Its not perfect; it would be like thinking that all the hard core right wing types who call Ed and Sergeant Sam in the morning (590 KLBJ in Austin) represent the typical Austin attitude. Cause they don't. Anyway, there was a story that the English rugby team captain, who is married to a royal, was caught at a dwarf tossing contest making out with some hot blonde. Now, I don't understand the problem. Dwarf tossing? Psshhaw! Charles Barkley sees nothing wrong with that. Making out with a blonde? I thought that's why guys became famous athletes. Doing it while married to a royal? I thought that's what all those people did, like Prince Charles and his horse-face mistress (sorry, horse lovers, didn't mean to insult horses there). They're making a big deal out of it around here, which is weird. Obviously they're not following the NFL, where guys drive drunk and kill people and still get to play on Sundays. Or who have nine kids with eight different women, only a few of whom were with his wife. Once again, these Euros are putting on all kinds of airs about stuff that just really doesn't matter.

First up on today's tour was Ross Castle. Built in the 1400s by the O'Donoughues, they resisted Cromwell and had the castle taken from them. Later the English used it as a military garrison. Its located in Killarney National Park on Lough Leane, and has a fantastic view of the lake. Lake tours depart from the Castle as well. Its a ruin, of course, but still seems in remarkable shape. Its the "tower" type of castle, basically one houge tower where all the action happened, surrounded by high defensive walls. A good part of the wall remains intact. I skipped the tour. After all, you've seen one 15th century Irish castle, you've seen them all.

From there I departed on the three and a half hour drive to the Cliffs of Moher. Again, it was the usual program of rain, followed by clearing, followed by rain, and so forth. I passed some wind generation towers about an hour north of Killarney. With all the west coast wind, I'd have been surprised if Ireland hadn't been pursuing wind energy development. I took a ferry across the River Shannon to avoid having to travel through Limerick, which would have added a couple of hours to the trip. My guide book advertises Limerick along the lines of it beginning to escape its reputation as an industrial center and a site of "internecene gang warfare," which doesn't sound promising. I could have saved a bunch of money and seen the same thing by going to Laredo. The ferry was pretty rough. The water was really choppy and kicking up over the deck. The clouds were pretty thick and it was raining pretty good. Surprised I didn't start yakking all over the place.

After driving more winding two lane roads through the rain, I made it to the Cliffs of Moher. They run for about 2/3 of a mile just north of the mouth of the Shannon. They were formed by an ancient river hundreds of millions of years ago. They're about 700 feet above the ocean, and looking down from the top is a really awesome experience. It was a pretty horrible day, with light rain, heavy clouds and mist, and incredibly strong winds. I haven't been blown like that since [insert joke here]. So the weather diminished the viewing experience somewhat. I've seen photos of the Cliffs at sunset, with the setting sun brilliantly illuminating the moss covered cliffs and it looks like quite a spectacle. It also reminded me of the California coast. Driving around West Ireland these last few days, its struck me that the area very much resembles California, at least along the coast north of Carmel and on up to the Oregon border. Lots of green rolling hills, dramatic coastal cliffs and beaches, and winding two lane roads (to wit, the PCH). I've been blessed to have spent as much time in the Golden State as I have, and will keep returning throughout my life (until the money runs out or I go mental).

I left the Cliffs around 4:30, hoping to get into Galway before nightfall. I passed through the town of Burren and briefly stopped to see Dunguaire Castle. It too was right on the water, and seemed well preserved. Photos are on flickr.

I also passed through The Burren. This is a very rocky (largely limestone), arid region of some size, where vegetation either doesn't grow or is extremely sparse. Basically it looks something like the moon, with some green here and there. I had planned to get checked in to my hotel in Galway and return to the Burren the next day, but from what I can tell, it looks like just another wasteland, like those old oil fields out in west Texas where they basically ruined the topsoil, or Pasadena ("nothing could be keener than to be in Pasadena...." yeah I saw Urban Cowboy).

I made it into Galway, Ireland's third largest city, right as the Friday rush hour was peaking and the rain and muck was resuming. My hotel is right in the city center, where the roads all run helter skelter in every direction, and the traffic flow patterns kept me from reaching the hotel itself until I passed it four times. I even got trapped behind a youth hostel, thinking that the service road actually ran through to the road where I could reach my hotel. Trying to back out, I knocked over a recycle bin full of beer and wine bottles, which dumped a bunch of broken glass onto the road where I needed to back out. Yikes! So in the rain, and the dark, I had to clear all that crap out of the way so I could get my car through. Nothing like the glamorous life of a lawyer!

I finally made it though, and got settled into my fairly nice hotel (Forster Square Hotel). Then I walked down to the local entertainment district, finding the number of pubs and bars greatly exceeding the number of restaurants. Hey this is a college town, so go figure that there appeared to be tons of kids roaming around the town at night. I ate at a Mediterranean place called Vina Mara, which had a fairly nice three course meal menu. I had some excellent vegetable soup, chicken breast wrapped in bacon with tomatoes and (you guessed it, potatoes) with some Irish cheeses for dessert. The waitress was from Holland and couldn't understand me. She learned english in Ireland, so she doesn't understand American "accents." She said mine was the worst of all, which actually made me feel pretty good. After dinner, amazingly, I did my hotel workout routine, even though it was 11 p.m. But I did feel much better after.

Finally, I noted that this weekend is the ACL Music Festival. As I write this, Stevie Wonder is the headliner playing tonight. I've never been to ACL. When the damn thing's not on fire, its usually about 120 degrees most of the day, and they jam 70,000 people into a space probably big enough for half that much. I get my music festival itch scratched every year at the New Orleans Jazz Festival; that's usually always enough for one year. But I hope everyone going to ACL has a good time, paying extortionate ticket prices and slagging through the heat.

Next-A Day in Galway

Vacation Day Five-The Ring of Kerry

2011-09-16T18:53:00.007-05:00

Its really late, I haven't been getting much sleep, and all this driving is really taking its toll. I've been developing a low grade sinus infection too with all this rain (poor me), so this is going to be kind of cursory. Hilarious and valuable life observations will kick back into high gear tomorrow. I hope everyone's checking out the numerous photos I've been taking by going over to my flickr account (linked on the right hand side of this blog).

This day was devoted to the "Ring of Kerry," which is basically a day long drive through the County Kerry central coast. It runs through numerous little towns and villages, mostly near the coast. It boasts an enormous number of unique historic sites, as well as some remarkable country scenery. This area, and others on the western coast, historically were sufficiently remote that they had little contact with others. The Gaelic language is still widely spoken and traditions have remained strong. There's even a Gaelic television and radio network servicing the west coast. I have to say, Gaelic isn't the most pleasant sounding language. It actually sounds like Klingon.

Unfortunately, temperamental weather, like women, followed me everywhere today. Hate to be a broken record, but the weather around here changes literally every half hour. The Ring is made up of narrow, winding two-lane roads, making it difficult to focus on the amazing scenery I kept passing. But despite these challenges, today's road trip was one of the best I've ever experienced. Here's some highlights (and low):

The Gap of Dunloe is a really scenic pass between some of the highest mountains in Ireland. "Jaunting cars," basically carts pulled by a horse, provide trips all the way into the Gap. I just drove in a little bit and took some photos before driving on.

Cahirseeven, relatively close to the coast, is a thriving, picturesque Irish town. Today, Wednesday, it was bustling with school kids getting out for lunch, tourists on the square, and locals going about their way. It featured a great example of immigrants assimilating into their new culture: "Colin Fong's Chinese Restaurant."

Driving through the first part of the ring, I passed through a number of tunnels cut through the rock. No wonder the roads are so narrow, at least in these instances.

At my hotel owner's recommendation, I got off the Ring and visited Portmagee and Valentia Island. Portmagee has a small fishing fleet and really resembles the village in Local Hero. I had a pretty good lunch there at a place called Mooring's, of grilled black sole (replete with all its bones), the "Holy Trinity" of Irish vegetables (potatoes, broccoli, and carrots), and some Irish breakfast tea for after. It began raining when I was sitting there for lunch, so the tea really hit the spot.

From Portmagee, I drove over to Valentia Island. Its home to several very small little villages (each of which has a pub of course). Fog and clouds had socked in the island, so it was difficult to see what I assumed was more really pretty country and bay views. Even that gave the island some charm though.

Leaving Valentia, the clouds started to clear (of course), and I saw the first of three rainbows that day. No sign of the leprechaun guarding his gold at the rainbow's end, however.

From there, still off the Ring proper, I drove to Ballinskilligs, where the only street signs are in Gaelic. Ballinskilligs is right on the coast and even has a public beach. It has some great views of the bay, which the clouds obscured today.

Leaving Ballinskilligs on the way to Derrynane, I saw another rainbow. Was it following me or was I chasing it? Derrynane is just a speck on the map, but I hoped to see Derrynane House. Several of the guides had built it up, but it kind of left me flat. I took one look (and a photo), and turned around without spending much time.

Heading back onto the Ring and back towards my hotel in Killarney, I went through Sneam, which is another quaint little town untouched by modern progress (i.e. there was no Target or McDonalids), but which seemingly manages to thrive. In all fairness, I have to concede that in some respects these towns can rely on tourism, whereas other towns back home don't have that built in advantage. Adding WalMarts and CVS Pharmacies on every block would tend to kill the cultural authenticity that makes these places so popular to visit and therefore kill the golden goose.

Well that was a mostly all day trip. That night, I had duck breast and "vegetables" at a local pub, then cashed it in for the night after writing yesterday's post. No run today.

Next-Ross Castle, the Cliffs of Moher, Galway, and hilarious hijinks.

Vacation Day Four-Bantry House, Killarney, and R2D2 and C3PO Weren't Lovers

2011-09-15T19:21:00.007-05:00

Spoiler alert: this is too long and its definitely self-indulgent. So skip to the middle for the actual trip description.

This morning was supposed to begin with me bursting out of bed early like a rocket to the moon, full of youthful vim and vigor, so I could attack a vigorous three mile run, and get in an excellent breakfast and a walk on campus before leaving for Bantry House and Killarney National Park at a sensible time in the mid-morning.

Here’s what really happened.

Prying myself out of bed at 8:30 like a rusty nail out of a warped stud, I bagged the run. I figured that since I felt like I was recovering from anesthetic after kidney surgery, the run probably wasn’t the best idea. Plus they stop serving breakfast at 10 a.m. so I’d be pushing it to try for a run. After thinking about it for like five seconds, I decided to do a load of wash while I was at breakfast. I forgot, of course, that you don’t just wash the clothes. You dry them too. Extra time. No wonder I always lose my keys. Sharp thinking. After trudging down to breakfast, which took forever, I did my zombie packing impression as my clothes were drying. Then I thought it would be a good idea to take a 15 minute walk on campus. No more than 15 minutes. Because, you know, vacation is all about rules and boundaries. 15 minutes turned into 45 once I stopped off for provisions as the local Quickie-Mart. Though the campus is very small and quite lovely; most of the walk was past a tranquil little stream running between campus proper and busy Washington Street. It has a weird, insulating effect though, kind of like how at Rice University, next to the Houston Medical Center (one of the busiest medical centers in the world), you can’t hear anything “behind the hedges.” Its like your own little world. Same with Cork State, or whatever the hell its name is. I forgot already. The campus is made up of about 1/3 church looking buildings, another 1/3 Soviet-era “build a thousand flats in 12 days” architecture, and the other 1/3 is more modern architecture (some of which is quite attractive). This being County Kerry, there were all kinds of signs and plaques in Gaelic, and more commemorating the heroes of the glorious 1916-1923 uprising. More on that later.

Back to breakfast, because I have some vital information relate concerning my breakfast.

Uh, I just thought about what that sentence means. I desperately need more friends. Or, even one friend will do.

Anyway, for road food, it was magnificent. The same deadly scone selection from yesterday evening, along with other amazing goodies—fruits, juices, nuts, seeds, cereals, etc. The hot breakfast menu was equally dazzling (more like truck stop chicken fried steak dazzling, instead of Xanadu roller dance dazzling, of course). I ordered a florentine omelet, consisting of eggs, fresh cheddar, spinach, very fresh tomatoes, and pesto. Easily it was the best meal of the trip.

Now for the side issues.

First off, I’m not sure whether I was the only one who noticed the unending cold draft playing peek-a-boo with my legs. OK, I was wearing shorts during the Irish autumn, so shame on me, but I was inside, after all. Also, was I the only one who noticed the five or six flies buzzing non-stop under the otherwise tasteful chandelier? Don’t get me wrong, it was delightful. Normally you have to find a Tex-Mex buffet place in the south side of San Antonio for such elegance, so this was a little touch of home. Respect, guys, really. So check it…at least ¾ of the staff appeared to be from some Eastern European country. Pottsylvania or some such great place to leave I imagine. The thing is, they all worked really hard and spoke better English than most of the native English speakers back home who usually wait on me. Those tricky Poles. First they get us to like them what with that plucky Solidarity up and rising against Chernenko or Andropov or whatever walking dead General Secretary was running Moscow at the end of the 1970s. Hey unsuccessful Tienanmen Square protesters, you got served by a bunch of Poles (though I have great respect for you). How does that taste? So the Euros, feeling a tinge of guilt about how they never once lifted a finger to stop the Soviets from doing anything, decide to let them and all the other former Iron Curtain countries into the European Union. Only to find out, horror of horrors, they’re conservative and they like George W. Bush. Eek gads! And someone showed one of them the internet or the library or something, and they figured out that EU-area residents could work in other EU states very easily. So they all hop on the Graf Zeppelin, or whatever they ride around in, and bring their balalaikas and their babushkas over to Polite Society, and ruin the place. The whole thing is a scandal that has the Dublin cab drivers all a flutter. But they can serve up a mean breakfast. Are they our Mexicans? Or does that even matter anymore? What with our economy, its not going to be long before Americans start sneaking across the Mexican border looking for jobs. Like with the Zeta drug cartel. I could be their consigliere, or whatever its called in Spanish.

All these eastern Europeans are personal service workers, which means they have to speak English. I guess that accounts for all the language schools I’ve seen in foreign countries. And the US. They all want to speak English so they can get those jobs (instead of lugging around a jack hammer on a construction site I guess). Like R2D2 in Star Wars, who was a “Protocol Droid” and could speak about eight billion languages, but was utterly useless for anything (including protocol, ironically) that would be helpful in overthrowing the Empire. Did he ever actually use his Protocol skills, ever? All we ever saw him do was boss around little C3PO and bitch about how tough he had it. By the way, was R2D2 actually in charge of C3PO? I don’t remember anyone saying there was some sort of droid career ladder and where those two were on it. All I know is C3PO did all the actual work, like shutting down all the garbage smashers on the detention level of the Death Star with only a moment’s notice, while R2D2 just pissed and moaned at him, and was the only one who called Luke “Master.” R2D2 hung around and got in everyone’s way, while C3PO had to go on the run to blow up the Death Star and to tough it out in Dagobah while Luke was in Jedi training. And the one time R2D2 actually was in a position to, you know, help, he wouldn’t do it. He could have talked to the Ewoks and persuaded them not to nibble them all to death, but he refused because it wouldn’t be right, or some such nonsense. R2D2 just bossed around C3PO, who did all the hard work, while R2D2 took credit for it. In short, he was perfect middle management. And no, R2D2 and C3PO weren’t gay lovers. Bert and Ernie, well, yeah, I thought everyone knew that. But not R2D2 and C3PO.

Another thing we need to discuss is the other spectacle I observed at breakfast. A somewhat older couple was sitting by the window, an older man (by which I mean around 55-60), and his manatee-looking wife. A mother and her cute young college age daughter were then seated next to them. Not 10 minutes passed before the old guy starts talking to the young woman. Not the mom, and not to the manatee. The girl. With absolutely no apparent concern that his wife is sitting right there watching this whole deal play out. He’s asking all these first date questions like “what’s your major” (no, literally, he asked her what she’s studying. I thought at any second he was going to ask her if anyone ever told her that she has enchanting eyes). Now I get the wife not saying anything. She was either too mortified to think or she decided just to kill him later, or she was so used to it that it was like another day at the office. But the mom? What’s your excuse honey? Moms are supposed to protect their daughters from this kind of stuff. Remember in Gone With the Wind, when Mammy was shepherding Scarlett down the streets of post-war Atlanta after Rhett wouldn't give her the money to pay the taxes on Tara. Mammy was smacking men away who were talking to Scarlett. “Get away trash, get on!” THAT’s what Moms are supposed to do. Not sit there while some icky married old guy goes fishing right in front of her. Moms are supposed to be the ultimate CB. And while we’re at it, Hugh Hefner, why don’t you ease up on the girl? There’s three and only three valid reasons for a man to talk to a woman 30 years younger than him to whom he’s not related: (1) they have a professional relationship (and not an Eliot Spitzer-Ashley Dupre) relationship; (2) he’s exchanging contact information after a car accident or helping her change a flat tire; or (3) your boss is introducing you to his daughter, whom you suspect you may have slept with the night before at your adult fraternity party (so the polite thing is to at least talk to her). Otherwise, it’s a negative Ghost Rider, the pattern is full. Dude, you married that manatee, you need to swim with her.

OK, after all that, I took that walk, did my wash, finished packing, and at the crack of 11 a.m. headed off for magnificent Italianate Bantry House on the southwest coast. This was built in the 1700s by some rich old white man, who apparently single handedly managed to stop a mid-size French invasion fleet from sailing up the Bantry Bay to invade Ireland and kick out the English. Exactly how he did it was kind of lost on me. The magnificent house and estate has a premier view of Bantry Bay before it reaches the town of Bantry, and there’s some cannons at the front. I guess since they were French, they were basically looking for any reason to turn around and go back home instead of fight, so once some crazy rich old bastard started firing his cannons, that was something they could take back to Louis. “Sacre bleu! Zee anglish. Zey hass zee boom guns oui? No guerre!” They probably couldn’t pull that white flag out fast enough once that old guy started popping off his guns. For that, the King was quite grateful and granted the old man a title and an estate (a bigger one, I guess, complete with serfs and everything). Basically the house got passed down through the generations to today. Around the time of the second or third Earl of Bantry, the owner got bored and went on some sort of Charles Foster Kane collection spree throughout Europe, bringing back everything that wasn’t nailed down. The place was full of incredible antique furniture, paintings, tapestries, and so forth. Example, it has two, not one, but two, fireplaces and some tapestries from Le Petit Trianon at Versailles. You know, Marie Antoinette’s little house? That’s when you know you have more money than you need. Sadly, the place has kind of a southern Gothic air to it now. Peeling paint, faded curtains, water stained wall coverings. The family who owns it must struggle to keep it up. The grounds were in better shape. They’ve been restoring the elegant gardens and there’s several walks around the estate that are quite nice. Ideally, some corporation would come in and restore the place, because the house is really incredible. With the rugged Irish coastal weather, its going to be hard to keep it from falling into further disrepair.

The town of Bantry was quite nice. Again, it features a thriving central commercial district with a diverse group of local merchants. I had lunch at a modest place called Tractors, which served me some really good vegetable soup, and a pork cutlet with vegetables. As I have begun to discover, if you order “vegetables” around here, you will always get the following: broccoli, mashed potatoes (or boiled), and carrots. Restaurants observe this rule without fail. They must have put it in the statute books or something.

Leaving Bantry later than I hoped, I raced toward Killarney, hoping to make it before darkness fell. The trip takes you over narrow two-lane roads through very rugged country. I passed through several tunnels dug into hillsides. While in Bantry it was warming and the clouds were lifting, within half an hour it resumed raining. Then the clouds would lift some and the sun would come out and it would be brilliant green everywhere. Then more clouds and rain, then sun, etc. All the while I’m trying to drive my car on the left hand side of the road, threading the needle of this too narrow roadway as oncoming cars are scaring the hell out of me whizzing by, and I’m trying to sneak little peaks of the spectacular hills and valleys. Its like the Jerry Seinfeld theory about looking at cleavage-you can only look for just a little bit then you must look away. Looking for more than a couple of seconds is a good way to get turned into a little squashed bug on some Irish country road. At one point along the way, I got stopped at a police checkpoint by what turned out to be a really hot female cop. I think it was a routine stop; she must have noticed it was a rental car and I guess just wanted to make sure I didn’t have blood all over me or have 5 kilos of cocaine in the back seat or something. She asked me how I was and if I was here on holiday. Sadly, despite that kind of set up, this situation did not turn into the beginning of a porno movie. Disappointed, I drove off toward Killarney.

Now, Killarney is sort of the biggest town in the region. If you’re some fisherman or farmer, you probably have to go to Killarney to do your shopping or get a loan from the bank. There’s all kinds of things to do around here—fishing, golfing (golfing is big, everyone in my hotel is playing golf around here every day), hiking, touring, shopping, etc. There’s several commercial streets with an active night life. Lots of bars and restaurants.

I got to Killarney a lot faster than I thought I would. Even though the driving had me beat (all that worrying about instant death on the road really had me white knuckling it like a trucker on greenies with a shipment of fruit that’s going to spoil if he doesn’t get it to Albuquerque by Tuesday), I just had to get in a run. So as twilight descended, I ran past a really nice stream in the Killarney National Park, as far as Ross Castle. I’ll write about that a couple of days from now, but its another 15th century castle built by the local mamba-jahamba, much of which remains intact. One part of the trail ran past the lake by which it sat, so I got a view from a distance that made it look like the Castle Aaaarrrgggghhhh from Monty Python and the Holy Grail (sorry to repeat mention that movie, but with all these old castles, I’ve been thinking about that movie a lot). Again I was amazed that you can just walk right up to it, as I did, and there’s no guards or security or John Candy Wallyworld attendants watching you. There’s no graffiti, no newspapers or bags or beer cans. The Irish obviously care for their history. I think that’s kind of the ethic all over Europe. In Texas, “history” starts in about the 1820s or so (although San Antonio dates back to the mid-1700s or so, I think?). “History” here goes back to the Romans. So, they appreciate all the stuff that they didn’t blow up in their wars or revolutions. Guess I left that part out. Signed, The Bastille’s Not There Anymore. Unfortunately, I got turned around on the trails and got lost. But with help from a couple of bypassers I did eventually make it back to the town, but not before my ambitious 45 minute run became a 60 minute death march.

Dinner at the hotel (the Killeen House Hotel), though kind of expensive, was really excellent. Seafood cassoulet, goat cheese salad (that makes about five), and crab and ham stuffed salmon. With, yep, broccoli, mashed potatoes, and carrots. The staff here, particularly the owners, are really good. They go beyond the extra mile to provide excellent service, answer all questions, provide suggestions. I’m very pleased.

And incredibly tired. Night all.

Next-the Ring of Kerry. Which has nothing to do with the egomaniacal, French-looking, “Vietnam Veteran” who lost to George W. Bush.

Vacation Day Three-That Coyote Had It Coming

2011-09-14T19:21:00.003-05:00

What an eventful and long day! I’ll just jump right in.

I got up early to pack, eat breakfast and try to get out to the airport to pick up my rental car for the rest of the Ireland trip by 10 a.m. Breakfast was nice, and relaxed. Another morning of “black and white pudding,” which I’m still not sure I want to know what it is. Kind of reminds me of the “Name That Meat” contest from Meatballs. I liked that for a second day in a row, they were playing Mel Torme, Nat King Cole, and Tony Bennett music softly in the background. Throw in Sinatra and that’s a full house. If (and hopefully when) I have a family (who will all of course be much younger than me, and probably will have to wheel me around if they haven’t killed me for my life insurance by that point-ha! You lose-my heart condition makes me uninsurable-snap! So I’m protected against my kids and wife killing me for my insurance, which is nice.), I picture myself sitting in my big chair in the evenings trying to unwind while listening to this kind of music, while the wife and kids play in the other room. Kind of pathetic, I know, but I read that’s how Tony Randall did it. When he was 85 or whatever.

Ok, this has already gotten off track.

The point was that I enjoyed the breakfast music.

Sidebar-COOL JERK! Uh huh huh!

Back to the story…and…go.

I had to take another cab out to the airport because my hotel wasn’t anywhere near the 6 euro shuttle van stop, and I wasn’t about to try to drive on the wrong side of the road back into Dublin proper. After spending half an hour with me trying to figure out where to go, I finally had to go to the airport and ride the Avis shuttle back to where I was first dropped off. Both of these guys were chatty, and the Avis guy got into a really animated dialogue about Guinness beer and how its made and how it doesn’t keep its characteristic quality very well when exported.

So after two and a half days in Dublin, dealing almost exclusively with travel-related and hospitality industry workers, I now feel qualified to characterize the entire Irish population. From what I can tell, they’re FAR more engaging, friendly, and fun than those English stiffs across the Irish Sea. Ever noticed how all English guys have some fancy boy name like “Colin” or “Tony” or “Ian” or “Reginald”? Nice names, guys. They go well with your skirts. That pretty much sums it up right there. An entire people who would break like a twig. Other than the handful of exceptions they produce every now and then-Churchill, Nelson, Cornwallis, Mountbatten, Lawrence, Thatcher, or Elizabeth I-those guys are soft. And they’re very “color inside the box” about everything. Not the Irish. The Irish never met a stranger, they’re exceedingly accommodating, they care about other people, they love life and family, and you just can’t get them down. Wipe out more than a million of them in a famine and they’re still singing songs and drinking pints. Send their economy down the tubes and they’re still singing and dancing. Oh, yeah, they like to drink. A lot. Did you know that? They wear their emotions on their sleeve-no Brit passivity here. Everything’s out in the open. They cherish their history, and they love their nation. These people are Cajuns, with worse teeth and clammy weather. They’re immensely more enjoyable than the dour, Spock-like sticks-in-the-mud over in England who’re just SO SUPERIOR to everyone else. Too bad their economy’s in the tank.

Once again, we return to the story. When we were last here, Chris was telling us about what happened when he got his car. Lets listen.

I did notice on the way to the airport, inscribed on an 1800s railway bridge, the slogan “The Cause of Labour is the Cause of Ireland.” Nice going guys. Who, exactly, is going to invest in capital with that attitude? Ireland has one of the highest minimum wage levels in the euro zone. Its reputed to have a great deal of bureaucracy and regulations. What it did have in the 80s and 90s was a huge skilled labor force ready for jobs, and a government that seemed willing to incentivize investment. But after the bust, those jobs went elsewhere, like to India and Poland. Now “Labour” is emigrating or on public assistance. I’m not going to point any fingers, but….

Alright, I got my car and a GPS unit, and headed out to the Rock of Cashel (which I’ll describe in a bit). Its in the town of Cashel. Unfortunately, there’s about a million towns called Cashel in Ireland. Who knew? Basically, when I asked Mr. GPS for directions to Cashel, it sent me to one in the wrong county. Once I finally figured this out, I was in the middle of BFE, and would have to drive about an hour through narrow, winding, two-lane country roads to get to Cashel. Ordinarily I’d have been furious with myself about this, but not today. I really wanted to see some of the country, and this was a perfect opportunity. Most of the drive was through agriculture areas and small farms. Every time I got out to take a picture, I caught that feedlot smell. Oh joy. But the Irish countryside is delightful. Rolling hills, hedge rows, and grass so green its like you’ve never seen that color before. It struck me that I’ve never seen the color green as vivid as when the sun comes out in Ireland. You can tell why its called the Emerald Isle. What I can’t figure out is where is that little bastard Rumpelstiltskin and how can I get my hands on some of his leprechaun money?

Finally arriving in Cashel about an hour late, I can see the incredible Rock of Cashel on the road into town. From there it looks like Camelot in Monty Python and the Holy Grail (“Its only a model”). But it looks splendid. The Rock of Cashel is both a rock and a castle/cathedral site. The rock is basically a limestone outcropping that dominates the surrounding country. This provided a perfect site to place a fortress or castle back in medieval times when weapons systems basically consisted of throwing something destructive at the other guy or sticking him with a pointed object. Being higher than the other guy and hiding yourself behind a thick wall constituted the strategic deterrent system of its day. So ancient Irish kings built a castle around the ninth century on the Rock of Cashel and ruled from there. In the 1100s, for reasons the tour guide didn’t really explain, the king turned the site over to the church. They promptly started building a cathedral on the site, and later extended the cathedral to include a fortress for the Archbishop. Apparently back then the church felt it appropriate to run off and slaughter people if they wouldn’t accept Christ (such acceptance, of course, being signified by paying extravagant taxes, err, tithes at pain of imprisonment, to finance these people’s art collections and “lifestyles”.). Some people must have got angry enough from time to time to fight back, prompting the need for a really good hiding place. Today we would call that the country club. Cromwell’s people sacked the place in the 1600s, then rounded everyone up, locked the door, and burned the place down. Nice touch. Especially from a guy named “Oliver.” The church subsequently restored it, but abandoned it by the 1700s. Its not a complete ruin, but it lacks a roof, which tends to make it more difficult to preserve the site. Various storms have taken their toll on the place, but most of it remains intact. One final point, it was freezing out there. The killer winds from yesterday followed me up to the rock. The winds literally were pushing people around. It wasn’t too cold temperature-wise, but the winds were tearing up everybody, including me. It was like being offshore in January.

The town itself is fairly small and depends almost entirely on tourism. I had an interesting lunch at a place called Café Chez Haas, consisting of yet another goat cheese salad, and an excellent “fish cake” with red pepper, tomatoes, and cous cous. I notice that I’m eating more bread than usual. The Irish diet somewhat resembles the Argentine diet: lots of potatoes and beef, not so much green vegetables, though vegetables are more readily found (primarily carrots and other root vegetables…the Irish are great diggers). Anyway, its not so much the bread as the butter. Irish dairy products, particularly butter, is just really good. The bread is just kind of a butter delivery device. I’ve further noticed how many restaurants make a point to advertise that they serve locally grown produce, meat, fish, cheese, etc. They’re not quite as holier than thou about it as Austin, but its definitely noticeable.

I’ve also noticed in my travels here that every little town has retained its commercial district, and there’s no WalMarts or Walgreen’s or Home Depots to be found. These towns resemble a time warp to 1965, when every American town had a thriving commercial district comprised of locally owned business. The good thing about that is local money circulated locally, and small businesses could thrive and concentrate on personal service. Your pharmacist took great interest in you because you weren’t just a customer, you were his livelihood. And the hardware guy, and the auto mechanic, and the appliance guy. These days, we have lower prices (maybe) and certainly better consumer products, but service is non-existent. The sales clerks know how to ring up purchases, and not much else about the things they sell. They certainly don’t know you. And your money goes off to Bentonville, Arkansas or some other who cares place, instead of staying in town where it gets respent, over and over. And where it provides jobs that pay more than one cent over minimum wage. Ireland proves that its possible to have real local commercial district even in small towns. Of course, I’m sure they have all kinds of sneaky laws drawn up by teams of solicitors and other bruiser types that keep out all the American chains.

Enough sermonizing.

Oh, and I found out Ireland is politically “neutral.” Which essentially means it can free ride off of the US and NATO for defense expenditure. It also means that Ireland won’t fight against evil in this world, like the Taliban or Saddam Hussein or Kathie Lee Gifford. But will Ireland fight for its right to party? That is the question.

After seeing the Rock, and hiked on the brief “Tipperary Walk” over to the unmarked and for all apparent purposes completely and totally abandoned Hore Abbey. This is another ruin, of much smaller dimensions, sitting out there through the ages. The cemetery was overgrown, but had tombstones dated as late as the 1920s. The government had no markers or anything else on the site to indicate what it was or what happened there. It struck me that this was remarkable. This place had absolutely no graffiti, no beer bottles, no gum wrappers, no carved hillbilly initials, none of the trash or human destruction that you see in nearly every American historical site. Had this been East Texas, some hicks would have used it for a meth lab. This reinforces how the Irish value their history.

Oh, another little Irish idiom I’ve heard several times now as a greeting at various tourist sites is “You are very welcome to [insert name of destination here].” Its very Jane Austen. I kind of like it. “You are very welcome to Juliet Street.” Uh, not really.

From there it was on to Cork, Ireland’s second largest city. Like Lafayette to New Orleans. I checked in for the night at the excellent and friendly Garnish House B&B, where the proprietress immediately started attacking me with scones and tea as soon as I stepped foot in the door. Its like she wasn’t going to be satisfied until I took my tea and scones dammit! While pleading for a chance to put up my luggage and get settled in my room first, I ran into an older couple from Boston (I keep saying “older” like they really are older. Soon, I’ll have to accept that these people aren’t really older than me, they just have more mileage, or I’m not being realistic about how I look). Anyway, we all had a great time talking about Texas and the fires and the drought and the heat and everything, when the guy asked me if Rick Perry “is the real deal.” He’s a Boston liberal and is convinced Obama is going to lose, and wants to know what Perry’s like. Remembering Jon Stewart’s description of Rick Perry, I responded that he’s your worst nightmare. He makes George W. Bush look like a big old softy. Perry wears cowboy boots, carries a gun, vetoes bills for the fun of it, and was an Aggie Yell Leader. People will not vote for anyone else for Governor. The guy asked about the 230 people who’ve been executed, and I replied “don’t forget about the coyote.” I explained the story of how Perry shot a coyote not too long ago when he was out jogging. But I offered that the coyote had it coming. The Boston guy looked forlorn. You are very welcome.

A young woman who I think was named Julia showed me to my room. She’s from Newcastle, England, making her a Yorkshireman (or woman). I immediately thought of the Four Yorkshiremen sketch (“I used to dream of living in a corridor!”). She sounded like it too. She said she was working temporarily in Ireland until she could save money and move on to somewhere else. She and some boyfriend flew out to San Francisco once, bought a cheap car, and drove it all the way to Boston. Her favorite American places? Yosemite and the Pacific Coast Highway between San Francisco and LA. Good choices. I mention that little factoid because you have to admire someone living hand to mouth like that in their youth. Also how the whole “foreigners are stealing our jobs” thing isn’t just in the US. People move everywhere to find work. That’s capitalism.

Around that time (5 ish or so), I noticed waves of young people walking up the street. Turns out the B&B was right across the street from the University College of Cork. Later that night as I headed downtown for dinner and to find an internet café to write yesterday’s post (again, you are very welcome), I noticed what seemed like 20 bars and pubs all buzzing with these kids, on a Tuesday night of all things. As I walked back to my room, around 2 a.m., they were still all out stumbling around in the streets, and a line of taxis as far as I could see stretched down the main street taking them home. Good Lord, what kind of college students are these? I used to study in school, at least on Tuesday nights. This so-called University College must be like Florida State. Forget the books, where can we find three-for-one shots?

Before that, however, I gave in to the innkeepers tea and scone demands and may I say, I did a bad, bad thing. Man were those good. I say “those,” as in I wolfed down about three scones, and some sort of soft chocolate bread pudding. Oh, along with butter and jam. But oh was that good! I had high tea at the Dorchester Hotel in London once (no I am not a girl…there was a girl involved…you figure it out). This was better. None of those boring old micro fish sandwiches (get it? "micro fish"? like the old "microfische"? Ah, I slay me!) or cucumber rolls to have to pretend to like. The pastries were better here than there. Yes, I got sticky all over my face and hands too, like a two year old, or Homer Simpson. I’m not proud, but I’m an American and that’s how we roll. All pretentions to my “low carb diet” are withering fast. I guess tomorrow I’ll have a dozen donuts. Man, I’m turning into Augustus Gloop on this trip. Watch out ladies! The Killer is coming home.

I did get in a little workout before dinner though. Yeah, I ate all that scone goodness, then had dinner. It was at the Soho Restaurant, and consisted of “volcanic rock” duck breast and a salad. Its some sort of Polynesian thing. They take a volcanic rock and keep it heated in their oven all day long. They pull it out, salt it, and bring it to your table. Your job is to take the raw (actually, its seared a bit on the outside) duck, and put it on the rock throughout your meal. You cook it to the desired level. The rock stays hot enough to cook throughout the whole meal, which is kind of interesting. It’s the most low-fat duck I’ve ever had. Very tasty.

OK, that pretty much does it for today.

Next-to Bantry House and Killarney.

Vacation Day Two-Guinness Is Good For You

2011-09-13T18:22:00.005-05:00

Up very late and have a full day planned for tomorrow, so this will be kind of choppy. I'll try to circle back and hyperlink stuff later.

Those of you in Austin and other parts of Texas will know that we've been praying so hard for rain that we're willing to take a hurricane. Or to ask Rick Perry to pray on our behalf for rain. I just hope he's not sneaking in any other requests on my behalf without running them past me first. Not sure I would ask my Lord and Savior for something ridiculous like A&M to be admitted into the Ivy League and the SEC simultaneously, or for President Obama to contract leprosy. But I will go for a hurricane striking anywhere between South Padre and Galveston (sorry Corpus Christi, you lost me when you commercialized the whole Selena thing...and kept sending Carlos Truan to the Texas Senate, our very own bobble head with a microphone). Anything to get some moisture in the ground. But just when all the "climate change" buzzkills started running their smack about how all the hurricanes from a few summers ago were absolute, irrefutable proof that the climate is changing and its all our fault, we seem to be in a hurricane dustbowl. Or they go places no hurricane has gone before. Like New York. Or...Ireland. Yeah, you heard me right. Hurricane Katia for some reason decided to go east instead of west, and its busted up pieces wound up playing hell with the whole country yesterday. By that I mean rain, winds, warnings of global catastrophe. Basically a bunch of wet Irish struggling to walk against the wind. Count me among the climate change cult though. Droughts, fires, floods, hurricanes, volcanoes, tsunamis (actually I guess a tsunami isn't necessarily weather related, but STILL), what's next? Personally, I'm expecting it to rain frogs, or see rivers start flowing with blood, any day now. You know, real Ten Commandments stuff.

No one warned me, of course, so I didn't have time to instinctively buy plywood from the local gougers, or drive a three hour drive in eight hours to get out of town. Instead, I started the day by getting up really early (7:30), and smugly running down the Grand Canal to start the day out right. Instead, for half the time I did my Charlie Chaplin, walking against the wind routine. Only in this case, it was genuine. I could barely keep it going at times. All the pale, discouraged Dubliners on their way to work had a little spring in their step, however, because they were all walking against the wind. I sensed their quiet dissapproval as I ran along. "Hmm...doesn't that guy know he's running in the hurricane? Dumb bastard." I hate that unspoken dissapproval that follows me throughout life. This was a shame, because the so-called Grand Canal, while not necessarily "grand" was a real, functioning canal with locks and gates. Though I didn't see any towboats pushing toxic chemical-laden barges along the way, it was really pleasant. It winds through a nice part of town, which around here means the pubs are brightly colored.

The number of people and cars pushing their way into the town center along clearly overwhelmed two-lane roads better suited for pushing hay wagons surprised me immensely. Somehow I had the notion that people would be looking for soup kitchens today. Lots of people are working; or at least their faking out their significant others by dressing up and heading out the door each day (like that guy did in Full Monty). Including this one woman who cracked me up when I saw her riding a bicycle, while wearing black high heels. Is that done? Seems like of all the shoes you'd wear to ride your bike, those would be the last ones. I thought you wore your sensible shoes to go into the office, then switched into your "whore shoes" for work and later for happy hour.

After my run, I had a "traditional Irish breakfast," consisting of eggs, sausage, ham (or boiled bacon, I never could figure which), "black and white pudding" (I never did figure out what this "tangy" concoction was, suffice to say, it looked, smelled and probably tasted like Gaines Burgers), and some sort of Guinness-looking bread (see below). Properly inculated with various types of serum cholesterol, I got cleaned up and set out for fun.

Which today meant taking the Dublin Bus throughout the town. Like I encounted in Savannah, a couple of operators run a bus fleet with "on and off" format. It has 21 or so stops throughout the town center. You see a place you want to visit, you just get off, and when you're done you catch the next bus. Or you can stay on and listen to the driver's narration.

Sidebar. All through the day, I kept running into or hearing Americans. You can definitely tell they're Americans. They look bewildered not knowing where to find the WalMart or TGI Fridays. Though I'm sad to report there's at least one TGIF in Dublin. Ugh.

Though I saw a number of the top tourist sites, I want to write about just a few given the time problem.

First was Dublin Castle. This is where the Brits first "set up shop" as the tour guide phrased it, in 1170 A.D. They built a castle in Dublin, at Prince (later King) John's orders. You remember that guy right? He's the one that was trying to kill Kevin Costner in Robin Hood. I'm just frustrated that he didn't get it right. Anyway, the medieval castle pretty much burned down (actually, it got slightly exploded when the British Viceroy, not the cigarette, tried to stop a fire from reaching the powder tower, seizing upon the brilliant move of trying to explode a different part of the castle to stop the fire. This "I had to destroy the village to save it" ethic apparently runs deep in Western thought.) Anyway, on top of the old castle's ruins, the Brits built a fancy new castle, palace actually, for the Viceroy. The difference between a castle and a palace escapes me for the moment, but the tour guide quickly corrected someone who made that mistake. Seemed like a questionable move for someone wearing a pink tie and gray tweed short coat, but hey, that's how people roll here I guess. The Irish took over the "palace" when they managed to car bomb the British into submission, and now use it for ceremonial purposes. Whether that means they have puppet shows and improv night, I'm not sure. But the interesting thing is that you can see the ruins of the old castle under the new palace. You also can see the one remaining tower, looking suspiciously like Maid Marian is still trapped there. It dates from the 12th century. Show some respect.

Next up was St. Patrick's Cathedral. This is another Anglican church. Apparently the British managed to wipe out or steal all the good Catholic cathedrals around here. That Henry VIII really could keep up a grudge, huh? I didn't take many good notes, because it was a self-guided tour, and my attention span is pretty poor while on vacation. I can tell you that as cathedrals go, I've seen better and I've seen worse. I would rate it in the third quartile of my personal cathedral portfolio.

Walking out of St. Patrick's the storm started to blow through. Thank God I was wearing shorts and a windbreaker with a hood. Otherwise I'd be entirely soaked instead of just 1/3 soaked. Happily, the "Perfect Storm" winds managed to make up for that oversight. But I did eventually manage to get back on the bus.

Which whisked me away to the Guinness Factory. The "Storehouse" actually, which is an old storage building they've converted into the visitor's center. Its seven stories, each one devoted to some aspect of the brewing process. Fun facts-Arthur Guinness signed a 9,000 year lease on the place (that's right, 9,000), at £45/year. Yeah, I'm working on one of those euro keyboards that have this symbol: "£" Ain't it cool? Anyway, you get to follow the brew process along, and listen to the ever-present self-congratulations in the narrative. I haven't heard that much personal back-slapping since the Obama Campaign (sorry for the political reference). They have several restaurants serving Guinness-infused dishes. I had late lunch at one; I noticed a group of Catholic priests walking up to have lunch too. That's nice of them to let the altar boys have a break every now and then. (What? Inappropriate? Come on...you were probably thinking it too. Seriously, the Irish Catholic Church has fallen on hard times lately, meaning they're having to make due with non-Petrossian caviar, due to people leaving the Church over the various abuse scandals. So that gives me cover). Guinness Is Good For You, quoted above, actually is one of their ad slogans. They used to tout Guinness as medicinal because of all the good carbohydrates (more than a glass of milk). Apparently Guinness is basically a loaf of bread plus some alcohol and foam. The tour ends up at the "Gravity Bar" which gives a 360 degree view of the Dublin "skyline." Which isn't much of a skyline because there basically aren't any skyscrapers. You get a free pint of Guiness at the end, and yes, I did have one. Finished about 3/4 of mine. I have to say, though I'm not any kind of beer drinker, Guinness to me has always tasted kind of like coffee grounds poured into driveway runoff. But over here, in Dublin, it tasted a LOT better. Much less sludge-like. Actually it was fairly good, though I don't really care for heavy, stout beers. Its a particularly noticeable difference. Must be the fact that I drank it at the brewery, and with a version using the Wicklow Mountains water supply that they use at that facility (I did sort of pay attention). While in the Gravity Bar, I met a guy from Australia. He was here with his wife on some sort of six week tour through Europe, and was bitching up a storm about it. He hates having to follow their schedule, and actually looked depressed at the thought that it was going to last another five weeks. His wife wouldn't go to the Guinness plant with him, because she wanted to spend the day shopping. Now, what kind of craziness is that, I ask you. You can shop anywhere. But only in Dublin can you get a Perfect Pint of Guinness.

I stayed longer than I thought, so I pretty much rushed the rest of the tour. Waiting for the bus at the plant was pretty tough. The winds became really fierce, literally pushing me along at one point as I waited for the bus. Don't think I've ever been in such strong winds, well, unless you count the time I spent over at the Capitol.

I'm finally starting to figure out this Irish accent. They don't pronounce their "h" so "thirty three" would come out "tirty tree." Vowels get run through a sausage mixer. "Ireland" is pronounced "Oyrland." "Come back" would be pronounced "cohm baaack." Its actually not far in some ways from a Boston accent.

Fascinating, Professor Higgins....

That night I had dinner near the hotel at a place called Hugo's. Unlike the Houston restaurant by that name, this one was decidedly French. Mon dieu! I had an excellent pork filet mignon and a goat cheese salad with mixed berries. Interestingly, the waiter was an Australian too, while the hostess was from London via New Zealand. The latter said she just likes to work somewhere a couple of years and then move on. Sounds like the Chris Reeder dating strategy applied to the career field. Although two years is far too long. She confirmed that Christchurch, NZ, which was one of the most lovely towns I've ever seen (in 2002) was hit hard in the earthquake. The cathedral, which had been the town's cultural and historical center, was leveled. I attended mass at that cathedral, and truly mourn for its destruction. Hope everyone adds Christchurch to their prayer list, if at least just for one time. That little patch of earth was absolutely idyllic, and we as a people are lessened by its loss.

Back to sarcasm now.

Among the other things I've noticed today ("Tell me what you learned today, Timmy." "Well, gee, sir, I learned not to talk to strangers for sure!"). Ok, I don't know what that last part meant. Anyway, I noticed there aren't any fat people around here. At least that aren't American tourists. There's also not any WalMarts or Box Stores. Wonder if there's any connection? This is definitely a walking city. People may drive in, but they have to park far away in most cases, and I can tell people walk a lot each day. Also, the number of Fast Fat food establishments is practically nil. Burger King and McDonalds (and Pizza Hut) are here, but they all have different menus. More "wraps" and so forth.

OK, I better shut this down. Its 1:30 and I have to get up "early" tomorrow. You know, before 8. I swear! The things I have to do for you people. Besides, I've been in an "internet cafe" for about two hours and I'm worried about catching some sort of staph infection through my fingers. (Cause of the keyboard. Oh, come on! I'm 47 years old! I'm not a scumbag anymore).

Next-the Rock of Cashel

Vacation Day One-Who's That Guy?

2011-09-12T13:32:00.003-05:00

Another year, another vacation. Like the inevitability of high school kids dying in two-a-day August Texas high school football practice, I’m going on vacation in September. This year: Ireland and Scotland. The cab driver on the way in from the airport asked me why I’d go to Ireland. Well, its relatively cool climate, compared to the dozens of 100 degree + days I’ve endured these past weeks living in Austin. The people are reputedly friendly. The scenery supposedly is extraordinary. And I’ve seen The Quiet Man about 50,000 times and just figured that’s the kind of place I want to see for myself. I was originally going to France. But as I wrote earlier, the prices went very high by the time I bought my ticket because I screwed around too long so the market went out of sight. The only halfway reasonable price was to Dublin. It was on my list anyway, and this way I wouldn’t have to take a crash course in conversational French. I should mention that I have to fly business class due to my wretched back. The coach seats reserved for the steerage passengers leave me incapacitated for about a week. Its not because my butt’s too big for coach. Its because I’m a delicate flower. Rather than spend two weeks in Ireland, which seems like a little too much, I’m going to split the two weeks between Ireland and Scotland. So this will seem like a whirlwind, as I try to fit a travel schedule into a week what really should take about 10 days.

The flight over was fairly uneventful. Lots of BYU fans at the airport on their way to the Texas-BYU game. Funny, they didn’t look too cultish. Didn’t see any purple shrouds or Nikes. You know, with any other religion, people would find such little quips offensive. Well, maybe you can insult Southern Baptists too. The Mormons, however, don’t seem to garner that same respect. Not sure whether it’s the idea of finding the mystery golden tablets in upstate New York, with previously unknown teachings of Jesus, not drinking sodas, the historic polygamy thing (why can’t the women have multiple husbands), or the fact that the enterprise is run by a small group of guys in their 90s who in every way act like the mob bosses in Casino, or maybe its something else. Still, it seems to be open season on the Mormons. Or as my Dad calls them, the “Cult.” I guess if you’ve never heard it, the traditional story of Jesus must sound kind of bizarre too (“Ok, there was this carpenter and a virgin, see…cured lepers…hung around with a prostitute…loaves and fishes…nailed to the cross….” Yeah, some Amazonian rain forest pygmy might have a hard time with that one.)

I flew Jet Blue and Aer Lingus. For once the Jet Blue flight left relatively on time and wasn’t packed to the gills. With my business class ticket I got to while away my JFK time at “The Oasis,” a sort of combined elite status departure lounge for various national airlines. Sadly, Vera Farmiga wasn’t there waiting for me. Given the international nature of the clientele, this was more like the Star Wars cantina scene. I kept looking for the band and for Greedo to come after me with a blaster. Still, I got “free” dinner (built into the obscene ticket price) and got to sit in a nice seat watching college football during the three hour layover. The security line was complete anarchy. Some bitter, disgruntled TSA agent was barking “hilarious” comedy lines to the thousands of people huddling in line with their chickens and boxes and the like. This was the poor huddled masses yearning to go back home.

The Aer Lingus flight was pretty pleasant. The “steerage” seats weren’t too bad, but the up front seats were very nice. Service was excellent. As usual, I couldn’t get any sleep. Its just me; everyone else was sleeping. I tried; I must have listened to all of side I of Dark Side of the Moon (kids, there used to be “sides”…uh, never mind). We caught the jet stream or something, and arrived more than an hour early. Though I had advanced planned and got semi-cleaned up on the plane (not because I’m morally superior, I just wanted to look a little less serial killeresque while going through immigration control), everyone else drudging through the line looked like they slept in their car. Or were Aggies.

From the air, Ireland looks a lot like Nantucket. Lots of greenery, lots of washes and bog. Dublin seems kind of small, like flying into Lubbock (but without the delightful feedlot smell). I took a cab to my hotel, even though the guidebooks said to take the 6 euro shuttle bus. The cabbie was really talkative, and gave me my first exposure to the Irish brogue. I understood him, but have been having trouble understanding people ever since. In fairness though, I can barely understand Americans, so it must be me. It was a really dreary day, with off and on rain throughout the day. I noticed a lot of “for sale” signs on the trip in, and the cabbie said that the economy had never returned since the 2007 bust. That confirms what the guy I sat next to on the plane said, that both his kids had to leave the country to get decent work because Dublin lacks good professional jobs. Of course, the cabbie attributed the decline to Poles moving into the country after all the mortgage lenders went bankrupt, which I didn’t exactly follow.

I’m staying at the Schoolhouse Hotel, which is a nice, small, quiet hotel about a 10-15 minute walk from the city center. Its located on the "Grand Canal" (see above), a very lovely waterway cutting through town, reminscent of the canal running through Chrischurch, NZ. The hotel is not a hovel, nor is it the Four Seasons. Its got all the amenities, which over here doesn’t include air conditioning. Which is absolutely amazing. But here the problem is getting cold, and on balance the problem here has been the wet winds blowing at storm force. All day it would clear up, then just as quickly cloud over and start misting and drizzling.

After dropping my bags at the hotel, I began the walk into town, seeing a number of Sunday morning runners. At Merrion Square Park, on the way, I noticed a little festival happening. Turns out it was some sort of bicycling event sponsored by the city and some corporations. Lots of families were riding around the town on their bikes. The park is quite small but lovely, the centerpiece is a large garden with lots of geranium- and marigold-looking flowers, as well as the Oscar Wilde sculpture, across the street from his birthplace. Lots of people were having their photo made with Oscar. Near the finish line, a guitar duo (with a bass player) were playing Django Reinhardt songs. It made for a lovely scene. Outside the north side of the park, lots of artists had encamped their portfolios along the park wall, displaying them to passers by. Kind of like Gene Kelly in An American In Paris, except without Gene, playing the chip-on-the-shoulder starving artist stalking Leslie Caron. That was a great movie, but, that was a weird movie too. I’d like David Lynch to remake it and take it to its logical conclusion: Leslie Caron as an alien with a mental illness, Oscar Levant as a cannibal, Nina Foch as having an oxycontin addiction and selling her organs to pay for them, and Gene Kelly as, well, Gene Kelly.

Where was I?

From the park I made it to Grafton Street, a pedestrian mall in the town center. It has some interesting architecture, and today, even though it wasn’t such a great day, was fairly crowded. Lots of groups of teenagers hanging around (though, unlike at a US mall, they mostly didn’t appear to be on juvenile probation, or as Tina Fey once said on 30 Rock with dread, “Oh no! Youths!). As I walked through the area, the drizzle stopped, the clouds rolled back, and the sun came out. For about 30 minutes it became a beautiful day. And I left my sunglasses in the hotel room.

I walked on to other areas of town. Temple Bar, with its cobblestone streets and 1800s architecture, is littered with pubs, restaurants and shops. But the vibe resembled the touristy French Quarter…very plastic. From there I walked as far as Christ Church Cathedral, a magnificent Anglican cathedral dating back to 1030 A.D. I didn’t take time to see the tour, though, but saw the grounds as Mass was letting out.

I walked from there to the River Liffey, which runs east and west, cutting the town in two. The south portion typically is regarded as the more interesting and relevant, though the financial services sector, whose 1990s expansion Dublin rode to prominence, is located on the north side. I walked on over to the north side, crossing on one of several footbridges. I headed to Henry Street, yet another open air, pedestrian mall, with lots of designer shops. Its longer and a little more well heeled than Grafton Street. It runs into the Dublin Spire, the largest structure in Dublin, which is just a big old metal shaft. I never did get an explanation about why it exists, in all its metal toothpick glory. But I did learn it’s the exact center of town.

From there I walked back toward my hotel to Trinity College. This college dates back to 1592, but is pretty small for being the nation’s leading university. The reason for visiting is to see the Book of Kells, which is an incredibly beautiful hand manuscript of the four Gospels, prepared by monks in the Monastery at Kells, Ireland around 800 A.D. Though I was nearly ready to pass out from jet lag and not having eaten since breakfast, I pushed through and am glad I did. The intricate work, all done by hand with specially designed inks and quill pens, is truly amazing (and I hate that word “amazing” but this is the rare case where it truly applies). I simply cannot describe the art work, so I encourage you to do a little surfing to see it (they don’t allow photography). Each page had several exquisite drawings, often free standing, but often the first letter of a sentence. The drawing work puts today’s modern computer graphics to shame. As an art dealer once told me (ok, that’s a douchebag phrase, I got it), what makes something art is the human imperfections in the otherwise flawless work—the Ming Dynasty vase that at the top isn’t exactly round, the Chippendale furniture with a slight edge between two corners, or in this case, drawn lines that don’t quite mechanically match up. Like the supermodel whose uneven cheek bones or left eye bigger than the right eye gives her the million dollar look, these hand drawn works make the Book of Kells one of the treasures of the medieval world. The tour also includes the Old Library, where around 200,000 volumes of the College's oldest books are stored, in addition to some historic documents and artifacts.

Climbing down from the top of Mount Esoteric, I walked around the College grounds for just a bit. I passed a family, with two little girls. The younger girl, who looks about six, pointed at a statute of some old white guy, and loudly yelled to her parents, “Who’s that Guy?” They laughed and then said they didn’t know. I loved the simple honesty in the midst of all the intellectual superiority surrounding the girl. Nations have toppled, revolutions have won, science has advanced, all because someone dared to ask something as simple as “Who’s that guy?”

Well, anyway, I laughed.

The rest of the night was kind of a blur. I made an abortive attempt to find somewhere to watch the Texans game, and though I found a couple of pubs showing Giants vs. Redskins and Steelers vs. Ravens, I never found Houston. I instead ate dinner at a little Italian place called, imaginatively, “Pacino’s.” It actually wasn’t too bad, though I struggled to stay awake. As I walked back to the hotel, the rain really kicked in. I left my rain jacket at the hotel, stupidly thinking the rain had passed. That meant that I got soaked pretty good, which is ok, because with Austin not having had any rain for three months, a little cold September rain really hit the spot.

Tomorrow—more Dublin.

One Fine Day

2011-09-04T15:11:00.011-05:00

Travel planning has somewhat consumed me this weekend, and, I've inevitably run across the New York Times travel series, "36 Hours In [Insert Place Here]." Its a good concept, for those traveling throughout a region or country, who only have time to hit a particular area's high points. Those snooty-snoots' execution, however, leaves something to be desired. They tend to write about places that ordinary schmoes, like the guy in the photo, aren't likely to visit. You know, "36 Hours in St. Tropez." "36 Hours in Ibiza." "36 Hours in Cinque Terre." They give helpful hints on where to rent a Ferrari, what to do after leaving Van Cleef and Arpels, where to store your fur coat, and how to get a good butler for the day. They always throw in a whimsical nod to a quaint local establishment, like where to find a really good "patisserie" for afternoon tea. But there's never a "36 Hours in Houston." In other words, stuff that isn't really going to help THIS guy. Not that anything is really going to help this guy. But you know what I mean. Right?

So in reflecting on my various travels, I've come up with some things to do in various places that MY people might actually go (congratulations, I now own you). Naturally, its geared toward things I would do on a vacation day, which essentially consists of getting in a morning walk or run, seeing some sights, and going to a nice dinner. If you're hoping to find the best place to lay on the beach all day or attend an existential poetry reading, you may as well move on.

This doubles nicely as a "day off" strategy. Head into the city, find some six year olds to hold hands with as you tour the museum, wear your beret, and find a really cool parade.

Interested in your feedback. How would YOU spend the day?

Seattle

Run the Burke-Gilman Trail, which starts in Kirkland, runs through the UW area, passes I-5 over into Wallingford. Head on over to the Pike Place Public Market for breakfast/lunch. They throw fish over there you know, and you can see the original Starbucks. Yawn. Then walk around downtown towards Pioneer Square. Duck in to the really cool Elliot Bay Bookstore. Take the somewhat touristy Seattle Underground tour. Go back to your hotel and get cleaned up, then have dinner at Wild Ginger.

Chicago

Naturally, if you have the means, I highly recommend that you "borrow" Cameron's Dad's 1961 Ferrari GT250 California Spyder, and sing Twist and Shout at the German-American Parade. That's probably a little unrealistic though. Instead, I recommend that you get a run or walk on the trail running along Lakeshore Drive by Lake Michigan, on up to the fantastic Lincoln Park. Catch breakfast/lunch somewhere on Michigan Avenue (the "Magnificent Mile"). If the Cubs are playing, go to Wrigley Field. If not, take the Chicago River Architecture Tour. Afterwards, walk around the really awesome Wrigleyville neighborhood (if you went to the Cub game), or Grant Park and the adjacent Millennium Park and check out that weird bendy mirror sculpture (if not). Catch dinner somewhere near Rush Street (get some pizza if you can). Then cap off the day at the Navy Pier. Ride the ferris wheel and enjoy spectacular views of the skyline at night.

Miami

Depending on whether you're staying in Miami Beach or not, go for a morning walk/run either on the beach or in Kennedy Park (with a woodchip trail network and great views of Biscayne Bay). After lunch/breakfast, tour nearby Vizcaya Gardens, an early 1900s Italian villa turned into spectacular gardens. Head over to Coconut Grove to explore shops and restaurants and the interesting architecture, then have dinner at Versailles Restaurant, a great Cuban place in Little Havana. At night, explore the South Beach art deco hotels and clubs on Collins Avenue. Head over to the Fontainebleau for some real over the top Miami Beach largesse. Say hi to Puff Daddy for me.

San Francisco

Run or walk in Golden Gate Park, my favorite park of all time (well, maybe after the Grand Tetons). Enjoy the Conservatory of Flowers, the buffalo, the Dutch Windmill and tulips, and the Japanese Tea Garden. After breakfast/lunch, head to North Beach and start walking through the old Italian neighborhood. Check out City Lights Books, the kind of dingy place you might see Allen Ginsberg reading poetry. Then head to the nearby Palace of Fine Arts and enjoy sitting or walking along the pond. Or take a little picnic with you. Then drive on over to Twin Peaks to get a layout of the entire city. Have dinner at the outstanding Farallon Restaurant. Then have drinks at the Top of the Mark, and see the city lights. Of course, if the Giants are playing, you need to go to whatever its called now Park. Outstanding place to watch a baseball game.

New York

Run in Central Park, either along the gravel trail that circles the Reservoir, or on the main road that loops around the Park. After breakfast/lunch (I discovered a pretty cool place called Big Daddy's Diner last time up), pick a neighborhood and explore. You can hardly go wrong. I really like the Upper West Side. Its like being in Hannah and Her Sisters. Check out the Museum of Natural History. Have a late lunch at the Shake Shack. Walk across the street to the Park, and de-stress in Strawberry Fields. If you still have some time, head over to Rockefeller Center and go to the top for unrivalled views, particularly if you're close to sunset. Then get cleaned up and head over to Columbus Circle for the most expensive, and incredible, dinner of your life at Per Se. Prepare to take out a second mortgage, but if you love food. Its worth it. Afterward, walk over toward the Plaza and reenact that scene in The Way We Were where Robert Redford sees Barbara Streisand again, years later. Just for fun. One of these days I'm going to post about my view that the Hubbell Gardner character is a huge schmuck and I can't understand why he's regarded as anything but. Must have been a product of the whole '70s "finding yourself" ethic, but post-9/11, he just comes off like an ass. If fancy restaurants aren't your scene, check out a Broadway (or off-Broadway) show.

Boston

Haven't spent that much time there, but I would run or walk around the Charles River, crossing over into Cambridge to double back. After breakfast/lunch, would start out in Boston Common, and then walk along the Freedom Trail, seeing historic sights like Fanneuil Hall. That's a pretty good day right there. Naturally, if the Red Sox are playing, you want to go to Fenway Park. Nothing beats seeing a Red Sox game, surrounded by never happy Chowd fans. Have dinner in virtually any North End Italian restaurant. And bring the cannoli.

New Orleans

Last but not least, the Big Easy. Run along the St. Charles streetcar line, making sure to get out of their way. If you're walking, definitely go to Audubon Park for incredible views. A good place to run along the 1.8 mile trail as well. Breakfast either at Cafe duMonde in the French Quarter, or at Slim Goodies Diner. You're going to be eating a lot, so just get used to it. Walk around the Quarter in the day, focusing on the antique stores and art galleries on Royal Street. Have an awesome lunch at the Palace Cafe on Canal Street. Continue exploring by heading over to lower Magazine Street, with more accessible shops, coffee bars, and restaurants. Head back to the Quarter for a sazerac at Napoleon House, or anything at Pat O'Brien's. Either place, insist on sitting in the courtyard and enjoy the late afternoon stillness. Then get cleaned up and have an amazing dinner at Lilette Restaurant on lower Magazine. Finally, after you waddle back, its time to get on your dancing shoes. Go see anyone playing at Tipitina's or at the Maple Leaf.

Dallas

Head to the airport. Book the first flight out. Enjoy.

Next--my New York trip. Then its on to Ireland, where I hope that Bono fellow hasn't read what I think of him.

Daily Affirmations Goes to Ireland and Scotland

2011-08-30T21:12:00.007-05:00

God invented whiskey so the Irish wouldn't rule the world.

--An old Irish proverb

Its that time of year again. Vacation time. I missed it last year, sort of. As some of you may recall, I went on a little mini-break through the South, but didn't take a full fledged vacation to some exotic destination.

This year, having screwed around so long that all the flight prices went out of sight before I could book a trip to France, I've instead opted to visit Ireland and Scotland. Two weeks there should rid all the ill effects of weeks' worth of consecutive 100+ degree days. Maybe I can develop rheumatism and a cough while I'm there too. I leave September 10th (blog reading burglars, hey what's up by the way, make sure to save the date).

In typical fashion, I've done absolutely no planning for this trip. Hopefully I can swing by Book People and pick up some travel guides. Until then, the plan largely involves spending a couple of days each in Dublin, Edinburgh, and Glasgow, and hauling myself over as much of the rest of these countries as I can without creating an international incident or becoming the Ugly American. An Ugly Texan, however, well I can't make any guarantees.

As for activities, I expect to look for leprechauns and pre-historic sea creatures lurking in Scottish lochs, participate in drunken brawls, tell stories about the inherent superiority of Texans and Texas, spend time in pubs learning a bunch of drinking songs with strange lyrics, visit ruined castles, develop a fungal infection in my lungs, wonder where all my money went, and ask people to repeat themselves about eight times before I can understand what anyone is saying. I spent two weeks in New Zealand once and never understood a damn thing anyone was saying. This can only be worse. By the end of the trip, I expect to be talking like Scotty on Star Trek. Or not understanding anyone who doesn't speak accordingly. "I canna' change the laws a physics Cap'n!"

Pretty much I expect the Irish to be like in The Quiet Man. Lots of fighting and drinking, pushing their women around, and singing quiet ballads in between while watching over sheep graze by the creek. Oh, except for whatever that goody-goody tax cheat and womanizer Bono has going on. Basically, I'm hoping to avoid U2. Really, Ireland, in 50 years, you've come up with exactly one good rock band? Please. London came up with about 200 great bands all by itself.

The Scots, on the other hand, I expect to resemble Scotty, and life should pretty much be like the Scottish castle in the original Casino Royale. Deborah Kerr and about 30 hot young babes all living in a castle, looking for a man to serve. I could easily be David Niven in that scenario, but for the kilt and puffy shirt. In fact, that's largely how I see myself in life anyway, so it shouldn't be much of a stretch.

Needless to say, I'm in desperate need of travel advice. I welcome your best advice in the comments, or otherwise. Anything I should definitely see? Anything I should definitely avoid? Need a little help here.

So...looking for a little love here...just sayin'

As per usual, I hope to post every day and upload the ten million or so pictures I anticipate taking each day. So keep checking back for literary brilliance in the form of a travel diary. Oh, and for riveting stories about what I ate for lunch.

Respect Yourself

2011-08-22T00:35:00.002-05:00

Respect yourself and others will respect you.

--Confucius

“Confucius”? Really? That’s a bit rich for a blog that routinely mentions “Top Gun,” don’t you think? William Blake didn’t want any action? Or Bill Shakespeare?

And don't ask me how Bruce Willis got in here. How did that guy ever get a record deal? I guess it was the same day Eddie Murphy got his. "My Girl Wants to Party All the Time." Whatever. Its late. I'm on holiday.

The next step in our journey toward low-cost quality living is “Respect Yourself.” Its as much a matter of steeling yourself against the storms life directs our way as deterring others from treating you as badly as you treat yourself.

Now, spoiler alert. This post reads like a self-help book. Or something on Lifetime network. Or a [Fill in the Blanks] Anonymous affirmation. I suppose that’s not so bad. This is Daily Affirmations with Chris Reeder, after all yo. But it gets kind of thick. Grab a throw pillow and a cosmopolitan, sidle up next to your girlfriend, bring a box of Kleenex, and get ready to gab.

Think of your best friend. Chances are you bend over backwards to help out that person. You do things to help them you wouldn’t do for anyone else. Not…bad…things. I’m not talking about breaking into the Watergate Hotel or anything to do them a solid (or am I?). Where was I? You spend hours with them during their darkest hours. You think of their triumphs as yours. You admire them, you’re completely open and candid with them, you support them. You don’t always roll their eyes when they go on and on and on about the same stupid personal problem they’ve had for freaking YEARS and refuse to do anything about it. Yeah, you know.

If you can be that good to someone else, why can’t you be just as good to yourself?

Sure, everywhere you turn you run into some lunkhead with a comically misplaced sense of over-confidence. You find them in gyms, upscale bars, executive offices, Ferrari dealerships, Congress, and so forth.

But there’s a lot more people who lack any confidence at all. They doubt their abilities, they run from challenges, they resign themselves to failure. They expect the worst. You know: Eeyore. Its not because they’re not capable. Its because they doubt themselves. At their core, they don’t like themselves. So they don’t treat themselves very well. Sometimes that comes out as destructive behavior. Sometimes its passing up chances to improve. Other times it results in giving up on people, or responsibilities.

This represents our real problem. Self-doubt, self-loathing, running from challenges…that’s what holds us back. People who won’t take risks, who don’t try to excel. In other words, people who aren’t “achievers”! How much do we lose when people take themselves out of the game before it even starts?

Have you heard about Jehovah’s Witnesses?

Just kidding.

If you’ll treat your best friend like I’ve described, why can’t you be just as good to yourself?

That entails several different considerations.

The biggest part of being good to yourself is liking yourself. Not the sort of misplaced Jersey Shore narcissism that’s strangling our society. Not filling your head with thoughts of “I’m the man!” But just plain liking and respecting yourself. Previously, I’ve written that you need to see yourself for how you really are, the way other people see you. There, I warned against misplaced hubris, but seeing yourself like others do has an upside too. You can see your good qualities. How many people simply don’t like themselves? Hey, speaking! I’m party Kryptonite, capable of killing off any gathering through infectious boredom just by showing up. You’re welcome. But if you’re not necessarily the most interesting person you know, you should at least think you’re likable. If you’re not, do something about it. No, really, change. Go to a counselor, or a preacher, or your best friend. Become the person you want to be. But chances are, you’re already likeable and have much to offer. You just don’t know it. Don’t you have friends? They must like you. What is it that they see in you that you don’t? Are your friends idiots? Have you deceived them with some clever “likeable guy” impersonation? Probably not. These people probably know you a lot better than you think. If not, maybe its not really an act. You look in the mirror and see things that aren’t there. Your friends look at you and see the things that are there. Maybe you are likeable. And maybe you should treat yourself accordingly.

You need to be good to yourself too. People are more than happy to take a pound of flesh from you. Why help them? Why destroy yourself with drugs, or drink, or food, or smoke, or spending hours on Facebook, or video games, or other destructive behaviors? Because they take your mind off your problems? No, all those mind-numbers just give you a second problem. You wouldn’t let your kids do those things right? You’d speak up if your best friend did those things, right? Again, tell yourself.

Another aspect of respecting yourself is trusting yourself. Chances are you really DO know what’s best to do, but you’re letting fear and doubt hold you back. Ever heard the saying, or thought about yourself, that its funny how you know what other people should do in their lives but you don’t know what to do in your own life? That’s actually not true. You DO know what to do. You just don’t trust yourself enough to do it. You worry that others will criticize you, or you’ll be embarrassed. You worry that doing what’s right will ruin your safe, comfortable life. But what you can’t see as that as you cling to the status quo, digging your fingernails in as deeply as you can to preserve your way of life, is the world around you changing. Like it or not, the carpet under you is being pulled away. You’re always standing on shifting ground. Pull the trigger. Take the risk.

Have I used enough clichés yet?

So if you like yourself and you treat yourself well, you should insist that others do so too. Stand up for yourself. Ultimately, no one can hurt you but you. You might let other people hurt you, but in the end, you have to allow them to do it. Well, unless its someone shooting you or something. Lots of people will run you down, ignore you, take advantage of you…why would you help them? If you saw your friend letting that happen, you’d tell them, right? So why don’t you tell yourself? If you want people to treat you like a doormat, act like a doormat. If you want people to treat you with respect, treat yourself with respect. People will treat you just as badly as you let them.

You should consider one last aspect—you need to develop yourself. Don’t ever stand for “good enough.” Constantly challenge yourself. Strive to improve. Not just your mind but your body. You only get one of each. Without constant improvement, both will wither and fail. Put another way, your mind and body are investments, not unlike your home or your retirement accounts. Surely you’d tend to your financial investments. You’d repair your home, you’d monitor your investments, right? Why let your mind and body become stagnant and atrophy? You can do anything you want. You can be anyone you want. Well, you can’t run the point for the Knicks or create nuclear fusion. Probably. But there’s a lot of stuff you can do. Its not just your mind either. Its your body. Your soft, torpor-ridden, dough-like body, which has turned translucent from staying inside since like 1984. Firm it up! You only get one body, and it has to last your entire lifetime. There’s no trade-ins, and for the most part, no spare parts (unless you’re David Crosby). Do whatever it takes: run, walk, find your x-box buddy and enter a three-legged race at the local VFW July 4th picnic. Get off the couch, put down the nutter-butters, tie your shoelaces and go. Iraqi war veterans with missing limbs can run marathons, so you probably can do a 30 minute walk.

So easy squeezy, right? Love yourself. Be good to yourself. Stand up for yourself. Develop yourself. It’s a cruel world, and you can’t count on someone coming along and solving all your problems and making you the happiest boy on earth. Not unless you live in a Disney cartoon or a Meg Ryan movie. Keep these things in mind, and maybe you’ll go from wallflower to all-star.

NEXT-Some Time in New York City

Daily Affirmations on Twitter

2011-08-17T01:03:00.003-05:00

I've succumbed to These Times, and signed up for a Twitter account. Find eloquence in 140 characters or less right here.

Like everyone else on Twitter, I expect to let you know when I've had some really good cheese, or got a good seat on the bus, or when someone next to me has creepy Christina Ricci bug eyes. You know. Important stuff.

For my first tweet(s), I've posted my upcoming vacation plans. I'll discuss those here too, of course, because that's the whole raison d'etre of this blog. That and to explain important subjects like why Patrick Swayze switched back and forth from an obviously fake Brooklyn accent to a wrong side of the Houston, Texas tracks accent in Dirty Dancing.

Oh, and the picture from Cool Hand Luke has nothing to do with this post. I just think its cool.

NEXT-Respect Yourself. When I can get around to it.

Don't Meet Your Heroes?

2011-07-28T20:57:00.003-05:00

Kind of snowed under with work (probably not an apt metaphor these days), so time only for a quick post. Respecting Yourself will have to wait.

Haven't you heard the title phrase before? Don't meet your heroes, because they won't ever live up to the pedestal on which you have them. Someone like, oh, I don't know, Mr. Rogers, whom you idolized for his sensitivity and gentleness, might turn out to be a maniacal freak in real life. If you meet your hero, the best that can happen is they're like you would expect. More than likely, you'll find out they're just another person without magic powers or a really cool cape.

That's why the few times I've seen celebrities, I've never tried to meet them. As long-time readers know, I once endured an extremely uncomfortable elevator ride with a falling down drunk Gary Busey and some Hollywood handler-type at the then Loew's Anatole in Dallas. Gary kept looking at me, though I didn't say anything. I kept expecting him to lunge for my throat any second. I also shared an elevator with Burt Bacharach (and my then girlfriend) at the Adolphus Hotel, also in Dallas. Now that was pretty cool, though my girlfriend kept rambling on about something inane, completely unaware we were in the presence of genius (and someone who was married to Angie Dickinson, which perhaps was an even more admirable accomplishment). I saw Dennis Quaid at the Hard Rock Cafe in Austin during the 1980s, but...yawn. A woman in our group, however, made her way over to say hi. And so forth.

Most famous types aren't really the way they're portrayed in the media. Not for nothing is "publicist" a real profession. Many of these people's careers depend on presenting an image that, if not completely divorced from reality, represents an absurdly polished, idealized version of reality. So what's the point of meeting, say, Brad Pitt and finding out he's just as big a tool as you or me? Well, you maybe, not me so much.

But I would like to meet and talk with some famous people. Here's the list, categorized by field.

Criteria? They're people I admire or otherwise find really intriguing either for their accomplishments or their personality. They strike me as being capable of an interesting conversation, or have such tales to tell that would make it worth my while. I didn't list everyone possible, because some people who might otherwise be on the list have a fairly obvious "douche" factor (if you're reading this, I'm thinking of you, Robert Downey, Jr.). Obviously, the list reflects my fairly limited interests.

Oh, and they have to be alive. Otherwise, Jackie Gleason would have made the list. Really!

Music:

Pete Townshend
Jimmy Page
Tina Turner
Keith Richards
Any Beatle
Any Ramone
Brian Wilson
Chuck Berry
Little Richard
Carole King
Ozzy
Fats Domino
BB King
Stevie Wonder

Sports:

Darrell Royal
Earl Campbell
Bum Phillips
Guy V. Lewis
Charles Barkley
Phil Jackson
Angelo Dundee (in lieu of Muhammad Ali)
Yogi Berra
Jim Brown
Bob Gibson
Billy Cannon
Vin Scully
Marvin Miller

Movies:

Bill Murray
Leslie Caron
Stanley Donen
Peter O'Toole
Alec Baldwin
Martin Scorcese
Steve Martin
Quentin Tarantino
Clint Eastwood
Julie Andrews
Kirk Douglas
Jessica Simpson (oh, come on, just give me this one!)

Other:

Any US President
Margaret Thatcher
Hugh Hefner
Henry Kissinger
Sandra Day O'Connor
Neil Armstrong
Bill Gates
Helen Gurley Brown

NEXT: Respect Yourself (hopefully)

Let's Go To The Mall!

2011-07-17T14:22:00.006-05:00

Come on Jessica, come on Tori
Let's go to the mall, you won't be sorry
Put on your jelly bracelets
And your cool graffiti coat
At the mall, having fun is what it's all about
Let's go to the mall, everybody!
Everybody come and play
Throw every last care away
Let's go to the mall today

--Robin Sparkles, How I Met Your Mother, "Let's Go to the Mall"

Let's go to the mall. Just like Jake and Elwood.

Now, this will sound kinda out of left field, but have you ever wondered how people would look after the apocalypse? You know, post-Armageddon (and I don't mean the movie, though after you've spent two hours watching Bruce Willis act in something that's not Die Hard or Moonlighting, I imagine a similar effect). Based on how many movies and TV specials center on what might happen after they drop the Big One, lots of people seem really focused on what would happen to "us." That includes what would we look like. Would we look like those bad 1970s special effects makeup people wearing masks in the second Planet of the Apes movie (whatever it was called). Would we look like the albino zombies featured in The Omega Man (basically, like Johnny Winter with a bit more coloring)? Or would it be even more hideous, like Paula Abdul on a bender?

Well there's no need to wonder anymore. Just go to your local mall at any time other than Christmas (which of course, due to some geophysical anomaly, lasts at the mall from September to the week after New Year's) and look around you. The crowd of walking dead, zombie, rotting flesh, corpulent manatees-out-of-water wearing Academy clothes and shoveling down food court cuisine who surround you...yeah, that is exactly what humans will look like after the apocalypse.

That's right. You may not have been aware, but your local mall has somehow turned into the cantina from Star Wars. Or the Oklahoma University campus. And its populated to an overwhelming degree with all the mutants you normally see only at the driver's license office.

What the hell happened? I have to confess that many, many years ago, I went to the mall relatively often. I was young and naive...you know the drill. Believe it or not, I've never had a lot of "hang out" friends and yet hate being alone. I know...shocking. So I would go to the mall just to be around people and enjoy the free air conditioning. It also put me a little less at risk of dying alone and not being discovered til local dogs noticed the smell. I wouldn't really "shop" or anything, just kind of walk around and look at girls. Errr...people watch.

The mall was never like cocktail hour at the Carlyle, of course, but it exhibited a certain normalcy. That is, most of the people seemed relatively normal (which I guess means they looked more like me than they do now). They appeared to have jobs or money, their clothes (which were mostly unstained) covered at least 50% of their body, their body fat percentage appeared to be under 30%, they exhibited little or no drool, appeared to lack a significant arrest record or prison tattoos, and did not have 12 little kids in tow (all of roughly the same age but all looking suspiciously like one parent). The stores weren't all Tiffany's (yeah, let's not forget the immortal Chess King), but they did have a certain threshold class level. In some cases they were even somewhat elegant. The employees seemed mostly awake, and appeared to not only want to sell you merchandise but were both capable of and willing to answer your questions.

Not so much anymore. That time is looking more and more like some sort of mall Golden Age.

Recently, I had to go to a mall to get some pants (or something like that, I forget), and Holy Schnikees! What the hell happened? All the kids who pick their nose and then put their hands in the dip at their family reunions have grown up, not changed one bit (except to put on about 300 pounds), and now hang out at the mall. The Jenny Craig and tasteful clothing concessions at the mall must go out of business quickly. Wearing their tattered, ill-fitting Monday go to WalMart outfits while towing their obese-in-miniature brood of kids with them, they really resemble the rhinoceros herd at the zoo. Is that an elitist thing to say?

To add a little flavor, roving gangs of tweens killing time before the latest vampire/angst/love triangle movie showing wander in and out of the food court and kiosks, wearing their trendily shabby clothes and texting their absent buddies. Better hit the PacSun before mom comes around in the minivan. Then there's the random patrols of dudes in their mid- to late-20s, well coiffed and attired with the right designer duds, spray tans, toned physiques, jewelry and cologne, animatedly talking to their partners. Not sure what's going on there, but I have a feeling they catch a lot of Home and Garden TV and use a lot of "product." Beleaguered mother-angry daughter pairs makes up the remaining mall social caste, roaming the mall in a futile effort to understand one another at the family therapist's recommendation, otherwise known as "shopping."

Its not like the stores are much better. What used to be nice shopping establishments have devolved into a collection of rooms where chain companies sell stuff that you once had to dial an 800 number after midnight to purchase. These hideously wretched clothes look like something from a Ralph Steadman drawing, and exhibit the fine tailoring skills of chained-to-their-bench Filipino child slaves desperately hoping there's not a fire during their 18 hour shift. You know...Nike. The few stores that still sell quality merchandise are emptier than James Gandolfini's workout room. Ok, I stole that joke from Family Guy. Emptier than the Oscar shelf in Tom Cruise's trophy room. The store employees are totally listless and robotic. [Spoiler Alert!] Think Jack Nicholson at the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. They have become automatons capable only of ringing up your purchase and opening a fitting room, skills the average fifth grader possesses. I've seen more enthusiasm at jury duty.

The mall itself has become dismal and depressing. Rather than nice wide walkways and lots of light, you now have to twist and trip along small cracks in the crowd thanks to the mall installing countless "kiosks" in the halls. Because everyone needs 10 opportunities to buy a cell phone cover or a wig, or change your texting plan on your way over to the food court. All the while feeling your way through the darkness wrought by inadequate amounts of federally mandated energy-saving light bulbs. Its like being in a Nuevo Laredo flea market, but without the same sense of personal security. Some more upscale malls have tried to go "natural" and "outdoors," which doesn't do much good during August in Texas, and they just expose you to humidity, bugs, and melanoma. The sanitary conditions resemble a Fifth Ward Exxon station bathroom. Does anyone clean these places, or do they just rely on "natural selection" to weed out those incapable of resisting the bacteria? And the food. Geez, is anyone listening to that busy body Michelle Obama? She's all "eat your peas" (or is that her husband), but no one's on board at the mall. You can't walk five feet at the mall without the chance to buy some heart attack on a stick. Usually its from some place that doesn't exist outside the mall. Like Sbarro. And astonishingly, most of the mutants walking around are double clutching some choice mall cuisine. Guess its like energy fuel.

Not sure exactly how I haven't noticed this before. I guess at Christmas they put out enough shiny and sparkly objects and blast the Christmas tunes so loudly that it distracts the seasonal normal people. Otherwise, I can't help but think I'd have noticed the refugee camp-like squalor by now.

Thankfully, the mall is becoming obsolete. You can buy just about anything on line now, or at more easily accessed stores not in the actual mall. The original mall concept worked well-cluster a bunch of stores in one spot that collectively could supply most people's retail needs. Make it a pleasurable place to linger, and people would spend hours there. That formula worked quite well for a long time, to the point that along with WalMart's rise it killed off most downtown commercial districts and individual retailers. Plus, malls were at one point a relatively safe place to dump your kids for awhile while you and your spouse shopped; in other words, it was fun for the whole family. But as I said, there's not much point to the mall now. I can think of only a few reasons to go.

You can see the actual merchandise you want to buy, try it on to see how it looks or see if it fits your needs;

In those few stores with real salespeople, you can get somewhat more advice than on line;

You need gift wrapping;

You want to enjoy someone else's air conditioning, or your roof leaks at home;

You graduated from high school and want to feel superior;

You really need a fix of extra grease pizza topped off with a six pack of Cinnabons and a quart of Pepsi;

You're a senior citizen and need some place to go on your daily 20 minute walk where you won't get lost, get run over by a car, or there's likely to be someone close by who can call the ambulance when you, inevitably, fall and break your hip;

You're eluding the cops while trying to put the band back together.

Let's not even talk about the outlet mall. That's like the Assistant Crack Whore of the commercial world.

NEXT--either Respect Yourself, or How to Run A 5K Run

You Can't Handle the Technicalities!

2011-07-16T11:28:00.004-05:00

Tom was being very un-Dude in For a Few Good Men. Then again, maybe he was rehearsing for his Oprah Moment. Tom, you should just focus on keeping Katie and Surie locked up, and spouting your Scientology babble in places where most of us won't be so overwhelmed with your Crazy that we stop going to your movies. Oops...looks like that train has sailed. Signed, Knight and Day.

But while such bombast and overacting typically don't occur in your local courthouse, important things happen there every day. Based on how you all bail from jury duty (no pun intended), most of you probably haven't noticed. Even though most of you gripe and complain about how the system lets so many guilty people go free.

Just wait until its your turn in the dock, though. You're not gonna feel all "if they were arrested they must be guilty" when you're the one they haul off in the middle of the night.

I touched on this recently in my polemics on why I'm so glad I'm livin' in the USA and why we should be thankful that we live in a place that would let a Casey Anthony or an OJ go free if the state can't prove their crimes beyond a reasonable doubt. I pointed out this is one of the most important freedoms that Americans enjoy. Shake your heads in disgust when our system allows monsters like that to walk, but would you rather live in Iran, where American hikers are held for years without trial as ransom pieces, or Singapore, which canes idiot teenagers for spitting on the street, or any one of dozens of other countries where "justice" is whatever the local potentate in charge deems worthy at the time?

Judge Reggie Walton, the federal district judge presiding over the Roger Clemens trial, brilliantly captured just why our due process legal protections are so important. You know, those irritating "technicalities" that let gang-bangers and high-flying fraudsters go free from time to time. As many of you know, Roge is on trial for lying under oath to Congress and various related counts. Sidebar-lying to Congress as a crime is pretty rich. As Martin Sheen said in Apocalypse Now, that's like handing out speeding tickets at the Indy 500.

Anyway, Judge Walton declared a mistrial (in essence, he terminated the trial and required the government to start over) due to the prosecutor's failure to abide by evidence rulings he made before the trial began. Everyone should read the Judge's remarks to the jury as he excused them from further service. Keep in mind this was totally extemporaneous.

Unfortunately, there are rules that we play by, and those rules are designed to ensure that both parties receive a fair trial. And that is particularly true when it comes to someone who has been charged with a crime whose life and liberty, or their liberty is on the line....I apologize to you for what has transpired. It's unfortunate, but at bottom, in the United States of America we try to ensure that everybody who comes into our courthouse is treated fairly and that they get a fair shake from a jury. And when a judge reaches a conclusion that there is a possibility, a distinct possibility, that information that unfairly prejudices a defendant has come before the jury, in direct violation of a ruling that the Court has made, I have no other alternative, despite the tremendous loss of time and effort and money, to terminate the proceedings.

You think Hugo Chavez or Mahmoud Ahmadinejad would get all worked up over "a distinct possibility" that a defendant could be "unfairly prejudiced"? Uh, not so much.

We can all thank God that our government, which on a day-to-day basis usually means some nimrod sitting at a desk, can't just decide who's guilty and who's not, and stick you in some hell hole for 50 years based on nothing but a whim. The mere fact that the government has to put on a case to a jury of American citizens, that the case has to meet certain evidentiary standards, that it must demonstrate the accused's guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, and that if it doesn't do so it cannot convict, is perhaps the most important freedom we enjoy as Americans.

It might mean that thug low-lifes get away with all kinds of horrible crimes. It might mean that criminals never receive their due. But a certain amount of criminality, while horrible, pales in comparison to the darkness of a nation where the government knows no bounds and arbitrarily metes out punishment at its desire.

I'm not a black helicopter type, but does anyone think that couldn't happen here? Anyone remember Waco? The FLDS raid? Watergate? Internment of Japanese-Americans during World War II? The 1968 Chicago police riots at the Democratic National Convention? Police attacking peaceful demonstrators on the Edmund Pettus Bridge? It happens today, even at the local level. In Tulia, Texas, a local federal/state drug sting basically just made up evidence to throw dozens of citizens in jail, leading Gov. Rick Perry to pardon all the defendants.

Shakespeare's King Richard III said, "the first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers." Everyone LOVES to quote that line to run down lawyers. These idiots don't know that in the play, Richard said this in describing his plan to take over England and stamp out liberty. To oppress and enslave a people, the first thing to do is to eliminate a free and fair legal system.

Congratulations to Judge Walton for his actions, and thanks to him for capturing the importance of a free and fair trial.

OK, Oprah, I'll get off your couch now. My bad.

NEXT--Let's Go to the Mall!

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2011-07-14T12:24:00.000-05:00

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The Meaning of Respect

2011-07-09T14:33:00.006-05:00

But the problem with y'all cats today, is that you got no skill. No sense of history. And then, with a straight face, got the nerve to want to be somebody. Want somebody to respect you. But it takes respect to get respect. Understand?

--Barbershop (2002)

You know the well's run dry when you're citing Cedric the Entertainer as authority. But truth is truth, no matter its source.

Our series on how to live your life keeps getting more fun and frisky with each passing chapter. Previous installments have taught you to grow the hell up already, to be true to yourself, true to your school, and true to your country.

Next we turn to a lesson of no less importance. You have to have respect to get respect.

Everywhere you turn, you find some idiot worked into a frenzy over "disrespect." Upset the boss promoted Kevin over him. Angry that everyone loved Angela's painting instead of his. Confident that the Wendy's counter clerk intentionally spilled his drink all over him. Why is everyone so worked up over David's song? "Mine was twenty times as good and no one said a word!"

Sorry to tell you, but while you go through life smelling your refrigerator's contents before you eat and wearing underwear several times before washing them (because, you know, they've still got some wear left), you need to recognize others. Especially the ones who are better than you. Which is a whole lot of people.

Look, you may have killer game, but no one's going to pay two minute's attention to you unless you come correct, and respect others. Believe it or not, we're all doing things when you're not around. The Sun doesn't revolve around the earth, much less you. You have to have respect to get respect.

There's two kinds of respect. There's the deference owed to certain excellent people as a way to honor them. There's also the ordinary respect you owe your fellow residents of Spaceship Earth.

The former category of people warrant your respect because they embody qualities and achievements that our society values highly. Things happen around here because of money (more specifically, people wanting money), curiosity, or altruism. No matter the reason, to achieve ends that society wants fulfilled, it requires some truly exceptional people with extraordinary talents, drives, and dedication. Not just rock stars or LeBron James either. Teachers, firemen, police, doctors, soldiers, caregivers...all the people who work long hours at often crummy jobs because they feel driven to help others. Even the ones who get bank often sacrifice other, better opportunities so that they can serve (like some top executives who go into public service for a time).

Our society needs these people and the work they perform. For whatever reason, we don't reward them monetarily at a level matching their performance. Respect helps fill that gap. We reinforce and repay all those who serve and excel through respect. It instills and deepens the value society places on those qualities, and draws people to them. Soldiers don't enlist for the money. They enlist because they want to protect and serve the country. We need people who think along those lines. We owe them respect because they're doing something we don't (or can't) do ourselves, and we want to foster an ethic that values soldiering highly. You could say the same about lots of other people and professions. Respect deepens the significance our society assigns to these valuable personal traits.

But insofar as the title goes, you can't just show up and demand respect. Respect is earned. Anyone can show up. Its what you do once you show up that spells the difference between bystander and outstanding. Your name or your money don't merit respect. But putting in the time, day after day, year after year, developing your skills, racking up skins (as it were), that's what earns respect. Freshmen deserve little respect, seniors much more so. When Hank Aaron walks in a crowded room with nowhere to sit, the reaction isn't "who cares" and indifference. Get up and give Hank your chair. He's Henry Aaron. You're not. He's the true home run king, a baseball executive, civil rights icon and legendary gentleman. You just updated your Facebook status about eating cheese.

The latter respect, treating others well, is pretty much the Golden Rule, right? You want to live in a world where everyone acts with a reasonable level of civility. You know, somewhere not in New York. Who wants to be yelled at, cursed, insulted, pushed aside, prodded, poked, humiliated? Other than you sickos out there (don't pretend you're not reading), nobody does. So why should you feel like you can do it to others?

This isn't just some Pollyanna wish. Purely selfish reasons should lead you to treat people with basic respect. A real life lesson is that karma usually finds you. Treat people badly, and sooner or later, no matter how much money or power you have, its going to find its way back to you. Case in point: the three worst client representatives I ever worked for were all absolutely abhorrent individuals. They made my life a living hell at various points. I would dread every day, anxious over when the phone would ring and they'd be at the other end making some outrageous accusation or demand. As you'd expect, they didn't treat me any differently than others within their organization with whom they worked. As these things play out in the 21st Century, the economy prompted their employers to cut the budget. When it came time to decide whom to retain, each one found themselves unemployed. Not only that, two of them never found another comparable position while the third found something on the extreme margins of the industry working for a very low salary. See how that works? It can happen THAT fast. Give someone a reason to think life would be better without your presence, and chances are that will happen. Burn bridges and you'll find it hard to get back to where you came. Oh, and in this context, everyone is a bridge.

Your colleagues may be lying, cheating scumbags. They may be offensive, annoying, and repugnant. You may want to staple their earlobe to their desk. But you never know when its going to come down to a choice between you and someone who doesn't use the staple gun. Plus, one of these days, you might need that lying, cheating scumbag to do you a solid. In a big way.

This also applies to the little people. Today's flunkie, clerk, and nobody is tomorrow's Lieutenant Governor, CEO, or IRS auditor. And don't pretend that the "nobodies" won't notice you abusing others. And remember it. Hey, I've got a five page list of people I'm taking down if I ever get the chance.

No, not really. That would be mean.

Or would it?

Keep this in mind. You didn't get to where you are now all by yourself. Everyone who's ever achieved anything in life can thank dozens of others who nurtured, mentored, and showed them the ropes. They respected you enough to share their wisdom, their time, and their attention. Without that kind of ethic, though it may strike one as hyperbole, our world would become a lot darker. "Every man for himself" really doesn't work, although every day it looks like more and more people think that way.

Are we clear about this?

Ah, forget it. Do whatever you want.

NEXT-Respect Yourself (or whatever other issue of monumental importance might happen to come up before then).

A Potpourri of Scorn

2011-07-07T15:28:00.009-05:00

Been missing from the blog due to some overwhelming work demands. Don't you hate when they want you to work for your paycheck? Anyway, before getting back into the drudgery of the "How to Live Your Life" series, there's a couple of things that have backed up that I want to hit. Talk among yourselves.

Roger Clemens

Some of you may know that Rog, who by all measures was one of the most outstanding pitchers in baseball history, now finds himself pitching to a federal jury, battling against federal perjury charges. The Feds have accused Roger of lying to Congress about his steroid use (err...alleged steroid use...please don't sue me Rog!). Pretty much everyone else who's been busted for the 'roids has either fessed up and said they did it to help the team, or evaded the question. Like Sammy Sosa, who is more fluent in english than Professor Higgins in every interview, but seemingly didn't understand a single question when he testified before Congress. Roger, however, adopted a defiant, "I have not used steroids ever" defense. And, like you'd imagine, it was right up there with, "I did not have sexual relations with that woman" or "Read my lips, NO NEW TAXES!" Inevitably, the Justice Department started investigating him. Cut to three years later and Roger is in the dock for perjury, making a false statement and obstruction of Congress. Not exactly how he wanted to spend his retirement.

So having dared someone to knock this battery off his shoulder and seen the Feds take up his invitation, he shows up for court looking like...that. Roger, what the hell? I mean, its one thing that you made all those millions and you still bought your suit/shirt/tie from Banana Republic, but what's going on with the hair, big fella? Look, just bed head by itself might have been ok. I've seen that look before. Usually its on skater guys or pedi-cab drivers under the age of 25, but whatever. At least it is a style. But what's up with the sweat? Did you get in a racquetball game on the way to court? Pick up basketball game? I'm sure its hot in DC right now, but really. You might want to take a Handi-Wipe or three to that mop. Looking like Sharon Stone or Ellen DeGeneres is no way to roll into court when you're looking at all that prison time. I mean, that work only looks for Prince Harry because he's got about twice as much hair as you. And Roger, was it really a good idea to spend your retirement eating ice cream 12 hours a day? That situps regimen doesn't look like its getting the trick done any more. Your head looks like it probably has its own gravitational field.

Now, other than it being fun to make fun of someone who was so full of himself for all those years, what does all this matter? Its just amazing how people don't consider how their personal appearance influences other people's evaluation. Would you wear a t-shirt with a marijuana leaf on it to go meet your new girlfriend's parents for the first time? Unless you live in California, probably not. Because that conveys a message about you and creates a negative impression from the very outset of your relationship with the parents. When you see someone who looks like a slob, you tend to think immediately that they're a slob. See a woman who looks like a hooker, your first reaction is "she's a hooker." Why don't candidates for President or ministers or accountants wear a beer t-shirt and flip flops to work? Why don't professional women (well, most professional women) wear plunging necklines and clear heels to work? How you look influences how people react to you, and how likely they are to believe or trust you. Its like that line from Bull Durham, "Think classy, you'll be classy." Look like the King of Prussia Macy's outlet's weekend assistant manager who just back from a three-beer lunch at Chili's, and chances are you're not going to be taken all that seriously. Look like 1992 Chris Farley and you likely will find your credibility with a federal jury somewhat diminished. No matter how many strikeouts you have or batters you hit or how many broken bats you've thrown at Mike Piazza.

Heathers

Speaking of appearances, here's yet another reason why you parents need to think twice, or in some cases 15 times, before you name your kid. You all know how I feel about this. Pick a real name, not some weird inanimate object ("Apple") or a last name ("Smith") or a place ("Houston"), so your kid won't get pummeled in the schoolyard. Soap opera names should be right out. Why? Because it provokes eye-rolling every time your kid has to introduce himself ("Hi, I'm Zowie Bowie"...one of these days soon, David isn't going to have enough swing to cover for his kid..."Oh, I'm David Bowie's kid" isn't going to stop the snickering). Its also selfish. Your kid isn't a canvas for you to decorate as you will, at least not once they figure out how to dress themselves. Would you tattoo your two year old? No. So why stick them with something else they can't get rid of the rest of their life that will fall out of fashion within a year? Put another way, name your kid something that's popular for two years tops, and you're likely digging a hole for your kid's future professional credibility.

All that's true, but we can add another reason to pick a reasonable, non-whorey name. I read an article yesterday quoting an analyst from a public official's office. "Speaking on behalf of ___, analyst Heather_____ said, "[something ridiculous]." Heather? Really? Heather's not such an unusual name anymore I guess, but "Heather" still sounds like a cheerleader mom, or the trampy girl in 7th grade that would kiss anyone, or your friend who always screams "WOOO!!!" at the top of her lungs every five minutes at happy hour. You to waitress: "Hi, yeah, I'd like to order a bottle of the Laurent Perrier champagne." Heather: "WOOOO!!!!"

Its a little hard to take "Heather" seriously as she tells you about some complicated policy issue. Maybe its me, but I get distracted imagining her doing jello shots and going to Target to get hair bows for her three little girls (by three different dads), before getting ready to pole dance that night. Or Britney. Or Savannah. Or Crystal. Or Brandi. Basically any name a stripper or ESPN sideline reporter plausibly could use.

This principle concerns men too. Its kind of hard to take Dwayne seriously when he's sitting at the opposing counsel table. I'm not going back to Dr. Dwayne. Same for Bubba, or Rod, or Troy, or Ricky, or any other NASCAR or Swamp People name. Or that some guy in porn might use. Or a guy who goes by initials. Initials guy is like Mr. Slate at the Quarry where Fred Flintstone works, but not anyone you'd hire to design your resort house.

So please think before you name your kid. It may seem cute to you, but he or she will be the one who has to wear it for a lifetime.

BTW, I occasionally work with someone named Heather. She's very capable and I don't think she's like I described. So, since I've gotten to work with you, I know you're an exception H!

This Just In: Jurors are Idiots Too

Everyone's all a-twitter about this Casey Anthony verdict. Literally. Including Kim Kardashian, who among her other talents apparently is a legal know-it-all, who was expressing outrage that the jurors found her not guilty. Hey, Kim, I don't know whether you thought about this, or anything else, but your Dad defended O.J. Simpson. Those who live in glass penthouse condos...

I haven't followed the trial, and didn't know anything about this until the National Conscious reacted with horror that 12 average people not smart enough to get out of jury duty found her not guilty of killing her kid. Little did I know the country was hanging over this verdict. Proof that its been a slow news year, or that we're in summer re-runs.

I have no idea whether she's really guilty or not, and neither do any of you. Unless you watched every minute of every day of the trial, you don't know all the evidence or testimony that the prosecutor relied upon to support the charges. Even then, you still don't know, because unless there's a video showing the crime being committed, all evidence is necessarily either circumstantial (like she didn't report her kid being missing for a long time) or based on some witness' possibly faulty recollection (the witness testifies he saw her do it, but turns out he had a concussion that day). Unless there's DNA evidence, and even then there can be problems (like the guy at the DNA lab spilled beer all over the sample). Juries have always had to make reasonable inferences from evidence and evaluate the credibility of witnesses. Judges have always had to decide whether evidence is sufficiently reliable for the jury to consider it. And the state has to prove guilt, and not just by the "more likely than not" standard. It has to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.

Like it or not, this is our system. We should thank God for it. Unlike other countries, our Government officials can't just decide they know who did it and put you in some hell hole for 50 years without proving their case. Without proving a compelling case. This isn't Russia, is it? Anyway, remember how everyone is so quick on Memorial Day and Veteran's Day to thank soldiers for their sacrifice to protect our rights? Trial by jury and the "reasonable doubt" standard are among the most sacred rights in English and American law. The right to have a jury of your peers decide your guilt based upon evidence adduced at a trial in which you have the right to confront and cross-examine your accusers, and not by some official mandarin subject to pressure to please the angry mob (or a judge seeking re-election), is one of the core liberties we enjoy. If the right of trial by jury goes, so goes America as we know it.

What does that mean? Any system that relies on people is going to have flaws. People on juries make mistakes. People are dumb. People forget things. They don't always listen. When they listen, sometimes they remember something different than they heard. But that's true of witnesses as well, even so-called "forensic experts." Its especially true of cops. Its certainly true of judges. That's true of jurors too. You're not guaranteed a jury of 12 Harvard professors, or 12 people who made a perfect score on the SAT. You're guaranteed a jury of your peers. Average people. Simple people. The common clay of the new west. You know...morons. Sometimes they reach different decisions than most of us would. Sometimes that's a good thing, because they probably heard some key detail that the rest of us didn't Sometimes that's because they're just too stupid to know better. Sometimes its because they only heard evidence that the judge decided was of sufficient trustworthiness to be considered. They didn't spend six months listening to talking legal heads on MSNBC or CNBC or the like, pontificating about things they don't know about. But juries are going to let the blatantly guilty walk free from time to time. They're going to put innocent people away from time to time. Its not perfect. But no institution dependent on human beings as an integral component will be perfect. Like Catholicism. Or the Democratic National Convention.

I have a little experience in this area. I've always thought jurors take their position seriously. It may annoy them that they have to be there, but nearly all of them understand the seriousness of their position, and the responsibility it imposes on them. Nearly all jurors try to do a good job. That's all we can ask of them. And its more than most people can say about how they do their own job.

So get over it.

Having said that, they should have put Casey Anthony away for naming her kid "Caylee." See above.

NEXT-at some point, I will write about respect.

Top 10 US Places to Visit

2011-06-23T18:44:00.006-05:00

Some ridiculous article I saw today listed the Top 10 places to visit in the United States. It included such awesome places as...Orlando. Orlando?

What? Orlando would top just about anyone over the age of 16's list of places to flee for your life. Right ahead of Somalia and Detroit. The article listed Los Angeles too, which is a great place to watch a baseball game and get stomped, or to sit in traffic for three hours as you try to go 10 miles. Not sure I'd want to travel with these people.

So I thought I'd share my own top 10 list of US places to visit. These are the places where I'd most want to take Long Duk Dong or some stinky cheese-eating euro Borat type to visit. These places embody the majesty and awesomeness that is the United States. After all, who needs France? The Riviera...meh!

Nice shorts up there by the way fella. Did ya get a free bowl of soup with those? Thanks for ruining a perfectly good view at Mount Rainier.

Here you go, in no particular order:

New Orleans
Yellowstone NP
New York City
San Francisco
Washington DC
Hawaii
Boston
Yosemite NP
Grand Canyon NP
Mount Rainier NP

Honorable Mention:

Chicago
Las Vegas
Acadia NP
Santa Fe
Texas Hill Country
Alaska
Redwoods NP
California Coast
Seattle
Grand Tetons NP
Monument Valley
Valley Forge NHP
Gettysburg NMP
Outer Banks, NC
Cleveland, OH (just wanted to see if you were paying attention)
Annapolis, MD
Charleston, SC
Lake Tahoe, CA/NV
Glacier NP
Aspen, CO
Skyline Drive/Blue Ridge Parkway
Natchez Trace Parkway
Zion NP
Miami Beach

Talk amongst yourselves.

Next-Ok, I will teach you the meaning of the word "respect."

New Blog Layout?

2011-06-13T18:29:00.005-05:00

We could all use a brief respite from the moral harangue, so I'm looking for a little audience participation on another vital subject.

Does it seem to you like this blog looks kind of old and tired? Like a leisure suit and patent leather belt. Or a lawyer.

I have this sneaking suspicion that the format is now weathered and dated. Just like Lindsay Lohan. Looking at it sometimes makes me want to smash the computer screen.

No, that's not true. More like looking at it makes me want to do something other than look at it.

Blogger now has a lot more standard formats, so you don't have to become a computer code expert to freshen up your blog format. So I think over the next few days I'm going to try out several new formats. See what you think and let me know. Everything I write is already hard enough to read, so anything that makes it a little more reader-friendly has to help.

This will be sort of like taking your friend shopping and trying on a bunch of new clothes to get their opinion.

Yay!

That "yay" was sarcastic, by the way. Just in case you didn't know.

While I'm at it, I guess a more relevant question is does anyone read or write blogs anymore? I know from the "stats" feature that I get plenty of hits, but I assume 95% of them are spammers or guys wearing boxer shorts and sitting in their stepmothers' basements surfing for fetish sites. Google something weird like "belly sweat" and I'm sure one of my posts will pop up.

Of course, putting that question here probably won't reach the right audience.

I suppose blogs are archaic, like selling pagers in an iPhone world (just like Liz's ex-boyfriend Dennis on 30 Rock). How 2004 of me. Blurg! Well, I still enjoy writing it. Sometimes.

So me, my rotary dial phone, my AM radio, the fake talk show I host at my house on Tuesday and Thursday nights, and my blog are going to keep on going. If you think differently, send me a fax.

But let me know what you think of the different layouts too.

Next-RESPECT.

Be True To Your Country

2011-06-11T14:45:00.029-05:00

We give them money
But are they grateful?
No they're spiteful
And they're hateful.
They don't respect us so let's surprise them;
We'll drop the big one and pulverize them.

--Randy Newman, "Political Science"

Maverick and Goose hate Commies and they love the USA. Why can't you be more like them?

Oh, and spoiler alert...I take several unwarranted jabs at the Mormon faith here. Sorry. My bad. I'll grant you this is a bit much coming from a Southern Baptist (albeit from the pro-dancing, pro-wine, pro-education, anti-"wives as chattel" wing of the church...there's lots of empty seats at our meetings). But did anyone expect better? I also say bad things about Mexico City. True things. But bad things.

Next up on the tour of rules by which to live your life..."be true to your country." Or as the South Park guys put it in "Team America: World Police," "Terrorist, your game is through cause now you have to answer to America." I should save this one for July 4th, but I've never been strong on timing.

Others have written millions of words explaining why America is the world's most awesome country. Everyone from deToqueville to Lee Greenwood has taken a whack at it. Rehashing all these thoughts hardly serves much purpose. But, while most Americans regard America as "great" (naturally not Rick Perry, terrorists, or Berkeley residents, of course), we the rest of the people seem to possess disparate reasons why. So without writing an entire treatise, I'll sum up the reasons for America's continued greatness, and why you should "take stock" in our continuing national experiment. The last, best hope of earth.

Its important to realize just how far superior the United States of America is to every other country. Particularly those terrorist countries where they hide black market Stinger missiles in caves and don't take showers and pray eight times a day for help in murdering innocent people. And France. Sorry, American Apologists, its true. We're even better than the UK. In making that seemingly jingoistic claim, everyone should realize that most other countries aren't Japan or Canada, what with their free health care (which free rides on American medical innovations) and their longer life spans and their spelling bee proficiency. Most other countries are Egypt (still bordering on chaos), or Mexico (where half of Mexico City lives on trash heaps and the other half worries about being kidnapped), or Singapore (where you get caned for littering), or China (with its toxic air and where statements that the ruling elites deem unsatisfactory consign you to hard labor or home confinement, depending on whether Jesse Jackson takes up your case).

Our country is the best because we have a government of law, not of man. The law applies to everyone, high and low. Despite some people's best efforts (and you know who you are), we are not governed by some potentate with bad hair or a cabal of borderline senile 80 year olds issuing pronouncements from on high (like the Soviet Politburo or the Mormon Church). Huey Longs and Duval Counties may come and go, but on the rare occasions when they do occur, they don't last long. For that we can thank the federal courts and military and police forces that respond to the law rather than wayward executives. We have free elections and the losers willingly leave office without army divisions having to blast them out of the presidential palace. The law applies to everyone, high and low.

Of course, money and connections can improve your chances for beating the rap, just like everywhere else. But unlike most places, the prosecutors and judges don't worry about starting their car and having a bomb go off for going after the wrong people. Concededly, you also have a better chance of getting into Harvard if your dad or your great, great uncle Hezekiah (who led the Union cavalry with Teddy Roosevelt against the Spanish Army) went there. But ultimately even the rich and connected have to pay the piper, as a long list of the rich, famous and powerful who couldn't outrun the law will attest (Jeffrey Skilling, Bernie Madoff, Phil Spector, Wesley Snipes, Richard Nixon, Webster Hubbell...next up, John Edwards). And though your dad might wrangle certain advantages for you, eventually you have to sign your own work; eventually it doesn't matter who your dad was if you can't produce. At least we're not Mexico, where about 10 families own everything, or some other incredibly class-conscious and stratified nation like India.
As a result of strong, universally applicable laws that restrain government, we Americans enjoy unrivalled personal and economic freedoms. We were the first country to enshrine personal freedom for all (not just the earls and barons) in binding law. The law puts some subjects beyond the government's power to regulate and has thereby accorded all of us freedom from the mob. This freedom has spurred dynamic expression, creativity, and industry, which propelled America to incredible wealth and achievement. And while we need, and have, a certain amount of regulation to keep the flipper babies and nuclear meltdowns to a minimum, relatively light government control has allowed our strong American initiative and drive to flourish. Yet, at the same time, we balance our freedoms with our broader rights to security and safety. The very reason for society is to promote its members' well-being, so the first responsibility of a community is to protect its citizens' safety and stave off anarchy. Even with such restraints on police action as restrictions on searches and seizures, exclusionary rules, Miranda rights, and the like, most places in America are more or less safe. At least, they're more safe than most of the world. Say what you will about Detroit or Watts. They're not Juarez.

Here, you can be whatever you want to be. Mostly. That is, hard work, ingenuity, and resourcefulness is rewarded. Most of the people in the various "most wealthy" lists didn't start out that way. Mattress Mack came to Houston in a truck and with $20,000 to his name. He spent it all on furniture to sell out of a tent by the highway and on TV ads. Years later, he's one of Houston's leading citizens. Most of the fabulously wealthy people in our country started out dirt poor. Here, you don't need to be content with your "station." You can change it. Anyone with a great idea can, for the most part, just go out and do it. Mostly its without government help. Remember the government research program that led to the airplane, the light bulb, the telephone, the skyscraper, or rock and roll? No? That's because it didn't happen. Someone just thought these things up and did them, reaping the rewards in the process. Sure, we have poverty, no question. But being poor here is a whole lot better than being poor in most places. Those people living on trash heaps outside Mexico City would change places with our poor in a heartbeat. Without becoming socialists, we've enacted basic safety net programs that address this, and with access to training and jobs (through public education and a free market economy), permanent poverty is contained.

As for the race issue, and the broader "discrimination" issue, problems of course continue to exist. The racial question has plagued our country since we declared that "all men are created equal" at the same time we were enslaving an entire race (and equating women with children). But we are not the people of 230 years ago who did that, or of 150 years ago who went to war over slavery. We have completely eliminated racism from our laws and governmental actions. Anyone who thinks to the contrary is free to have a federal court examine the matter and invalidate any such law or action. Other than possible differences in the child support and family law arena, we have outlawed sex-based discrimination, with federal court enforcement. The Constitution protects the free exercise of religion (except apparently it doesn't let old Mormon men have 15 child wives at a time, go figure). Cultures change more slowly than laws, but 2011 is not 1931, or even 1963. People of different races mix freely, marry one another, sit down together, worship together, share the same public facilities, work in the same jobs, and find themselves together in every walk of life. Much remains to be done. The whole reason we've faced newer types of racial and ethnic challenges is so many people representing such a vast array of races, religions, cultures and beliefs who share our basic values came here to advance themselves, the same way people have for ages (sorry natives). I'm sure Norway doesn't have much of a race problem. On the other hand, lots of other countries with only two races have tremendous race problems. Muslim immigration into the UK and Europe is causing extremely bitter difficulty in some ways reminiscent of our experiences in the early 20th century. Nations throughout Asia and the Pacific Rim historically treat the Chinese as second class citizens. The entire world has treated Jews with bitter discrimination and hatred for thousands of years. Arab and Iranian Muslim governments haven't exactly thrown out the welcome mat for non-Muslims. So the race problem remains, but no one should dismiss the United States as a result.

Because we enshrine in law the ethic of equal participation (though the vote) in government, our government historically has enjoyed an extremely high sense of faith and confidence, which in turn afforded us the benefit of stable government. We enjoy government of the people, by the people, and for the people. We don't have to endure chaos as with Italy's ever-collapsing coalition governments, or the suppression necessary to sustain a family that rules the country from generation to generation. Nor do we have to post federal marshals at every voting booth to make sure the incumbents don't steal the election, or rely on trustworthy colonels to lead their divisions against the capitol when the loser refuses to vacate office. Yet, because we have a republic, the inmates don't run the asylum. Public officials can make unpopular but necessary decisions and still have a relatively decent chance of keeping their jobs at the next election. Do you want the same people who make American Idol the most popular show in America to be handling the intricacies of running state and federal government? If you think direct democracy is a great thing, check out California. There the government must work around the fact that propositions have roped off a great swath of subjects from their ability to legislate. The schools are destitute, crime is rampant, infrastructure is crumbling, and brown outs are an annual summer exercise. Short-sighted, contradictory and unworkable propositions appealing to the popular whims of the moment, coupled with super-majority voting requirements, have reduced the Legislature to virtual powerlessness.

Our openness to new people, new ways, new challenges, and new cultures strengthens us. Sorry fellow Republicans. Just like the Borg, who became the baddest beings in the universe because they've assimilated so many diverse cultures, the fact that we draw the best from all the world's civilizations has made us strong. Did I just compare us to the Borg? Oh well, no one will get that. Immigration, resulting in our "melting pot," facilitates this. Examples abound. People from around the world brought their food, their dances, their music, their inventions, their ethics, their styles, and yes, their genes. Can you imagine America without pizza, sweet soul music, football? Those things originated from somewhere else. Einstein and VonBraun were Germans. I.M.Pei was Chinese. Irving Berlin (who wrote "God Bless America") was Russian. John Muir and Andrew Carnegie were Scottish. The immigrant has been and always will be driven to succeed, to capitalize on his or her newfound freedom. Anyone who comes here to make their life chooses to do so and generally makes the most of it; the rest of us were born here and take it for granted. The conception of lazy immigrants content to live off public welfare may exist in some cases, but far more immigrants work hard to improve their lot than cash welfare checks and hang around the corner.

Finally, God shed His grace on America. We possess an abundance of natural resources, such as soil, climate, minerals, timber, and water, that makes ours one of the richest of all nations. Our country also features unparalleled beauty. Other countries possess incredible scenery of course, but we enjoy breathtaking natural scenery from coast to coast: the Maine Coast, Nantucket, the Smoky Mountains, the Blue Ridge Parkway, the Mississippi Delta, Miami Beach, the Michigan Upper Peninsula, the Texas Hill Country, the Rocky Mountains, the Grand Canyon, Yosemite, Glacier National Park, Yellowstone, the Grand Tetons, Sedona, the California Coast, the Olympic Mountains, Mount Rainier, Hawaii...these just scratch the surface of the wondrous places that all Americans enjoy as our birthright. Plus, we've got cable TV, Pirates of the Carribean movies, the NFL, the Underground Garage , barbecue, Blue Bell ice cream, Mila Kunis, the Daytona 500, crawfish boils, Family Guy, baseball (Japan and Cuba may have baseball but they copied us), David Sedaris, Mardi Gras, Tina Fey, Las Vegas, New Orleans, George Jones, the USC Song Girls, the Kilgore Rangerettes, and the drive-thru. Basically...we're cool.

And we can go to the moon. We can come back too. Suck on that, France!

Sure, the world is full of naysayers, with clever little jabs against us. I've addressed some of that already. Most of the criticism comes from three sources. First, there's the hard-left, European intelligentsia, arrogantly swilling cognac and smoking cigars in their salons and university clubs, bemoaning those naive, blundering Americans with their guns and their churches. When they're not sexually assaulting their hotel maids , violating UN resolutions and collaborating with Saddam Hussein, or losing elections they're moaning that the Americans are ruining everything. They're all on Sean Penn's holiday card list, of course. Next, basically the same people, but they're Americans. Mostly they live in New York, Hollywood, or Berkeley. These Blame-America-Firsters see nothing special about our country, and therefore reject its claims to greatness. They urge self-humiliation and capitulation on the world stage, extol the virtues of punitive taxation at home, and fight vigorously to suppress speech that disagrees with their world view. They ridicule the average American, who lacks a doctoral degree in some pseudo-discipline like "equality studies" or "sociology," lives somewhere lacking easy access to organic brie and fair trade produce, and watches, gasp, television. Such a tacky and illiterate society's institutions surely cannot be trusted. Finally, there's the dictators. Fidel, the Ayatollahs, the Red Chinese bosses, Hugo Chavez, Robert Mugabe, Moammar Gaddaffi (by the way, can that guy at least do us the courtesy of picking one way to spell his name and sticking with it?), whatever Kim Jong happens to be running North Korea...these guys don't care too much for the USA. How completely expected was it to find that the UN Human Rights Council, that beacon of world freedom, had put Libya on the council and issued a fawning report praising its human rights protections, even after it started mowing down innocent civilians from helicopters? But while these guys rail against America, their people come here as fast as they can. People all over the world are voting with their feet. They'd rather be here.

America's "greatness" alone doesn't by itself warrant patriotism or fidelity to your country becoming a "rule" by which to live your life. Sort of like how Manchester United is a great soccer team, but who cares?

By living here, you enter into a social contract with the nation. If you accept the benefits of living here, you should shoulder the burdens and should willingly and freely participate in its betterment. Or as Merle Haggard put it, "if you don't love it, leave it...if you're runnin' down my country man, you're walkin' on the fightin' side of me." Don't soak up all the rights and the fun, and then go over to England and talk down the country.

Yeah, its that simple.

What does "being true to your country" mean? Essentially that you become an engaged Citzen. This does not mean sleeping til noon, watching Gilligan's Island re-runs until 3, then ordering pizza and beer and playing Halo until 3 a.m. On Election Day. Support our institutions, laws and freedoms. That means you have to participate in the country's life. Vote. Serve on a jury when called. Volunteer. Obey the laws, even as you work to change the stupid ones or to enact new good ones. Read the news or watch it on TV. Honor those who serve, even if you disagree with some of their actions.

Being true to the country, doesn't mean blindly, sycophantically accepting ridiculous or near-criminal governmental actions. Unlike most countries, sovereignty here resides in the people, not the state. Whereas Louis XIV proclaimed "L'etat c'est moi" ("I am the state"), the people retain sovereignty here. Hence, we have a government "of the people, by the people, for the people." We owe no particular obligation to those whom we elect to follow their edicts. And because we possess the right to vote, we retain the ultimate supervisory responsibility over the government. The people must hold their government to account. We accomplish that by viewing its actions skeptically, demanding performance, looking beyond idiotic official slogans and often cynical rationalizations to ask whether its actions work.

This isn't so much of a problem. What is a problem is that we've developed utter contempt for public officeholders, which cripples their ability to compromise. After Watergate, umpteen thousand campaign finance and other "abuse of power" type scandals, and never-ceasing frat boy hijinks on company time ("Weiner-gate"), and in the age of personal life as politics, its easy to see why politicians rank so low in respect. To some extent, a healthy democracy requires skepticism of our public officials. But they're NOT all crooks. Nearly all officials want to do what they think is the right thing. They simply act in response to an often irrational system. I recall when President Johnson would address the nation on TV, my father, no great Johnson lover, would tell us kids to be quiet because the President of the United States was going to speak. Merely because of the great office the man held, ordinary Americans accorded the President respect. Some of the things people say about our presidents, governors, mayors, congress members, and judges are beyond hyperbole. Unfortunately, some people actually believe these epithets. Even more unfortunately, they're often the precinct chairs, block walkers, and campaign donors required to get elected. That means our officials have to bend to the ever more outlandish beliefs of their parties' extremes, and can hardly afford to be seen as "selling out" that side's beliefs. Want to draw a primary challenger? Agree with the "enemy" once you're elected. About anything. The resulting strategy for political survival? Don't agree to anything, and wait until your side gets the votes to ram everything through. Then you can make your supporters happy by voting for every ridiculous, short-sided, dumb ass idea that appeals to beered up crowds of angry G.E.D. holder activists on each side.

Hey people...American public officials are not Nazis, they are not fascists, they do not want to oppress and destroy, and they do not want to subvert the country. They aren't trying to destroy the poor, destroy the rich, or destroy you. Being true to the country demands respect for our leaders, even if you disagree with their leadership. Besides, if these people are so horrible, why don't YOU run for office and do things right.

OK, I'm tired of writing, so you're probably tired of reading. For those of you who made it this far, pat yourselves on the back. Go America!

Next-Respect

Be True to Your School

2011-05-31T20:39:00.019-05:00

When some loud braggard tries to put me down
And says his school is great
I tell him right away
Now what's the matter buddy
Ain't you heard of my school
Its number one in the state
So be true to your school now
Just like you would to your girl or guy

--The Beach Boys, "Be True to Your School"

The Golden Girls are true to LSU. That's for sure.

We're still in my ongoing harangue/series about how you should all live your lives. Cause I'm the expert.

Anyway, the next rule is Be True to Your School.

Now, at first glance this may not seem like the most important thing in the world. Give yourself an "A" cuz...you're right. But that doesn't mean its not important.

I always thought it despicable when someone would abandon or run down or otherwise slam their old school. High school or college. Its always been more of a visceral than literal reaction. After all, times change, and so do schools. Humble High School, in glorious Humble, Texas, has a profoundly different student profile now than in my 1979-80 freshman year. It therefore serves a different student need and provides a different environment. But Wildcats through the years should still give it their loyalty.

Just like a Washington think tank, I always search for the intellectual veneer that will cover my irrational prejudices and scattershot opinions (otherwise known as the long list of things that suck and the not-as-long list of things that are awesome in Reederville). Being loyal to your school should be no exception.

Basically, you owe your school loyalty because it played a major part in forming your personality and in giving you the tools to interact and function in broader society. Your parents (hopefully) taught you the basics and something about one-on-one interaction. But school is where you learned how to deal with people who didn't so much look like you or share your parents' beliefs. Its where you encountered people who were your equals, not your parents who told you what to do and what not to do. Its where you learned how to deal with groups, and to find your role in a broader community. Its where you learned how to make and keep friends, to recognize and avoid enemies, and yes, even how to have romantic relationships. Where you learned to avoid temptations. Often the hard way. Finally, its where you learned that not everyone loves you or is going to pat you on the back. In other words, its where you first confronted and learned how to cope with all the bad things in life. [Sidebar-the move toward a "participation ribbon" school ethic is one of the most dangerous things about modern life]. You owe your school that loyalty because it made you who you are.

Ok, maybe if you're a complete and total failure you don't need to be true to your school. Though arguably you would be an even bigger loser if you hadn't gone to school. Even those athletes or other misfits who flunk out of school or only go a year are still better off for having been in a collegiate learning environment.

Of course, its not literally the school building or the administrators who carry out these functions, but they make all these things possible by keeping the school afloat. Teachers can't be parents, but they can provide invaluable mentoring and inspiration. Everyone can think of a fantastic teacher or professor who provided invaluable "off the books" guidance along the way. Luckily, I had several. Sadly, they can play that function in fewer and fewer instances due to state mandated uniform curriculum requirements, not to mention irrational parents who won't accept that Johnny really deserved the "C" he got in biology class. [Hey parents, chances are the teacher isn't horrible and he or she didn't single out your little darlin' for abuse. No, the more likely explanation for your kids' bad grades is that your kids are getting the grades they earned. Don't blame the teacher. Make them crack their books and study every night.] No, the true value in school is the interaction with your fellow students, with each of you trying to make sense of learning, both the material and about adult interaction. The "playground" follows you all through school.

So much for home schooling. Certainly, you hear about home schoolers having perfect SAT scores and performing well ahead of their peers. I'm sure they can all perform open heart surgery and program your DVR with little difficulty too. But when you home school (or in a small home school coop), you never have to learn how to deal with someone taking your lunch money or knocking you down on the playground, so by the time you're an adult, you've never learned how to handle the fact that some people have bad intentions. You're not exposed to drugs and drinking, and other modern-day evils, so you don't recognize and develop ways to resist the peer pressure until well into your early adulthood. Plus, the home school football team is pretty horrible. The home school prom is an abject disaster. Which makes it sort of like the real prom. True, you might pick up some avoiding getting your butt kicked skills in other institutions, like church or camps or scouting or swim team, but those aren't general institutions where you have to deal with all kinds of people who aren't exactly like your parents or siblings.

What exactly does “being true” to your school mean? Not much, really. Just that you exhibit a certain loyalty and fidelity to the institution. Cheer for its teams. Don’t graduate from LSU then cheer for Alabama. Rally around it in difficult times. Possibly contribute financially, or if not, perhaps volunteer on campus or in the community. Join the alumni association. Don’t run it down in conversations. Because its various members molded and shaped you into the person you became, you should help do the same once you possess the means.

Being true to your school doesn’t call for blind, unwavering boosterism or support no matter how miserably low its achievement sinks or how egregiously its administrators and personnel act. Are you listening, Bob Knight Nation? Backing school administrators, personnel, coaches, and the like no matter what they do simply encourages inefficiency by not holding them to account and demanding performance. This attitude keeps your school from advancing and even from fulfilling its mission. In some cases, that tolerance of failure keeps your school isolated and unlikely to attract new students, professionals or other staff. Being true to your school in such instances requires the alumni to save the school from its administrators. This happens particularly with public colleges and universities, where the state government “captures” the regents or university governing body, which begins making decisions that further political rather than educational goals.

Nor should you should criticize the students. Any of the students. Even the football team. College students are 20, 21. High school kids are as young as 14. How would you have liked it if someone booed you in calculus class when you gave the wrong answer? Maybe less than all of these guys spend all their time studying and going to class, and maybe a handful manage to scrape together some ill-gotten chump change (from alumni only too happy to lend a hand). Cause we know when you were in school, it was all about malt shops and letterman sweaters. You never worked spare jobs to get some money, and you spent all your time studying. But 98% of college players won’t become professionals (and even when they do, most won’t make “big money, and of those who do, they can only play football for a handful of years. Ultimately they’re going to need a real job). But until they start signing NFL-money contracts, they’re still amateurs and deserve your support. Unless they’re thugs of course. And of course, almost none of the "non-revenue" sport athletes go pro. They're real students.

So park it on the couch for game day and cheer for your school. Go Kingwood High School! Its number one in the state!

And go Texas Longhorns! We don't keep up with the Jones...we are the Joneses.

Next-Be True to Your Country

Oh Grow Up!

2011-05-28T10:31:00.009-05:00

But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.

–A. A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner (1928)

Onward we roll, with more helpful life rules (guidelines, maybe?). Again, this is just the World According to Me. Your mileage may vary.

In today’s installment, we confront the man of a certain age who refuses to grow up. I’m talking to you, Matthew McConaughey. You and all your sick Delta buddies.

All women grow up. At least, they do right after the first time that life screws them over. Women are the ones who keep things going these days. They raise the children, they keep to schedule, they improve themselves, they care for others, and they keep themselves and their families moving forward. Want to get something done? Put a woman in charge.

On the other hand, want to trade fart jokes? Put a man in charge. Contrary to Don Corleone’s advice (“women and children can afford to be careless, but not men”), however, 21st Century Man seems content to go through life like a child, fleeing from responsibility and ducking his age. Men play Halo. They surf for porn…at work. They play fantasy football, but don't have time to play real ball with their kids. They go on beer runs, and order a lot of pizza. Occasionally they work, but not around the house. They can't ever seem to pay child support. They’re the first ones in and last ones out of the pool. They’re Emeril when it comes to grilling, but seem to have multiple sclerosis when its time to clean up or put the kids to sleep. Archetypal 21st Century Woman: Hillary Clinton. Archetypal 21st Century Man: Homer Simpson.

That has got to change, people. You too, up there in the picture. Douche.

What exactly do I mean by “grow up”? I don't mean cease all fun, or never get out of the rocking chair, or become Alan Harper. I just mean “act your age.” Or, in the immortal words of Lili Taylor in Say Anything, “don’t be a guy, be a man.” There’s nothing worse than some 50 year old guy, rolling around town in a red Corvette, wearing Armani casual clothes (size XL to cover that rotund mass hanging above his belt line), on his way to the club to pawn women half his age. Sporting some sort of neo-Max Headroom hairstyle and tattoos. Casually tossing off pretentious statements about the newest trends. Claiming to know all the "right" people. Going to all the new hot spots.

Its icky.

This "age is a state of mind" business is a bunch of crap. There's plenty of reasons Atticus Finch wouldn't play football with the Methodists.

First off, being 50 and acting 20...its unseemly. Remember when you were a kid, and either your parents or someone else's parents would try to act like they were your age? Using trendy words or wearing trendy clothes? Remember how stupid you thought they were? Bingo. Please do not do anything that makes the rest of us cringe. And because some of you just don't get it, let me be even more clear. This means no: Lady Gaga obsession, skull tattoos, Goldschlager shots, fist bumps, chest bumps, high fives, baggy pants, "man-dannas," watching MTV, or skateboarding. Get a job, a real job, not something where you "consult" once a month or wear a nametag, but seem to always be at the movies or coffee shop during the middle of the workday. Work somewhere with a payroll and a 401k. Don't have a Black Eyed Peas ringtone. Wear nice clothes, listen to classic rock or country, jog or swim, eat sensibly, get enough sleep, watch American Idol if you must but do not talk about it in public, and for the Love of God, do not have any friends who weren't alive in the 1980s. Heed Chris Rock's warning-you don't want to be the old man in the club.

Plus, sorry to say this, but as you grow older, you're expected to set an example. To lead. That means you need to mature. How many times have you heard some kid justify inappropriate or foolhardy behavior by naming some adult who does it? Like Bill Clinton. Its the same in all walks of life. At work, at the club, at the gym, and in whatever other community to which you belong. We don't want to constantly explain away your behavior. "Just because Chris does it doesn't make it right. Besides, do you really want to wind up like him?" Do you really want to be Larry Eustachy, former 47-year-old Iowa State basketball coach, crashing fraternity parties while his team was on the road? Not exactly the sort of thing they'll mention in your eulogy. You can't lead or set an example when people think you're a joke. Your Peter Pan lifestyle isn't making things any better, and makes it harder to justify not setting you adrift on the ice floe once things take a turn for the worse.

Besides, 50 year olds living like twenty-somethings...that's just risky. Ask John Entwistle about continuing to party like a rock star in your 50s. Again, sorry to keep harping on reality, but your 50 year old body just can't hang with the kids. That doesn't mean you have to sit in a wheelchair all day and see whether melanoma or diabetes takes you first. You should lead an active lifestyle. But you should probably take a nap. Eat some vegetables. Drink water. Stay out of the sun. And don't suddenly take up skiing or mixed martial arts or clubbing in your 50s or beyond. Your ligaments are probably just one step short of calcifying. How about going for a walk instead? You need more recovery time. You have less stamina. You just can't play basketball all day and then drink all night. The mind may will it, but your decrepit old bones want none of it.

By no means, however, should you become old Mrs. Dubose in To Kill A Mockingbird, spending your life sitting in your rocking chair with a Confederate pistol under your shawl, ready to whack anyone that steps on your geraniums. Youth is an elixir. Think young. Be active. Have some younger folk among your friends. They challenge you with their innovation, creativity, passion, and exuberance. You can mature and still have fun without becoming a fossil. Have a bowl of ice cream, but lay off the crystal meth (I'm talking to you here, Andre Agassi). Climb the rock wall at your gym or hike the Skyline Trail at Mount Rainier. Just don't go climb Mount Kilimanjaro on a whim or audition for Jackass. Drive a cool car, but not something that screams "I fear hair loss and impotence" as you roll down the boulevard.

Or as an alternative, you could buy a big mansion with pool and hot tub, fill it with servants and bimbos, get a lifetime supply of Viagra, and wear a matching Captain's hat/velour pajamas combo every day. You'd be an idiot, but probably wouldn't care until the money ran out.

Next-Be True to Your School.

The 2011 Jazzies

2011-05-17T23:31:00.007-05:00

You know what they say about a car wreck, where it's so awful you can't look away? The Dundies are like a car wreck that you want to look away from but you have to stare at it because your boss is making you.

-Pam, The Office

Can we all withstand one more post about the Jazz Festival? Between frequent Facebook updates, nightly blogs, and tons of photos uploaded to flickr, I've given this thing more coverage than Dennis Kucinich's presidential campaign received. From anyone. Why on earth that hobbit ever thought anyone would vote for him is beyond me. Sean Penn's support should have been a dead giveaway. He'd have been better off with Kim Jong Il's endorsement. This is going to be the Goldmember of blog posts. Running things into the ground is no way to run a blog. But then again, its either this or part 3 in my morality series-how to live your life. Its like deciding between watching paint dry or the ceiling fan spin. Or watching C-SPAN. So Jazz Fest it is.

Thought I'd do a little wrap up piece. In the tradition of the Dundies, I'm giving out my own "Jazzies." Its a little unfair, because I only attend the second weekend. Lots of really good musicians appeared the first weekend who undoubtedly rocked the house. But they don't make the cut because I wasn't there. Basically, outside the religious arena, I don't believe in anything that happens outside my field of vision (which of course includes things I see on television). Or hearing, which these days occupies much less acreage than vision. This highlights some "bests" and a few "worsts" from Weekend 2 of the Festival. I've pretty much summed up everything in previous posts, so just keep scrolling down for the relevant entry.

Enjoy!

Best Act-Trombone Shorty (Gentilly Stage, Saturday). This guy has transformed from a fantastic horn player who can sing to a dynamic entertainer who commands the stage and the crowd. He guested in about four or five other shows, showing that everyone wants to get with this guy. Enjoy your rise to the top. Honorable Mention: Sonny Rollins (Jazz Tent, Sunday).

Worst Act-Kermit Ruffins (Congo Square, Friday). Its not that Ruffins was literally the "worst" act at the show. I stayed quite awhile, but quickly left other shows that didn't interest me in the slightest. Maybe the better way to put it is "most disappointing act." I'd hoped for more.

Best "Find"-Gal Holiday and the Honky Tonk Review (Gentilly Stage, Friday, and Kid's Tent, Saturday). Check my review. Basically this is a smooth, but local, "western" band ("we've got both kinds, "country" and "western"). Bob Wills, Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, Webb Pierce...it just doesn't get much better. Looking forward to seeing them again.

Best Stage-the Gentilly Stage. This is the smaller of the two large stage. It usually hosts the "B" headliner each evening. This year it seemed to have the more interesting acts. The Gentilly Stage was the site of Cyndi Lauper, Willie Nelson, the Strokes, Trombone Shorty, the Radiators' farewell show, and Gal Holiday.

Worst Stage-the Acura Stage. Acura, the headliner stage, by contrast had some duds. Jimmy Buffett, Voices of the Wetlands All Stars, Kid Rock, Wilco, anesthetizing Lucinda Williams, Arcade Fire, and another mailed in performance from the Neville Brothers. Plus, every year the Acura Stage area winds up resembling a refugee camp. Seas of sweating bodies sidling up against one another, squalor, filth, haze, long lines for drinks, and idiots. I tell you it was like being at Woodstock without the acid. Stay too long and you risk catching the Ebola virus.

Best New Development-the Haiti Pavilion. Not sure if they intend this to return next year, but it was fun checking out a little of the Haitian culture. Its not all human rights violations, abject poverty and earthquake-induced carnage. Haiti has a very rich and strong culture. All this and voodoo too. Kind of like watching Live and Let Die, without that stiff Roger Moore. Or, unfortunately, Jane Seymour either.

Best Food-crawfish bread. Hands down. Simple, elegant. Well, sort of. Take a buttery po-boy loaf, fill it with cheese, peppers, and crawfish, and you've got yourself a little slice of heaven. You've also got yourself a triple bypass. But its one heck of a way to go. Plus its easy to carry around with you to the next stage, and easy to eat.

Best Photo-I only took about a million of them. The one above, even though poorly framed (I don't think I stopped walking to my car to take it), was my favorite. It shows the setting sun reflecting in a very old window on a building next to Cabrini High School. Something about the very pale pink in the white paint, contrasted with the brilliant orange sun twisted in the old style glass, seems very compelling.

Best Meal After the Fest-Grilled trout, Zea's Rotisserie and Grill (St. Charles Avenue). Unlike past visits, I didn't really search out fine dining. At nights I tried to work out, grab something to eat, then spent entirely too long writing my posts. So dinner time was at a premium. This is a chain, but still relatively local. By no means a Chili's. Excellent fish, simply prepared.

Best Non-Fest Experience-No it wasn't my date with the midget albino Guatemalan hooker. That's just so Raven. No, it was dinner with my brother Ron, also at Zea's.

Best Reason to Go to the Grandstand-not the cooking demonstrations, but a photographic exhibit of jazz legends by Herman Leonard. Mesmerizing black and white photos of the greatest artists in American history-Ellington, Fitzgerald, Gillespie, Davis, Holiday, Sinatra...on and on.

Oddest Moment-three or four times a day, people asked me for directions or other questions one would ask a Jazz Festival "official." Guess I've perfected that "looks like he knows what he's doing" look. I give my Dad credit for that. There have undoubtedly been times he hasn't known what's going on or what to do, but its never registered in his expression or mannerisms. Similar to my rule that its better to look like you know what you're talking about than to actually know what you're talking about, look like you know what the hell you're doing too.

Most Infuriating Event-Hard to find one, but I'd say the evil competitive booking of the last time slot of the Festival. From roughly 5 to 7, one had to choose between (or miss some of) Maze and Frankie Beverly, Sonny Rollins, the Radiators' farewell concert, the Neville Brothers, Glen David Andrews, and Rockin' Dopsie. I call "shenanigans" on that one.

Best T-Shirt: "DRUNKSTRONG"

Biggest Surprise: the 8,000+ hits on my flickr site, entirely attributable to photos of the Strokes concert. A "high" day on that site is under 100 views. Those boys sure must be popular.

Ok, that's just about enough. Another Festival has come and gone. Luckily, this year, my back wasn't crying out for codeine or a steroid shot, so maybe this whole exercise thing is paying off. Looking forward to another four-day weekend in the sun next year. Hope you can join me again.

One more thing. Join me in prayers or good vibes to the universe or whatever is your inclination for the passing of Harmon Killebrew. Thanks to steroids, we've forgotten some of the all-time greats of baseball, whose honestly earned statistics have been eclipsed by pharmaceutically enhanced muscle freaks. Killebrew played 20 years in Minnesota, quietly hitting 2,000 hits and 573 home runs. He had eight seasons of 40 or more home runs. He is one of four players in history to hit a ball out of Tiger Stadium over the left field fence (Reggie Jackson hit his, which actually hit the light tower, over the shorter right field fence). Most importantly, he was a real gentleman, one of the last real "role models" in the game. In a world of manufactured celebrity and unearned acclaim, Killebrew was the real thing.

Next-how to live your life. I know. Just bear with me.

Jazz Festival Sunday: Mother's Day Jazz

2011-05-09T22:35:00.017-05:00

What better way to celebrate Mother’s Day than going to the New Orleans Jazz Festival? Take her with you. You know what she really wants is to Cajun dance, drink beer, eat crawfish, and see Kid Rock. No? Actually, a lot of people apparently also weren’t convinced. Sunday’s crowds were thick, but noticeably smaller than Saturday, and very definitely smaller than previous last days of Jazz Festival. Mother’s Day probably accounted for that, but the absence of many national acts, other than Kid Rock, possibly also explained the lower turnout.

You know its bad news when you hand the ticket counter your ticket and she remarks at how sweaty you are. At least she didn’t ask me if I needed a doctor, or if that’s my normal face. Despite the number of clouds that had crept into New Orleans overnight, which promised to provide some heat relief, it was still a far cry from the relatively cool temperatures prevailing on Thursday. As it turned out, Sunday was the Festival’s hottest day, but we did get enough intermittent clouds to break the heat at times and make it tolerable. As long as you drank lots of water and stayed away from the Jim Beam (see below).

Like each day past, I started the morning in the Gospel Tent. There, as we awaited the Morning Prayer and the Zulu Male Ensemble’s session, two ladies who appeared to be in their late 20s were trying to befriend some much younger looking guy. He seemed to be having none of it, despite their reaching into their siren bag of tricks and throwing out everything they had. The Shreveport CPAs, wearing crazy hats and swilling beer at 11 a.m. on Mother’s Day, barged into this charming scene. That ordinarily would be “blocking,” but in this case it was likely quite welcome. The ladies looked like…hmmm...how to put it…they didn’t put a lot of emphasis on diet or hygiene. The cuter of the two had a dragon tattoo that filled most of her back and wrapped around her left side, and wore a Gumby necklace. Mind you, she was the cuter of the two. Eventually the object of their affection just kind of got up and walked away, a maneuver I recognize from years spent in the field. Boy, those chicks sure know how to celebrate Mother’s Day.

The morning prayer was kind of wide ranging, but included this phrase: “We know that there are some here who are motherless, but You promised that You would be with them.” That struck an obvious chord.

First up was the Zulu Men’s Ensemble, singing traditional gospel songs. Zulu is the main black mardi gras krewe, whose roots go back nearly 100 years. They were wearing slacks, the group’s coat and ties, and had to be sweltering as it was already quite warm in the Gospel Tent. Interestingly, they had one white guy among the bunch. And it wasn’t some Serpico-looking, undercover narc cool looking kind of white guy either. Nor was it Eminem or Vincent Vega or Steve Cropper. This guy looked like he could be the managing partner at Jones, Walker (the city’s largest law firm) or Assistant Vice President-Exploration and Development for Shell. He must do their taxes or something, cause you know he doesn’t have rhythm. This looks like that scene in Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex, the Woody Allen movie, where the semen are getting ready to parachute in for a...landing, and you see one black semen looking lost and confused around all the other white semen. Except switch colors and no one in the Zulu Men's Ensemble has tails.

Next was Russell Batiste, Jr. (and Friends) at the Acura Stage. I had no idea who he was, but had heard the name, and one of the "friends" was Jason Neville. At first, they played serviceable jazzy soul, in the vein of Anita Baker or Al Jarreau. You know...make out music. By the way, one of the "friends" was the weird tambourine chick who had played for Kirk Joseph. Maybe "tambourine" is where these guys stash their girlfriends who want to be part of the group. You know, like when Paul McCartney let Linda play piano and sing on tour. Except that she was wretched. Someone should have suggested "tambourine" to John Lennon as a way of letting Yoko have input. Instead of forcing him out of the Beatles. Anyway, when Jason Neville (Aaron's kid) hit the stage, the music took a turn to funk town. Coming from a Neville, that should have been no surprise. He was joined by some Mardi Gras Indians, and the group sang some Neville Brothers' standouts like "Fiyo on the Bayou." Jason's voice sounds a lot like Joe Cocker, or even an affected Satchmo. Except Jason lacks Cocker's pre-seizure stage mannerisms. I still think John Belushi's finest moment was his Joe Cocker impression, and hardly no one even recognized it. By the way, there's yet another Neville? How many ancillary Nevilles does that make? Charmaine, Jason, and Ivan. Maybe others. Are they in some sort of weird breeding war with the Marsalis family? Besides dad Ellis, they have Wynton and Branford, then there's Delfeayo and Jason. For those scoring at home, that's Nevilles 7, Marsalises 5.

After surrendering again to the crawfish bread, and experiencing the sweet rush of cheese, bread and spicy crawfish, I headed to the Economy Hall Tent for the Treme Brass Band. For the first time I've ever known, the Tent was full. Standing room only. And the second line had grown quite long, apparently including mostly locals instead of beered up tourists. Treme is a straight ahead, traditional brass band with the hats, white uniforms, and everything. They're old school, like from 1900 when it was "jass" and guys like Kid Ory or King Oliver had never heard of it. They were tight, as befits a group with such history.

Because there was nowhere to sit, and nowhere even to stand inside the Economy Hall Tent, it was on to the Fais-Do-Do stage for the Lost Bayou Ramblers. Again, this was an act I'd never heard, but had heard of them and decided to check them out. Good move, because they were quite good. These were some crazy young guys who were all over the stage. It seemed like traditional Cajun songs, but with edge. The guitar was electric, and the drummer played a drum kit and wore an AC-DC shirt. They brought a young, rocking edge to Cajun music. It wasn't zydeco; there was no accordion. But it was amped up Cajun. They spoke french, and they're from Broussard. A definite Jazz Fest "find."

Next was Anders Osborne, New Orleans guitar virtuoso. He is to New Orleans what Ian Moore was to Austin (before he flaked out and moved to Seattle). Put another way, he's Kenny Wayne Shepherd, only, good. Osborne is a really good blues guitarist, who's been around New Orleans since before I lived there. I remember seeing him in the 1992 Jazz Festival, and being really, really impressed. Haven't seen him since then. Back then, he looked like the budding rock god-long golden hair, tall and thin. He could have starred in a surfer movie. Today, wearing grubby clothes, an unkempt beard that probably had cheetoes residue, and long greasy hair, he looked like a derelict. But he can still play. He was on his game and had some wicked cool solos.

After Osborne's set concluded, I returned to the Fais-Do-Do Stage. The Ramblers had yielded to Feufollet, a "find" from a couple of years ago. Back then, this Cajun country/folk band were the young guns. Since then, one Grammy nomination and a lot of recognition later, they're now established. They've played dates in London, for example. I'm sure next year, Trombone Shorty will guest. By the way, I gave Shorty a glowing review yesterday and don't take it back, but Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez think that guy may be a little over exposed. He guested with Jeff Beck, the Neville Brothers, Kid Rock, Bonerama, and those are the ones I know of. Dude, give someone else a chance. Anyway, Feufollet is definitely cajun and french, but the music is decidedly more country, albeit sung substantially in french. I think it represents a new phase for Acadian music, and expect Feufollet to continue to rise in fame and accomplishment. They have clearly come a long way artistically, both in their writing and performance. Another excellent show.

Next up...Cowboy Mouth. This is currently New Orleans' reigning party band. Led by their drummer, Fred LeBlanc, they spun off from Dash Rip Rock, another outstanding though harder core party band. A Cowboy Mouth show is part rock show and part pep rally, with LeBlanc as the main cheerleader. Lots of yelling things like: "I want to hear someone SCREAM!" If you're not drunk or in a fraternity, its a little overbearing. Here's a thought. Just play your songs, and let them inflame (or underwhelm) the audience. There have been several examples of that principle at this year's Jazz Fest. But the crowd still enjoyed it.

I wanted to hear Ellis Marsalis in the Jazz Tent, but that just wasn't happening. A big overflow crowd has packed the Tent, so I instead went back toward Congo Square for the Rebirth Brass Band. On the way though, I lingered unexpectedly at the Jazz and Heritage Stage for the first time this year, taken in by the TBC Brass Band. This seemed like everyone who lives on three city blocks were on stage, including a legless trumpet player. They're definitely street; an article points out that one of their saxophonists, a young man of 22, was murdered in the Quarter last year. But those guys are tight, and they play straight ahead, full throttle brass band music with funk, soul and energy. Expect to hear more from these guys in the future.

Rebirth was one of the first acts I really identified when I first moved to New Orleans in 1991. I used to see them at Tipitina's, usually opening for bigger name acts. They were really the first local brass band to inject the music of their generation into the typical brass band lineup. Funk, rap, soul...Rebirth incorporated the sounds that were all around them into this more traditional New Orleans music style. Where they were once the fresh new group, they're now the established professionals whom others are trying to knock off. But this day they were excellent. They seemed to revert back to the days when they played at Saints games on the sidelines. They also had this character dressed in a three-piece white suit, armed with an umbrella and a sash, who danced the whole time. The crowd paid nearly as much attention to this guy, who turned out to have a sash that said "Grand Marshal," as to the group. They announced that this is their 28th year. Looks like they're still coming into their own.

Next, I had to face up to checking out Kid Rock. I don't want 15,000 Kid Rock fans sending in hate comments in reaction to this, so just save them; none will ever be published. Then again, gauging from the crowd (and there was quite a crowd, believe it or not), I doubt any of them can read or write, much less operate a computer to read blogs. I really had no idea what he was famous for, other than being famous. Turns out he was a musician (or so some say). I wandered exactly how this was going to go, but he mostly played by the rules. By that I mean, no dropping his pants, no constant stream of vulgarities, no slurring his speech. In other words, he wasn't Diamond Dave. Though I was ignorant before, I now know that Kid Rock is part rapper, part douchebag, and part reincarnated Ronnie Van Zant of Lynyrd Skynyrd. Most of his "songs" are just riffs from classic rock songs with overlaid rapping or actual melodies. More than half of his lyrics are some permutation of the words "Kid Rock," kind of like a two year old kid who runs around triumphantly telling you his name every 10 seconds. "I'M MARCUS!!!" In the end, Kid Rock is just a redneck rapper. Its not necessarily country, though there's a country element to it. There's equal parts Public Enemy, Molly Hatchet, Hank Williams, Jr., and Kenny Chesney. He doesn't do much of anything beyond strutting around like some jack ass exhorting people to party and pulling off his shirt. But that's actually a brilliant concept. In this day and age where braggadocio, even when unmerited, sells (see Chad Ochocinco and the WWE), this is a winning formula. Lately, to make it big, you don't actually need to have any talent or or accomplishments or game, you just need to tell people incessantly that you, in fact, ARE big (again, see Chad Ochocinco). Its all about self promotion. Kid Rock has that mastered, and on top of that, has monopolized the country side of that. Yeah, ordinarily country fans are a little more conservative, but since he's the only one (to my knowledge), he's cornered that market. He's ridden that formula to success, with various songs charting very high. Though its interesting that his biggest song, ("All Summer Long") is about singing another actually good song ("Sweet Home Alabama") all summer long. At various times during the show, he played keyboards, drums, and drums. Although he exhorted the crowd to "party," Cowboy Mouth style, I got the feeling that somewhere deep inside, once upon a time, he was actually a real musician. Nonetheless, the crowd loved it, especially when he took his shirt off. And as he was strutting around like a peacock, I noticed a tattoo labelled "Paul" on his arm. A huge eagle tattoo with the words "American Bad Ass" completely covered his back. A pint of Jim Beam sat on the drum riser the whole show, and he swigged from it a few songs in. Dude, your real name is "Bob Richie" and you're wearing a pork pie hat. You're not really all that street, you know? He was wearing a snakeskin belt...that's all I'm sayin. Oh, and feel free to leave your shirt on. Your body? Not as great as you think. Of course, Trombone Shorty guested. Let's see if we have the Trombone Short guest appearance count--Jeff Beck (week one), the Neville Brothers, Kid Rock...anyone else? No one in the Kids' Tent? If there's a star on a stage, Trombone Shorty will be there.

OK, that's enough about Kid Rock. I think you get the picture.

Two more good t-shirt slogans seen today: "Drunkstrong" (with same lettering as "Livestrong") and "The Godbarber" in the style of The Godfather logo.

Next was Maze featuring Frankie Beverly. Here's another act I'd long heard of but didn't know. They've been around since the mid-1970s. Everyone was clad in white outfits of various types. Frankie Beverly, the leader, was wearing some sort of all white Zsa Zsa Gabor track suit and a white Bill Tilden tennis hat. A woman started chatting with me before the show, and was shocked that I "ain't never seen Frankie Beverly!" This was just before she said she was his husband. Later she was bellowing out to him through the show. Something tells me this woman would get in her car and drive to Florida while wearing a diaper to knock any broad upside the head that stood between her and Frankie Beverly. The music was a mix of 1970s style intense soul-Teddy Pendergrass, Barry White, Al Green, Isaac Hayes. The mix was terrible and though I was center stage at the front, couldn't hear any of the vocals. The crowd was almost 100% black, and let's just say lots of the women were getting their groove back. Everyone seemed to know all the words to all the songs. Except me.

Later I shifted over to the Gentilly Stage for the Radiators' farewell concert. This is where whitey was hiding out, in an interesting kind of self-segregation. This evoked a couple of years ago, when rapper Ludacris was playing Congo Square at the same time Norah Jones was playing her soft and intricate ballads at the Gentilly Stage (with Ludacris' pounding bass beat plainly audible in the background). The Radiators were on their game, clearly enjoying the increased Jazz Fest crowds. Normally they're up against the Neville Brothers, who consistently outdraw them. This year, their last, would be different. Several guests appeared, including Warren Haynes (of Government Mule and Allman Brothers fame), the Bonerama trombone section, Michael Doucet of Beausoleil, and some others I didn't recognize.

I almost decided to close out the Festival with the Radiators, but decided with about half an hour to go to try to see Sonny Rollins. I had expected it would be too crowded and I wouldn't be able to get in, but chanced it. Thank God I did. Though 80, this guy was still the Real Deal. He came of age and was prominent during the bop era, and was in the same circles as Theloneous Monk, Art Tatum, Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Miles Davis, Bud Powell, and Max Roach. He can still blow a horn. I got there at about 20 minutes to 7. Rollins was finishing a tune, with really amazing solos. After thanking the crowd, he launched into his last song, a calypso-type tune that the crowd seemed immediately to recognize. That song lasted 25 minutes, with Rollins blazing solos all over it. Even when playing, he would occasionally shake his fist in triumph and exhuberance. It was one of the most amazing moments I'd ever seen at Jazz Fest. He just wouldn't stop playing. At the end, the crowd, which had completely jammed the Tent, gave one of the longest and loudest ovations I've ever heard. This was totally and completely justified, in recognizing a true master, demonstrating the glory and freedom of America's only truly unique art form-Jazz. Rollins played a brief encore, taking the concert nearly 15 minutes past its scheduled end. Jazz Festival had ended, on notes of complete and utter joy.

That concludes Jazz Festival 2011.

I've never done a "wrap up" posting before. Writing five posts back to back really takes it out of me, and does the world really need a sixth post from me on the same subject? But I'm considering it, because I had some strong reactions to the way the Festival was run this year, as well as of the talent. So you never know what you'll see here.

Next-either Jazz Fest Wrapup or getting back to telling you how to live your life.

Wait For It

2011-05-08T23:30:00.004-05:00

As has been an unfortunate practice the last few years, I'm delaying my post covering Sunday's Festival events. Had to pack tonight and meet my brother for dinner, and I'm pretty wiped out from the Festival. So instead, I'm going to get some sleep.

Photos from today are on my flickr site, which you can access from the link to the right. Oh, and by the way, the site had over 8,000 views yesterday, which is about 7,900 more views than any other day since I started it. Reason-all the Strokes photos. Apparently those boys are quite popular.

Today was probably the strongest of the four days, so make sure to check back sometime this week for the Sunday post.

Sorry about that. I know all six of you are crushed. Will try to make it up to you with some really witty ripostes and subtle sarcasm.

Or more Star Trek references. It could go either way.

Jazz Fest Saturday: I Heard You Was Dead...Glad To See You're Still Kicking

2011-05-08T00:12:00.010-05:00

It's late so I'm going to jump right in. It was a lot hotter today, and no clouds meant that it would be, and was, much hotter than the last couple of days. With it being a weekend, and with acts like the Strokes and Jimmy Buffett playing, I knew it would be extremely crowded.

Given the lateness of the hour, I'll skip my little onion sneak attack at the so-called "Please-U-Restaurant" rant and sob story. Suffice to say, I was neither amused nor pleased, and am officially boycotting the place. Suffering the wrath of Chris...I think they have no idea what they just did to themselves.

Also, I neglected to mention in my last post some good t-shirt slogans I saw yesterday: "In dog beers I've only had one." "I haven't finished writing my screenplay." "I put ketchup on my ketchup." "The Jefferson Airplane loves you." That last one was an actual phrase. The Jefferson Airplane did use that phrase; if I'm not mistaken it may have even been one of their album titles. But the point here is that at the 2011 New Orleans Jazz Festival, that's about as obscure as it gets. My "Otis Redding at the Monterrey Pop Festival" t-shirt from the Stax Museum thinks that's a little inside.

Today, as is the custom, I arrived around 11:00, in time for the Gospel Tent's morning prayer. Now this next bit is a little inelegant, but necessary. I used the port-a-potty (I know, gross) when I arrived, and the thing reeked of pot smoke. At 11:00 in the morning. Really? 11? You can't wait til, I don't know, afternoon? You got green fever that bad? You've got to spark up the minute you walk in the Festival? These are all signs that your life choices may not be conducive to achieving sustained success in your life.

As was true the last couple of days, the Shreveport CPAs were on the front row, with the 120 year old toothless black woman who had become their new best friend. The City of Love Music and Worship Arts Choir started the Gospel Tent's day. I suppose New Orleans is the "City of Love" in this context, though I've heard it called some other things. How many monikers can one city have? They wore Peter Max-style "LOVE" t-shirts with day-glo colors, and in a first, had two rows of women doing some booty shaking in front of the rest of the group. That's how I like my worship music, replete with booty shaking. Actually, it was relatively tame; I've seen more provocative NBA cheerleader routines. But Al Edwards would have been appalled. The Choir itself was very active and alive. To the point that they cut right through my self-induced benadryl haze, a by-product of the Grapes of Wrath-style dust bowl that has enveloped the Jazz Festival. Their passion was drawing people into the tent.

Next up was Troy Turner, in the Blues Tent. A word about the Blues Tent. I haven't seen a show in the Blues Tent in a couple of years. Part of that is because I'm not much of a blues fan, but part of it is because the Blues Tent is overwhelmingly crowded. There's no where to sit. In fact, there's nowhere to stand outside the tent on the concrete, where's there's no shade and you can't see the stage. The tent is too small, and they don't have enough chairs. Its gotten so bad that there's little point in planning to see a show at the Blues Tent after the initial round of acts each day. The Blues Tent is like that planet on Star Trek where they've outbreeded their planet's available land mass and everyone has to stand shoulder to shoulder and jostle each other for room (except they seemed to have enough space to build a fake Enterprise, which they used to confuse Kirk enough to where the Prime Minister's daughter could seduce him and then get a blood sample. Not sure they knew who they were dealing with...Kirk would have found a way to knock that one out, fake Enterprise or not. But what the hell were they doing wearing those white body suits-they looked like the "cut your johnson off" red body suit Moby wore in The Big Lebowski, or semen from Woody Allen's Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex). To paraphrase Yogi Berra (I think), its so crowded that no one goes there anymore. I think the last Blues Tent show I saw was the Ike Turner Revue. Rest in peace. But I did get a seat for Troy Turner, a local blues guitarist. Despite my relative indifference to the blues, Turner's set was really enjoyable. It bordered on rock, and he played some Stevie Ray Vaughan and Jimi Hendrix tunes. He played some other rock-blues standards, like "Baby Let's Play House," and "Going Down." This was not Robert Johnson blues. But as far as blues go, this was really good. Turner has great chops, and the band was up to the task. He's no SRV though. A woman sat near me, holding a little infant. The infant had to be less than three months old. Like Sweet Home Alabama, I thought "you've got a baby...at the Jazz Festival." This really isn't a great place for little infants. Its hot, there's thousands of people crowding all around you, lots of drunks, there's smoke, dust, and bright sun. Little kids are ok, because they can go to the kids' tent. But infants should stay home.

Before the next show, I treated myself to my "bad" meal of the day, Prejean's seafood stuffed mushrooms and pheasant, quail and andouille gumbo. As far as food that's horrible for you goes, this was mighty tasty. I look forward to it every year.

Next up was D.L. Menard, the Cajun Hank Williams. That's not hyperbole. He actually performed with Hank Williams. Menard is a perennial Fais-Do-Do stage favorite. Apparently his granddaughter has joined the band. And the pedal steel player's tween-age son, who plays guitar, speaks and sings what seems to me like fluent Cajun french. The crowd loved it. Menard announced that this year he turned 79, and wants to live another 30 or 40 years, "because I just keep getting better and better." Midway through the show, a Kris Kringle looking guy (I later learned he was doing the blacksmithing demonstration in the Louisiana heritage area) rolled up and waved to Menard. Menard shouted out to him and, in his typically mangled english speech said "they done told me you was dead. I'm glad to see you're still kicking." All the song call outs were in french, as were all the lyrics. We may as well have been in an Iberia Parish dance hall on a Saturday night. Oh, and finally someone played "Jole Blon" at the Fais-Do-Do Stage. How long did that take?

But Marcia Ball was playing at the Acura Stage, so I went over there in time to see Irma Thomas, Soul Queen of New Orleans, join her on stage to sing "Sing It." (Of course, that seems like less of a big deal now that I just saw a commercial for a personal injury lawyer in which Irma Thomas is singing a song about how he's the best lawyer in town). I'd hoped she'd stay longer, but it was just the one song. Otherwise, it was basically the same show that she played Wednesday evening in Lafayette Square. It was interesting that one of her last songs, which complains about how oil company development has ruined the marshes and estuaries, was performed prominently at a festival sponsored by an oil company. Shell to be exact. Guess Shell didn't know, or care.

Back to the Fais-Do-Do Stage to check Geno Delafose and French Rockin' Boogie. This is a case where the band name exactly matches their music. It was french, and it was rockin' boogies. Though it was also equal parts Cajun and zydeco, with some boogie thrown in. For example, they used an electric guitar and bass. Delafose had an irrepressible smile, and really seemed to enjoy the performance. The crowd loved it and everyone was dancing. In the dust.

I bailed on that show early because the Times-Picayune recommended Khris Royal, playing in the Jazz Tent. Notwithstanding that he misspelled his name, it was a great show. I would call it fusion, with a rock sensibility. Brown plays sax, and was joined by guitar, drums and keyboards. It was really energetic, very musical, and I couldn't stay awake. Again. So much for the Toto theory, because these guys were really good. I think its the fact that its so hot, and the tent was in the shade where I could sit. And I've been up really late writing each night. I stayed for the balance of the show, which was very dynamic.

Next was Allen Toussaint. He needs no introduction. Toussaint was one of the leading New Orleans R&B writers, producers, and performers. As one of the legends of New Orleans music, he could call on anyone to guest, and that included Jimmy Buffett, who came out for one song. Some unknown rapper dude came out too, wearing one glove that appeared to come from a gorilla costume. That was a little weird. Toussaint played a pretty typical set. The crowd was more polite than enthusiastic. It appeared to be a bunch of Jimmy Buffett parrot-heads waiting for their hero to show, wearing his Tommy Bahama gear and singing songs about drinking beer and laying out in the sun. Not exactly Leiber and Stoller.

Then it was on to Trombone Shorty. This guy, Troy Andrews, has been around seemingly forever. There's a picture hanging in the Jazz Tent of a five-year-old looking Trombone Shorty wearing shorts and holding a trombone. He's really evolved from trombone and trumpet player to front man. Though playing nearly all covers (such as "Shout"), he really commanded the stage and drive the crowd into a near frenzy. That was one of the most spirited crowds of this year's Festival. For the last song, all the band members switched instruments, with Andrews playing drums. And playing them very well. This guy's incredibly talented. And a Harry Connick-style prodigy who actually panned out. Pay attention Disney. This is the way to develop young talent. Later, in front of the tent where the Festival sells CDs and books from Festival artists, a long line snaked around the corner of people waiting to get his autograph.

During Trombone Shorty, a woman who appeared to be in her 50s came up to me and said she wanted to see whether I was Charlie Sheen, and said she and all her friends think I look just like him. That's great. Winning, duh!

After getting some red beans, it was time to check out the Strokes. I'd heard about them for some time, but never heard any of the music. The crowd seemed to be about 10,000 college and high school students. They started about 10 minutes late, which is pretty rock and roll of them. Once they took the stage, the shrieking started. I'd never heard that before, the sound of hundreds of girls screaming at the top of their lungs. It was unsettling. Had I unwittingly stumbled into a Justin Bieber concert? No, there were musical instruments on the stage, so that couldn't be it. But all around, girls were jumping up and down gasping, like their dad just bought them a new Mustang convertible. The group came on stage, looking like they just came from rock and roll central casting. The lead singer was wearing a black leather jacket. In New Orleans. In May. In the afternoon. Hey, douche, its hot out here. Lose the Fonzie jacket already. The lead guitar player had Cousin Itt hair and some sort of cheap green sunglasses. Otherwise, with his hair, guitar and mannerisms, he obviously was mimicking Jimmy Page. Music is about creativity, but styles are about plagiarism, so if you have to copy someone, you could do a lot worse than Page. The other guitar player looks like David Sedaris, wearing suspenders. He also looks like he could have gotten an accounting degree from UC-Davis. They had their studied indifference vibe down pat, what with the laconic gazes, Brian Jones back to the audience thing, talking to each other off mike, and mumbling to the crowd between songs. Nonetheless, this is something there's very few of anymore--a real, honest to God rock band. The crowd was going crazy, which is exactly what you hope for. There's nothing more powerful than a rock band at the top of its game. No other musical style carries the sheer power to incite and inflame an audience. Not country, rap, jazz, soul (except maybe Otis Redding or James Brown). Its primal. All the greats had it. Most of all, its heartening to know that there's a rock band that's so popular. Sometimes it seems like rock is dead. Maybe not. Maybe not just yet.

I bought a couple of pralines at the pralines stand. The woman there assured me that in New Orleans, the word is pronounced "prahleen," and definitely not "prayleen." You all needed to know that.

I ran into a gaggle of 14 year old looking girls, each of whom were smoking. In case any 14 year old girls are reading (uh, hopefully there are not), let me drop some knowledge on you. Sure, smoking makes you look cool and grown up, but there's some definite down sides. Try premature wrinkles, skin and teeth discoloration, increased susceptibility to illness, hideous cancers of all kinds, rotting teeth, and you become disgusting to kiss. Actually, it makes you look kind of stupid.

The day ended at the Blues Tent for blues legend Bobby "Blue" Bland. I only caught a couple of songs. He had a full, brassy band and powered through songs like "Ain't No Sunshine." He sat the whole time, and wore a boat captain's hat. Like Hugh Hefner. Probably seen better days. But he still has the voice.

After leaving, I immediately ran in City Park. There's a lake with two fountains, and a roughly one mile bike trail that encircles it. At darkness, I noticed a real live Venetian gondola, with a gondolier. He had the big pole, the outfit, striped shirt, hat...everything. Striking. Talk about your "what the hell?" moments. Every time I go to New Orleans, I see something totally unexpected. This counts. Maybe tomorrow I'll discover a bullfight stadium, or a ski lift. Those would be unexpected, but par for the course.

Tomorrow: Jazz Festival ends.