2010: That Was the Year that Was...and a brace of absurdities

"Years are terrible things."
Joseph Conrad

We are at that point in the year when introspection is the order of the day, time to examine the year that has so recently passed and effort given to planning what might happen in the next.  And so I begin with personal "Best of..." and "Worst of..." lists.

Another year of expansive reading (and listening) with the 2010 count at 125 books.  Most were unremarkable, slim pickings.

The Best

• Lennox, Craig Russell's first novel in a series featuring World War II veteran Lennox, a Canadian  living in 1950s Glasgow.  Morally empty, Lennox works for the Three Kings, crime bosses-one Catholic, one Protestant, and one Jewish-who stand in for the sectarian violence that plagued the city.  Gritty, well-plotted.
• The Amateurs, John Niven...my second plug of one of the funniest books I have ever read.  And I don't even golf. (Thanks, John Hamilton)

Honorable Mentions:

• Matterhorn, Karl Mariantes.  Viet Nam-era magnum opus.  Mind-numbing, bone-chilling realism, complex, nuanced, brutal. (Thanks, Chris Britton)
• The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, David Mitchell.  Rich, textured novel about Dutch traders in eighteenth century Japan.  (Thanks, Vince Reardon)

I am also enjoying mysteries written by Tana French, a Dublin actress who has turned her creative talents to writing.  

The Worst:

• Dead or Alive, Michael McGarity.  Makes The Ludlum List (where I banish writers who write the same novel over and over again) in two books.
• The Book of Lies, Brad Meltzer.  Stupid, just stupid.

In the world of movies the pickings were also slim.  The best movie I saw in 2010 was The Hurt Locker, Academy Award winning best movie from 2009.  The worst, hands down was Robin Hood, the Russell Crowe vehicle.  When Cate Blanchett rode onto the beach leading her army I began laughing so hard I nearly fell off the couch.  Not what the director intended, I am sure.  The Coen Brothers remake of True Grit, is better than the ham-handed original.  Then again, anyone reading this is probably a better actor than Glen Campbell.

Around here, 2010 will always be remembered as the year of our Scottish Adventure.  Our nine weeks in Glasgow is recollected every day.  We miss our friends and plan to call them tomorrow to wish them good cheer for Hogmanay.

I promised a pair of absurdities.

#1: Prep-school, Trinity College graduate and bow-tie wearing Tucker Carlson, has weighed in on Michael Vick, proclaiming that the African-American quarterback should have been executed for his crimes against dogdom.  He began his absurdist rant by first proclaiming, "I am a Christian."  Is it just me, but when someone begins to explain his or her view with that pronouncement, you are almost certain to get a decidedly un-Christian view?  Intolerant, ignorant, bigoted, uninformed.  I certainly don't condone what Vick did;  he has paid for his crime-nineteen months in jail, two years out of professional football, and personal bankruptcy.  Obviously not enough to satisfy pompous prig Carlson.  C'mon, man, this is America!  We are the country of second-chances and we love nothing better than a good redemption story.

#2: New Mexico governor, Bill Richardson, days away from leaving office, is pondering whether or not he should give a pardon for William Bonney, aka, Billy the Kid.  Evidently things in New Mexico are going so well that the governor can ignore double digit unemployment, a wheezing educational system, and abject poverty to actually weigh the merits of pardoning a killer who died 130 years ago.  Who gives a shit?  Is there anyone still alive from those days to whom this would really matter?  This is why all politicians are nothing but pandering ass-clowns.

Happy New Year!

Qatar or Catarrh

Qatar?


Qatar?

You’re shitting me, right? Qatar.

Forget investigating the sachems of FIFA for corruption, I recommend opening a full-blow drug investigation. Team Sepp Blatter must be smoking or snorting something to have come up with a brace of lame-brained decisions for the 2018 and 2022 sites for the World Cup…or should I write World Cup™?

I cannot add to the deluge of vitriol pouring from our normally stiff-upper-lipped cousins across the pond. England, home of the best professional football league in the world, and also home to savvy, world-traveling fans is as perplexed at the anointing of Russia as we are over…Qatar.

The country has a smaller population than San Diego, a mere digit of land blessed only by the presence of a shitload of oil, with summer temperatures in excess of 110° F, 44° C. Qatar is supposedly a very rich country. How rich can it be when it can’t even afford a U? When Mr. Blatter pulled the note card out of the envelope to make the formal announcement, the head of Qatar delegation was as shocked as the rest of us, raising his eyebrow in wonder. Not eyebrows, his one eyebrow.

Qatar’s football team has never qualified for the tournament, and hosting the Cup may be the only way they will ever qualify.

Qatar already boasts the highest per capita carbon emissions of any country in the world. (Fact: you can look it up.) The country must build stadiums and additional infrastructure to accommodate the sporting festival. Solar technology will cool the stadium and promoters claim these stadiums will be carbon neutral.

My arse.

Sepp Blatter, the same nattering nabob (sorry, Spiro) who refused to allow goal cameras for the World Cup, has shown his fondness for lucre and his total disdain for the football fan. While Mr. Blatter will arrive in a private jet and be driven to a limousine to a air-conditioned private box, the average fan will struggle to enter the country, find a place to stay, and melt while trudging to the as-yet non-existent venues. Most sports barons are brain-dead and blind to the plight of the fans who actually spend the money that fuels their sport’s respective popularity. Blatter is in a class all his own.

Americans are always derided as not being a football (soccer) friendly nation. Even the minority of us who are fans of the beautiful game far outstrip, as a total, the populations of most other countries. And the passion for the game has been building in the States, witness the excitement during the 2010 Cup, where, despite the time zone issues, the United States national team games drew tremendous interest.

We may be a naïve, young country, but we can smell a rat. The fix was in. Shame on FIFA.

I suggest that we now turn to one of national treasures, the Reverend Jesse Jackson, who with a bit of versifying, can lead us into a promised land of boycotting the 2022 World Cup.

A tip of hat to my mate, Tim Wheatcroft, late of Nottingham for the loan of the homonym catarrh.

Curmudgeon in Training

Of the benefits enjoyed while aging, perhaps none is as sweet as the status of being a curmudgeon.  While I don't aspire to be as curmudgeonly as Andy Rooney or Ed Asner (perhaps he's just bitter), I enjoy the freedom to rant and rail about things with the understanding that it's merely the musings of one who is moving beyond middle age.

In no particular order here a few of my least favorite things:

1. Anything made DeLonghi.  We buried our second 50-cup coffee maker in 20 months.  The espresso machine never worked...the overpowering flavor of metal is not condusive to Italian coffees.  So in my mind DeLognhi=shite.
2. To the arshehole who keeps leaving advertisements in the form of empty sports drinks in the locker at 24-Hour Fitness...stop already.  If I find out where you live I'll leave a DeLonghi espresso machine on your lawn.
3. While I am on 24-Hour Fitness...it must be incredibly difficult to figure out how to replace the paper towels and the cleaning solution at the same time.  Invariably one or other is out, usually in separate locations.  Who knew that you needed someone who gets mail from Mensa to replace these janitorial supplies?  And can the company make a decision on what system it will use for club entry? Biometrics with a security gate to a card and no security gate back to biometrics.  Frankly, I am little concerned about where everyone else's index finger has been.
4. Las Vegas...to paraphrase Disney, must be "The Seediest Place on Earth."  What happens in Vegas should stay in Vegas and it should be quarantined.  The Strip is a cesspool, filthy, littered with cards and leaflets, teasers for escort services.  OK, why be even remotely politically correct? These are cards and leaflets for prostitutes, or as my dad would say, "hoo-ers."  Walking the Strip means running a gauntlet of illegal aliens slapping the cards and shoving them in your face.  The city is an assualt on the senses.  Want to get Al-Qeada terrorists to talk?  Send them to Las Vegas for a weekend!
5. Anything NFL. I have watched maybe a half dozen games since that pissant Eli Manning threw a shit fit after being drafted by the San Diego Chargers.  (None watched in the last two years, including the Super Bowl.) I don't care for the game and the outsized gang of thugs and sexual predators that strut across the field pounding their chests or creating a recognizable celebratory dance that they bust out each time they do something significant, like break wind.  While trying to kill myself yesterday on the eliptical trainer at the aforementioned 24-Hour Fitness, ESPN was broadcasting the arrival of players prior to a game.  First of all, is this supposed to be significant?  Second, nearly everyone of these overpaid egoists was wearing an industrial set of earphones.  God forbid that they should have to recognize, wave, or shake hands with a commoner.  No, they escape to their own private world.  Want to win a Super Bowl, coach?  Ban earphones.

And no, I don't feel better.

...and a good time was had by all

It was at our 20th Reunion in 1995 that I began to see the faces of the old men we would become in the faces of the young boys who graduated from the United States Naval Academy in 1975.

As a class we boast several interesting distinctions.  We are the most attrited class of the 20th century, graduating barely half of those who were sworn in on June 30, 1971.  A large number left after the draft lottery numbers were announced, a predictable number fell due to academics, conduct, and aptitude, and cynicism got the rest.  We also have a large number of our class who made flag rank, Marine Corps generals and Navy admirals. 

We stayed at the home of one my roommates, Gary Ingold.  Gary and his wife, Ginny, who have been married for 35 years, graciously opened their Annapolis home to several of us.  Gary, an Illinois state champion wrestler, was also a wild child during his days as a midshipman.  Yes, there were those among enough with enough pluck to turn USNA into a party school.  The irony is that now Gary is the Catholic deacon at the Academy, this coming as a shock to many who attended the memorial service to honor our fallen comrades.  Fortunately, none suffered heart attacks at the ceremony to add to that number.

We had the obligatory lunch at Middleton's Tavern, a walk through downtown Annapolis (where I visited my friends at Laurance Clothing on Main Street, and The Smoke Shop on Maryland Avenue), the class dinner, a tailgate party that offered the world's best crabcakes (a consensus view), a disappointing football game, and snatches of conversation.

I did wear my kilt on Friday night.  Predictably Pat Gottschalk, a former Secretary of Commerce for the Commonwealth of Virginia, attempted to turn me into a hand puppet, and other pals tried for the up-kilt look to ascertain is I was going as a "True Scot."  Nae with this crowd!  Lynn nearly passed out laughing when we hit the dance floor.  And the professional photographer wisely chose not to have me sit in the front row for photos.

Speaking of photos, Ken Hamerick, one of the Plebe basketball team members, brought along a black and white shot of the team from the 1971-2 season.  No, I wasn't a guard.  I was a team manager, a desperate and successful attempt to get a seat at the training table, where all the folderal of being a plebe was suspended and something like a real meal could be shared among the team.  We reprised the photo with the seven members of the team who were in attendance that evening.  It appears to be my lot in life to be in photographs with preternaturally large men.  Standing in front of the other six (Bob Burns nearly was voted out because he started!) I look like a kilted-version of a lawn jockey.  Shout outs to Bobby, Billy, Doug, and John, who in addition to the aforementioned graced this "instant classic" shot.

We were also joined by three classmates who left us early and did not graduate with the class.  Pepe Galito does contract work in Iraq, Bill Etsweiler still lives in PA, and Jim Hickey is a pathologist in Baltimore.

None of my 21st Company mates is still in uniform.  Those who retired from the Navy did so as Commanders or Captains, and we had a 20-year Marine Corps officer in our midst as well; Bobby Clark flew missions during Desert Storm and now flies for FedEx.  Most are on to second careers, airline pilots, school teachers, defense industry executives, health care, engineering.

But what we will mostly remember about the 35th Reunion is a single word.  During our stay in Scotland we connected a near-Pavlovian response to the word "Aberdeen."  Aberdeen is a city in Northern Scotland, nicknamed the Silver City.  It is also the hub of the Scottish oil industry, being the jumping off point for many of the North Sea oil platforms.  We heard this reaction first at The Stand, the comedy club in Glasgow's West End.  A young comedian said that he was from Aberdeen and the entire audience (sans the Yanks) shouted "Sheep-shaggers!"

Yes, that's the word..."Sheep-shaggers!"  We must have said it 40 or 50 times.  There are those among us who don't know what it means.  One Southern Belle had difficulty in pronouncing it, often booming out "Shagger-Sheep" or "Sheep-Shiggers", but she rose to the occasion when we filmed "Aberdeen: The Movie", a 21-second shout out to our friends in Glesga.

At our 30th reunion in 2005 a few of our number had moved into the ranks of grandparents.  That number increased mightily over the last five years. 

We also had a chance to reconnect with Admiral & Mrs. O'Connor.  Admiral O'Connor, class of 1949, is the father of my classmate Tommy O'Connor.  The Admiral is still laughing, and has more than a bit of Irish blarney going 61 years after his graduation.

There is always something bittersweet about these twice a decade gatherings.  Promises to stay in touch, to meet somewhere and sometime in between these five year gaps.  We do, however, have a rallying point.  Navy-Notre Dame, September 1, 2012, Dublin, Ireland.  As we said in the old days, "Be there or be square."

...and the winner is...

The Harris Poll announced that New York City is the most popular city that people want to live in or near.  San Diego, which bills itself as "America's Finest City", finished second to "The Big Apple."  Ironically, New York City also finished first in the least desirable city poll as well. 

These ubiquitous city polls always seem a bit strange to me.  Healthiest city, greenest city, you pick it.  From Outside to Money, everyone has a different yardstick.

As my mates in Glasgow would say, "What a load of bollocks!" or perhaps, "At's a load of shite!"

People ask me my favorite river for fly-fishing, and I answer, "I haven't found it yet."  When asked what his favorite wine was, a friend of mine answered, "The one that's in my hand."

This lusting after what we don't have is almost as pernicious as the pomposity of actually basking in these spurious polls, as if you had something to do with it.

I have many "favorite" cities:

• San Diego...I live here, the weather is great (well it used to be great, we've had a challenging few months), there's a decent Little Italy, many of my friends also live here, and it happens to be the place where I earn a living.
• San Francisco...former haunt, current mailing addresses for the Tenuto heir and heiress, who are following their artistic dreams in the People's Republic.
• Chicago...city of broad shoulders, hometown, the Bulls (last professional sports team I can muster any interest for), wonderful restaurants, and The Hawk, a wind so fierce that it takes the breath away.
• New York City...swagger, strut, the best Little Italy (Mario Battali has superceded Umberto's Clam House where Joey Gallo had some lead with his dinner), teams you love to hate, and parking rates that take your breath away faster than the aforementioned Hawk.
• London...gentile, historic, so pukka.
• Glasgow...Scotland's version of Chicago, the blue-collar city teeming with hospitality, pubs, culture, and a number of great names for rain.  If the Eskimos have scores of nuances for snow, Glaswegians have a similar number to describe the rain.  Like smirr.

To quote Gandhi, "Wherever you are, be there."  That's the point of this exercise.  Why have a favorite when there are so many wonderful places in the world?  Learn to enjoy where you are.

OK, maybe not Detroit.

Footnotes...

Yesterday I heard Mayor Jerry Sanders, Eddie Osterland, (America's First Master Sommelier), and Russ T. Nailz, politically incorrect comic, all within the space of three hours.  This is a real feat of mental legerdemain.  The wine certainly helped.

Midweek I had lunch with my good friend, Alan Russell.  Alan is the tallest mystery writer in America, and maybe the best writer you don't know about.  He is the mystery writer other mystery writers read.  Check out his award-winning Mortal Wounds.

Wall Street My Money Slept and other pop offs on pop culture

Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps, the sequel to the Michael Douglas-Charlie Sheen-Oliver Stone Academy Award Winning 1987 movie, maybe one of the worst movies of all time.  An instant Razzie candidate.   Where to start?  Michael Douglas sleepwalks through the part, he's more a mannequin for really beautiful suits and ties.  Shia LeBeouf?  I don't get Shia LeBeouf...at all.  Carrie Mulligan cries throughout the entire movie.  Charlie Sheen makes a gratuitous cameo, with two women on his arm, perhaps some cross marketing for his tasteless television show.  The movie's only redeeming quality is Josh Brolin, who plays an amoral banker.  He got his moral compass the same place Carrie Mulligan's character got her wedding ring, out of a Cracker Jack box.  The plot is predictable, the only surprise being that the tickets cost $13.00 each. 

Let's just say that the weekly box office is dropping faster than the Dow Jones Industrial Average did in 2008.  Look for this one in Blockbuster Video...what, they filed for bankruptcy?  OK, Netflix...add this to your Netflix queue.  The wait won't be long.

As a recovering Wall Streeter myself (I left in 1996), and a fan of the previous movie, I felt somewhat obligated to go, despite the suspicion that the movie was going to be a dog.  I based that on the not very scientific observation that every third commercial was the trailer for the movie. 

The trailer was interspersed between Jerry Brown and Meg Whitman ads.  I'm including political ads in the pantheon of pop culture.  These two are vying for the governor's mansion in Sacramento.  If Brown wins he may symbolically close it down to live in his Jesuitical austerity in an apartment, or maybe an ashram.  If Meg Whitman wins she may symbolically close it down to live in something with a bit more square footage.  With a population larger than Western Europe you'd think that the state of California could produce two better candidates than this lot.

Redemption of the arts came in the form of a book.  Each year I am fortunate enough to stumble upon a sleeper, totally unexpected.  A couple of years back it was The Cellist of Sarajevo, Steven Galloway's fictional take on a true incident from the siege of Sarjevo.  A big tip o' the hat to John Hamilton, that irrepressible Kiwi, for loaning me a copy of this year's sleeper, The Amateurs, penned by John Niven.  The funniest book I have ever read.  Since I read most of the book armed with a cigar and a Guinness in my backyard, I am somewhat surprised that my neighbors didn't call the police to report a cackling madman running amok on my property.  Laugh out loud funny...or LOL, I guess for you emoticons.  (Though, parenthetically, emoticons are preferable to neocons.)

The premise of The Amateurs: a golfing hackmeister in a dead-end job and a loveless marriage, connects with the purest golf shot he has ever hit, at the same time he is felled by a errant drive, denting his skull and sending him to hospital and a long coma.  When he recovers his senses he lives with three aftermaths: he cannot hit a poor golf shot, he has a wicked case of Tourette's syndrome, and another malady that results in his never needing any Viagra, a priapism of palpating proportions.  He wins his way into the British Open.  The book is set in a small town in Scotland and peppered with colorful Glaswegian phrases.  Caveat emptor:  There are any number of books with the same title.  Look for the cover with a bloody golf ball.

                      





Old School or I see dead animals

Spent most of the week with the team from LAZ Parking, which resulted in a trip to Hartford, Connecticut.  As always, we were swept up into that vortex, that force of nature, Alan Lazowski, LAZ Parking's CEO, who seems to get more stuff done in a week than most mere mortals do in a month.  In addition to two days huddled up with the senior leadership team, there was also a political fund raiser he hosted for Mike Blumenthal, Democratic candidate for Chris Dodd's abandoned seat.  Frankly, Al should be running.

The meetings and the fund raiser, conveniently were held at The Hartford Club.  The company's new CFO, Nathan Owen, an English fellow, immediately submitted his application for the club, because "It reminds me of England."

I don't know if Nathan meant the food, but he certainly meant the decor.  And since it is a private club there is actually a "Gentlemen's Cigar and Billiards Room."  (I am quite certain that distaff members of THC are quite welcome.)

The room is redolent of the pleasant smell of cigar.  Wood panelling, private humidors, leather chairs, a bar, dead animals on the wall, and the requisite photo of Samuel Longhorn Clemens, better known as Mark Twain.  Clemens was a member, and the photo showed him in his trademark white suit, leonine head of hair, and the ever-present cigar.

While we never saw the room in actual use, one imagines suited gentlemen rustling their copies of The Wall Street Business Journal or The Hartford Courant, sipping a glass of port, and indulging in their favorite smoke.  Harkening back to simpler times. 

My cigar venue of choice was a bench outside of McKinnon's Pub on Asylum Street.  On Wednesday evening the pub was packed with musicians who played Celtic music in a come-one-come-all style.  A squeebox, a few fiddles, guitars, a mandolin or two.  No pipes.  The only drawback was having thye Guinness served in a plastic cup, as pint glasses were not allowed outdoors.  One must suffer occasionally for one's vices.

And now back to San Diego, where it is becoming increasing difficult to find a place to indulge in a cigar.  Beaches and parks have banned all smoking.  You can't drink on the beach, either.  There are a few cigar stores where patrons can light up.  But a private club...if you know of one I'd like to know.

My life in nine weeks & Hypocrisy

First, it was March 12th, nine weeks before our trip to Scotland.  Suddenly the plans and time telescoped.  Books on Scotland's rich and warlike history to read.  Highlighting Rick Steves and other guidebooks on planned sites to visit.  Telephone numbers, addresses, signing up for Skype, getting the iPhone...

Then, the trip itself.  Nine weeks chronicled here in detail.

Now, nine weeks after our return.  To mark the occasion I called Callum and caught him (shockingly!) at Jelly Hill.  The turnout, he said, was low.  He and Lucy were there along with Kirtseen and Callan.  The fire fighting duo were expected.  Callum blamed the weather, 55 and raining...true Glaswegian weather. 

So, half a year passed in this trio of nine week blocks.  A certain symmetry if you will.

And now to the purpose of today's missive.  Hypocrisy.  Two events from the sporting world and from a world (football, or American football) where my interest is slightly less than studying the mating habits of three-toed sloths.  My friends know that I have watched less than five professional football games in the last five years, even eschewing last year's Super Bowl.  You can blame the over-entitled pissant Eli Manning, whose fit of pique and refusal to play in San Diego finally demonstrated what a callow bunch runs across our less than Elyssian Fields.

Reggie Bush, the electrifying all-purpose back who was indeed the best college player in 2005, returned his Heisman Trophy.  His crime, he took some money when he was an undergraduate, thus making him ineligible.  The results of that are now visited on a coach and players who were nowhere near the campus in 2005.  The irony of the NCAA and its punishment.  The USC coach at that time, Pete Carroll, now coaches an NFL team and makes a multi-million salary that has him rooting for an extension of the Bush-era tax cuts.  (In this case the Bush in question would be George W. and not Reggie.)  Reggie is a pro football player with the current world champions, the New Orleans Saints. 

The report was that the Heisman committee was considering asking for the trophy back.  Bush relieved them of that hollow wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth by returning it of his own volition.

The hypocrisy is the entire system of college athletics.  Coaches who earn millions of dollars, schools that earn comparable sums for appearing in bowl games, ticket sales, television revenue.  Hell, Notre Dame has its own network, NBC!  The only ones not making money, the kids on the field.  Who are also banned from holding jobs or risk loosing their scholarships.  And the Heisman itself.  If you want to go and watch the presentation, a ticket will cost you $500.00. 

Our second example of hypocrisy is Ines Sainz.  Ms. Sainz, who might be a member of Mensa, was certainly not hired for her intellect.  She is a stunning beauty.  Walking Cialis.  She would get the College of Cardinals electing the next Pope to melt into paroxysms of cat-calls and wolf whistles.  Ms. Sainz walks into a locker room full of naked Jets and expects what?  She was also upset that the team ran a play near to where she was standing on the field.  These two incidents offended her.  She was, well, treated like an object.

No journalist, male or female, actually needs to be in a locker room.  There are press areas and mandates that require athletes to make themselves available to the press.  This access is an anachronistic throwback to the days of fedoras, spiked stories, and cigarettes drooping from the mouths of Heywood Hale Broun or Red Smith.

The hypocrisy...do I really need to explain it?  Thought not.  But you might be interested to know that male reporters are denied access to the locker rooms of the WNBA, the Women's National Basketball League.

Working on my intolerance

Reverend Terry Jones, a Gainesville, Florida man of God, wants to burn the Koran, his personal and peculair way of commemorating September 11th, which also happens to be his right under our Constitution.  How is burning the Koran any different than burning the flag, or hanging and torching various politicians in effigy, or placing a crucifix in urine and calling it art?  And that's just here in the good old U. S. of A.

We have all been treated to countless scenes of "the Arab Street" burning Old Glory.  We have all witnessed what to our minds have been disproportinate displays of displeasure at political cartoons, or comments from Pope Benedict.  These responses went well beyond burning a flag or two, they blossomed into arson and general mayhem.

Our Consitution guarantees Rev. Jones' right to burn the Koran. It is called free speech. Once we start to make decisions on what type of free speech is protected by the Constitution we begin a slide down a slippery slope. Years ago I read Nat Henthof's wonderful book, "Free Speech for Me, But Not for Thee." The book should be read in every Civics and Government class.  While I may not agree with Rev. Jones' act, I hold his right to do it as sancrosanct. The media has whipped the flames of this fire into a conflagration of Biblical proportions without the good reverend even striking a match. (Poetically a match works better than a Bic lighter. You've got the whole smell of sulphur and the fire and brimstone thing going for you.)


Frankly, I am getting a bit weary of being asked to understand this or that abomination under the guise of political correctness.  I am also bone tired of being tolerant.

Especially since our call for tolerance (and let's broaden this to include all of Western Culture) seems to fall on deaf ears.  The Taliban destroying the ancient Buddhas of Bamyan comes to mind.  How many Catholic Churches are in Saudi Arabia?  None.  See this Time Magazine article: http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1723715,00.html  Somehow, we have the burden of tolerance and must forgive intolerance in others.

My recent travels to Scotland were edifying in a number of respects.  The Scots are fiercely proud of their country, their heritage, and their history.  They make no apologies for who they are.  They are independent and outspoken. 

I wondered and continue to wonder how many of us in America can make the same claims. 

I am proud of my country.  I am proud that I live in a country where every crackpot or nutcase can express his opinion.  I am proud of our heritage, a country of immigrants (though these days it feels like the melting pot is being sectioned like a bad TV dinner.)  And I'm proud of our history.  We haven't got everything right, but we get most of it right. 

A Clean Sweep

As more dreck oozes out of the monumental cluster-fuck known as the Obama Healthcare Bill, I am again stunned by the "work" of our fine elected representatives in the House and Senate. 

You might recall that the bill weighed in at a staggering 2,000+ pages.  Did anyone know everything that was in the bill?  Of course not.  We were reassured that we would deal with individual problems associated with this legislation as they arose.

So here are just a couple of things that have come to light:

• A 3.6% tax on the capital gains in the sale of your residence.  Assume you sell your home and have a $200,000 gain.  Suddenly, Obama-Care is the receipient of $7,200!
• A requirement for all businesses to file 1099s on all vendors where the company has spent $600 during the business year.

Absurd!  Staples, Starbuck's, Von's, Time Warner, AT&T, San Diego Gas & Electric, Barnes & Nobel, Amazon, a number of cigar stores...I figure that I will have issue about 50 1099s.  For what purpose?  Will Staples, on the receiving end of millions of these forms, need to hire an army of people to process them...and again, to be perfectly redundant, for what purpose.

So, I have a new political outlook.  My voting pattern will be simple.  If you're currently in, you're out.  Republican, Democract, Independent, it doesn't matter.  Whether or not I like you, your views, or even know you personally, you are O-U-T.  That's the only message the electorate can send that will truly resonate in Washington.  Let's give them a dose of what this economy is really all about.  Wouldn't it be wonderful if 468 numb-nuts were suddenly unemployed on November 3rd?  (That's all 435 members of the House and the 33 or so Senators standing for re-election.)

When I share this view to friends in my rare political discussions I always get push back.  Always in the manner of "Well, what about Mr. X?  He's a good ___________ (fill-in-the-blank) and has always had our interests in mind."  Frankly, I don't care if Mr. X did have our best interests, and not his own, in mind.  OUT! No exceptions.  All means all.

Another argument is that then Congress would be filled with neophytes.  So what?  Can they do a worse job than the Moron Tabernacle Choir in there now?  Is there a single statesman in government, at any level?  (Maybe Robert Gates, maybe Hillary Clinton.) 

No, we would all be well served by being well served by someone else.

Cheers!

Today marks the fourth week of our return from Scotland, and the fourth Friday where we will NOT be heading off to Jelly Hill to see our old friends and make new ones.  Tonight we'll have a nice dinner and watch one of the Netflix movies.  Lynn put it best, "In Scotland we actually had a social life!"

When we returned we sat down and created a list of our favorite phrases or words that we heard bandied about.  In no particular order:

• "Do it, do it, do it!" 
• "Shockin'!"
• "Fantastic!"
• "Sorted."  (One of my personal faves, with many applications, and incredibly versatile when it comes to agreement on any number of issues.)
• "Do we have a problem, friend?" (Delivered in a perfect American accent, this phrase was a favorite of Tom's Yank boss in the 1970s)
• "Pardon us, but we seem to be having a domestic."
• "Massive."
• "Stupid, stupid, girl."  (See earlier post about the Great Race.)
• "At's a load of shite." 
• "Brilliant." (Wonderful.)
• "Dead brilliant." (More wonderful.)
• "Pure, dead brilliant." (Most wonderful.)
• "Wee."
• "For fuck's sake!"
• "Oh, aye."
• "I'm going mental."
• "Cheers."

What has become a permanent fixture in my vocabulary has been "Cheers."  Like "Aloha" it works equally well as a greeting or in taking one's leave.  It is so much better than saying goodbye, and imparts more than a simple "Thank you."  I even added it to my online signature.

"For fuck's sake!" isn't bad either.  And, as F-bombs go, this one is more expressive and less offensive than most.

Lynn and I have both been "Oh, aye"-ing each other to the most serious and mundane of questions.  But an "aye" seems to carry more import than a simple yes.

In any case...

Cheers!

Whisky for my men, beer for my horses

Many Americans who visit Scotland do so for golf.  To stand or play at Carnoustie, Royal Troon, or St. Andrews, the birthplace of golf.  I don't golf.  When asked, my stock in trade answer is that I am not old enough yet.  That said, we did visit St. Andrews under the auspices of our good friends John Rae and Carol Smith.  Standing at The Old Course, where golf has been played for over 600 years, was akin to standing in a cathedral, even for a golf heathen who doesn't like spoiling his walks.  Breathtaking.

Equally breathtaking is the wide variety of single malt whisky in Scotland, to say nothing of some worthy blends.  Please note that I chose to spell the word without the "e".  My mate, Callum, once asked me why the Americans put an "e" in whisky.  My reply, "I think it's because we left the 'u' out of so many words."
"Fair answer," he replied.

While we visited Scotland I was determined to try as many single malts as I could, without a taste of Glenfiddich, Glenlivet, or Macallan...all should be prefaced by The and all quite popular here in the United States.

Here's my list.  I hope you appreciate the effort:

1. Abelour
2. The Balvenie 10 year old Double Wood
3. Bunnahabhain
4. Monkey Shoulders (a surprisingly light Islay, peat and smoke but not overpowering)
5. Glen Dronach
6. Glenmorangie
7. Highland Park
8. Glenfiddich 15 (OK, I fudged a bit, but I happen to love this whisky)
9. Glenfarclas
10. Tomintoul 16 (the featured malt at the Scotch Malt Whiky Heritage Center the day we visited)
11. Miltown Duff 10
12. Cragganmore
13. Tobermory
14. Singleton
15. Talisker
16. Edradour 10
17. Edradour 10 Un-Chillfiltered
18. Dalwhinne
19. Benmorach 10 (the malt of the month in the Oxford Bar)
20. Auchentoshan
21. Old Rhosdhu

Old Rhosdhu, rather unremarkable as a whisky, was remarkable for another reason.  Following my first visit to Scotland, I set a goal to drink my way through the single malt alphabet.  Six letters were not represented: R, V, W, X, Y, and Z.  For two years I walked around with a list in my wallet, assaulting bartenders and publicans during my travels in search of a particularly tough letter.  "I" for instance.  Inchgower is a tough one to find.  My mates in Scotland thought this a worthy and somewhat humourous endeavor (a slight bow to my friends with that gratuitous "u"!) so they proceeded to inform the publicans of this goal.  It was during an epic pub crawl that we found Old Rhosdhu, a dusty bottle at The Lismore.  (That's the same pub with the world's greatest urinal.)

As I sipped a dram of Old Rhosdhu at The Lismore on the Saturday before our departure the young man behind the bar asked me if I had a new, ambitious goal set.  I was stunned.

I am at a goal crossroads.  Our nine week trip to Scotland was a major goal, years in the planning, and the single malt alphabet goal was a multi-year effort.  Both are now in the "Mission Accomplished" category.  I admit to being a bit at sea.

Suggestions?

Return

Our walk back from Jelly Hill last Thursday was a sad one as we said goodbye to old friends and new.  We were also weighed down with amazing gifts...amazing in part because they were totally unexpected and then because they just were.  Ann gave us two wonderful scarves, Pam a book of Charles Rennie Macintosh postcards, Tom & Marion Thornton's candy and two books from his personal library, and John & Carol's paperweight (without knowing that Lynn collects them) and a quaich.

The quaich is a ceremonial, communal cup, offered in Scottish households to family and friends, usually filled with usquebah, "the water of life," i.e. whisky. 

We mixed a few tears along with the rain as we walked down Byres Road to our flat for the last time on this trip.

The next morning Andrew picked us up at 6:30 a.m. and we off to Glasgow Airport for the 9:00 a.m. Continental flight to Newark, travelling east into the morning.  When we landed in Newark we collected our bags and cleared Customs.  I had to ask the Customs Agent, who did have a rather thick New Joisey accent to repeat his question, as my ear was still adjusting to life without that Scottish lilt.  When we rechecked the luggage we entered into the midst of a brewing argument between two baggage handlers, neither of whom appeared to want to place our bags on the conveyor.  We were finally directed to leave the bags, but I lingered just outside the area to watch and insure that the bags actually made it off the cart.  They did, quite emphatically, as the baggage agent lifted each bag about chest high and body slammed them into the conveyor.  I rushed back into the area, using a few choice variations of THAT WORD I learned at the feet out my Scottish mates. 

The flight to San Diego was uneventful and on-time.  It even included the airline version of a cheeseburger.  We arrived, our bags did not.  Nor did they arrive for two other Glaswegians who were visiting San Diego and had been travelling with us all day.  Ours were delivered to the house at 2:35 a.m., with only the metal container containing a bottle of Edradour somewhat the worse for wear.  I did have visions of Oban soaked clothes.  I would have looked the perfect fool sucking on whisky soaked laundry.

And so it's back to the routine.  The gym at 5:00 a.m., the office, coaching sessions, preparing for meetings, and a flight back to the East Coast to work with the amazing team at LAZ Parking.  We have about 1,500 photos to go through.

Our dinners have been spiced with reading the journal entries from the trip, keeping fresh wonderful memories.  We have also been grilled by friends, family, and acquaintances about the trip.

Tomorrow night Alan & Lilian will be stopping by for a wee dram and dinner.  They are Weegie ex-pats, planning to return over the holidays to visit their families.

Last evening we hosted a group at Wine Steals.  We started at 6:00 p.m. and left about 11:15 p.m. to return home, a solid effort.  Much to our surprise we both looked right as we stepped off the curb.  Fortunately no vehicle was approaching from the left, the true source of danger here.  My new mantra: Look left!

Haggis and The End of Something

All our bags are packed, we're ready to go...

Our last day in our flat on Cresswell Street in Glasgow, Scotland.  We had an interesting week to end our nine week stay.

Friday was our last rendezvous with the crowd at Jelly Hill.  Wee Lee, Carol's son, somehow got a few of the adults to race him up and down the street.  Lee is a 12-year old greyhound and he was battling those who are older, larger, and somewhat debilitated by adult beverages.  One of our number, fueled with several wines and tequila shooters, careened off the glass of a nearby retail shop, fortunately only bruising her shoulder.  From the glass she caromed into our table, upsetting a few glasses.  Within 20 seconds, Lynn and Carol had replaced the chairs, Callum the drinks, and the rest of us the order of the table.  Like a well-oiled machine, something we do every day.  The erstwhile Sebastian Coe wanna-be's husband put the perfect capper to the event, shaking his wise head and saying, "I am glad my mother wasn't alive to see that."

The next day was a bit of a scramble, as I needed to rent a kilt, flashes, formal shirt and cravat for that evening.  I have the other pieces needed for formal Scottish attire, but the kilt is still being made.  The reason, a Scottish dinner hosted by Tom & Marion Brodie.  It was an evening of firsts.  Most of the men wore their kilts.  We were piped into the Brodie home by their amazing piper daughter, Iona.  Marion's brother and sister-in-law, Scott & Jackie, turned out an amazing salmon on oatcakes hors d'ourvre.The menu included Cockaleekie soup (thank you, Jerry Allsop), haggis, neeps and tatties, with a small dram of Athol Brose (whisky, oatmeal and honey) and a cheese course (Callan & Kirtseen) with port that followed dessert.  As the haggis was brought into the dining room, Iona played "Scotland the Brave."  Lucy Allsop addressed the haggis, that "Great chieftan of the puddin' race", with a bit of Rabbie Burns.  I will not divulge the ingredients for haggis, lest there be the occasion when you find yourself at table sampling this most Scottish of dishes.  All I will say is that the entire meal, top to bottom (well, I do prefer my whisky without honey and oatmeal), was sensational. 

Over the mantle of the fireplace a banner hung.  Cead Mile Failte, one-thousand welcomes. There can be no better summation of the evening.

The survivors retired to Tom's den.  Gylen played the guitar, those who felt the urge sang, and Tom graced us with a couple of monologues and some wonderful stories.  Tom was a noted ceilidh performer, and, as often is the case, the stories around the pieces are sometimes as good as the poems themselves.  My new goal is to memorize "The Tobermory Treasure."

We walked home at 2:15 a.m.

And rose the next day to watch the Spain versus Netherlands World Cup Final at Callum and Lucy's place.

On Monday, we took our last train trip to Edinburgh.  We visited Mary King's Close, a series of streets buried under the nineteenth century construction of the Royal Exchange.  Some shopping for gifts for family and friends.

Tuesday we hit City Centre in Glasgow.  That evening we hosted a dinner at Stravaigin 2, a restaurant in Ruthven Lane.  On the second Tuesday of each month they feature a Dutch Rijstaffel (rice table), an assortment of curried Asian dishes served with Tiger beer and lime and coconut rice.  Superb!  We toasted each other, we gave a few gifts to show our appreciatian for all the hospitality and help we've been shown these past two months.  John Rae read "The 37 Bus", a humourous poem in the style of the aforementioned R. Burns.  We closed the restaurant and walked to Oran Mor, a church that has been repurposed as a bar (there's just something so right about that!).  There was the lightest of rains, a persistent mist, called a smirr, that fell on us during our walk. 

Callum and I walked side-by-side, and I said that I felt like the entire West End had adopted us.  "No, mate," he replied, "all of Scotland has adopted you."

And that is how we feel and that is what is making this evening's farewell so hard.  Yes, we are eager to return to the familiar and our friends and family.  These past weeks though have been, as they say in these parts, "Dead brilliant."  New friends, incredible experiences, and a true sense of what it is to live in another culture.

We are off Jelly Hill!

Slainte!

Sprinting to the finish or When Did Nine Weeks Become Two?

It has been a busy week. Suddenly the nine weeks were down to two and we started to feel a bit of panic for things not done along with the realization that there would some of those things that will remain unaccomplished and best left for a later visit.


In the past week we:

• Had dinner with Jerry Allsop and learned a bit more about Glasgow’s World War II history…because of shipbuilding the city was a favorite target of the Luftwaffe

• Were passengers and guests of John Rae and Carol Smith to a visit to St. Andrews

• Visited Linlithgow and the Castle where Mary, Queen of Scots was born

• Met up again with Bob & Lorna Deeley and enjoyed lunch with their daughter, son-in-law and grandchild, wee Callum

• Joined the Deeleys and the Frames on a train to Edinburgh where Inspector Jamie led us on a tour of St. Leonard’s Police Station and an interesting perspective of the city

• Hired a car

• Drove to the Culloden Battlefield, site of the last major land battle on British soil, where Government troops defeated the Jacobite army in 1746, altering the history of the clans in Scotland

• The Highlands are beautiful

• Spent two nights in Oban

• Took the ferry to the Isle of Mull and a brief stop in Tobermory

• Returned to Oban for the tour of the Oban Distillery, ending with a wee dram

So, let’s go to the videotape and the highlights:

• Even for someone who doesn’t golf, The Royal and Ancient Golf Club in St. Andrews was impressive

• For you Trekkies out there, Linlithgow is the home town of Montgomery “Scottie” Scott, the irascible chief engineer of the Enterprise on Star Trek. He will be born there in 2025.

• Before condemned prisoners were transported by horse and wagon from Edinburgh Castle to Grassmarket where they were executed, they were given a last drink and then gave us two expressions, “One more for the road” and “On the wagon.”

• A free dram, a free Glencairn glass, a discount coupon for £3.00 of a bottle of Oban whisky, and a tour? At £7.00 the best tour value in Scotland.

• After 450 miles covered in three days behind the wheel of a Vauxhall, I am a bit more comfortable driving on the “wrong side of the road”…just in time to return to San Diego next week.

We have a week of “last things” before us. Tonight our last Friday night visit to Jelly Hill. Tomorrow we are guests of the Brodie family for a Scottish night, featuring haggis, neeps and tatties, Cullen skink, song, and bagpipes. Tuesday we’re hosting a thank you dinner for some of our friends at Stravaigin 2. A last jaunt to Edinburgh and a stroll through our environs for some photo opps.


Business note: We hired our cars through Enterprise. The model translates very well here. The same clean-cut recent college graduates, same courtesy, thoroughness and cleanliness of vehicles and location, same opportunities for rapid promotion for the go-getters.

The World's Most Interesting Urinal

At the outset we must know how the Scots pronounce "urinal", not "your-in-al" as we do but "your-eye-nal", and yes the long "i" makes all the difference.

On the Wednesday that saw the final day of group play in the World Cup for Group C, England against Slovakia and USA v Algeria, I went to visit Tom Brodie.  Not to be unsocialable I accepted Tom's offer of a wee dram.  The sun was over the yardarm as we said in the Navy, and it was past noon, even a bit past 1:00 p.m.  I distinctly remember asking my host for a wee dram, emphasis on the wee.  Tom's definition and mine are seperated by a factor of four.  Tom regaled me with tales of his early days in the label business, working for an America boss, whose catch phrase, "Do we have a problem, friend?" has become our unofficial greeting.

From there to Jelly Hill to meet Callum and John, my running mates for the afternoon.  We hopped a cab to City Centre and entered The Griffin.  There we joined John's friend John, and his son, Johnny, an actor.  A couple of Guinnesses, some crisps, suffering under the shrill announcing of the BBC commentators, and a rather lackluster 1-0 win for England rounded out the afternoon.  The pub owner offered me a seat in his office to watch the USA game, a much better match as it turned out...with Landon Donovan propelling the team to the top of the group and the knockout round with an injury time goal in the 91st minute, but I chose to remain with my mates to cheer against England in a show of solidarity.

My friends then took me to two authentic, old-time Glasgow pubs.  The first was McPhabbs, where I retreated to an Irn Bru.  This is NOT a local beer, Irn Bru is the orange-colored (orange-coloured?) soft drink that outsells Coca-Cola in Scotland.  It tastes like bubble-gum.  I'm sipping some now, causing me to muse about an Irn Bru 12-step program when we leave.

Then it was another taxi ride to The Lismore.  The pub's theme is the Highlands Clearance, a dark nineteenth-century social engineering program that led to the destruction of a way of life, the deportation of thousands to the United States, Canada, and Australia, and the primacy of sheep over humans.  The pub boasts about about 125 single malts, and the young lady behind the bar, regaled by my mates about my quest to drink my way throught the single malt alphabet, found a whisky that began with an "R", Rhosdhu.  I was already sipping a Tobermory.  Callum kept urging me to go to the urinal and after a fashion I went.

The urinal, one of those stainless steep troughs, boasted three separate areas, each featurning a short biography of a villian of the Highland Clearances.  I held my water, read the bios, selected the most worthy candidate and did the business. 

Only to be interrogated upon my return.  Who did I piss on?  "George Granville was and English peer, landed gentry, so he was operating out of his own self-interest," I answered.  "Colonel Fell was a military man, following orders, but Patrick Sellar, that bastard, had a choice.  He turned on his own people and, acting as Granville's factor, helped clear the highlands.  I pissed on him."

Evidently the right choice. 

There were a few more rounds to round out the evening.

A word on the World Cup:  An unexpected benefit of our visit has been watching the World Cup in a football crazed society.  Not "soccer" as we call it in the USA, but football.  It has been extraordinary.  The Scots, nearly to a person, cheer against England.  The most popular tee-shirt (I bought one and wore it to the pubs under my USA tee-shirt) is "A.B.E.  Anyone But England.  South Africa 2010."  To plumb the depth of this enmity you need to delve a bit deeper than the apparent history and listen to the commentaries on television and the reporting in the newspapers.  Talk about "homers"!  The English press is beyond rabid, they are demented.  The expectations are outsized and have proven to be unrealistic.  The analysis is painfully indepth, the level of scutiny microscopic.  No detail is too small to be painfully probed. 

The Rocky Road to Dublin

Our friends Jerry and Debbie arrived from San Diego on Friday, June 11th, after nearly a full day's travel.  We had a rather ambitious ten days planned for them, beginning with a visit to Glasgow's City Centre and donning our USA World Cup gear for the USA v England match.  We met some friends at The Rock, and made quite a few more, including Andy and Scott, with whom we shared a table.

When Jerry said something about "the British", that all-inclusive term for the United Kingdom, Andy grumbled, "Call us English bastards, Irish bastards, Welsh bastards, Scottish bastards, but nae British!"  I wore a red USA tee shirt over another tee-shirt I have purchased for the evening...A.B.E. (Anyone but England.)  Truly, the Scots favorite team is Scotland first, then whoever is playing England.

The game ended in a draw, "You should be very happy with that result," our new friend Andy opined, "but you Yanks don't quite understand the draw."  We don't, preferring instead the clear winner and loser in our sporting events.  Hell, we even changed the rules in the NHL to reduce the number of ties.

That evening, John, a group commander for Scotland Fire and Safety, offered to drive us to the Isle of Mull and the Isle of Iona at week's end.  Another of those startling examples of Scottish hospitality that leave you breathless.  More on that later.

A quick trip to Edinburgh on Sunday, the obligatory visit to the Castle, St, Giles, and Greyfriar's Bobby.  Monday was the great adventure...driving.  We "hired" a car from Enterprise and then drove to Stirling to visit Stirling Castle.  We took a slight detour to Bannockburn, site of one of the most significant victories in Scottish history, Robert the Bruce's much smaller army defeating the English under Edward II, through the unerring use of terrain and local knowledge.  A home-field win, if you will.  We also toured Argyle's Lodging, the home of the Duke of Argyle, a 16th century Georgian home, and the Church of the Holy Rude, the only other Church in the UK to offer services and have hosted a coronation...the other, Westminster Abbey.

So, what was it like driving on the "wrong" side of the road?  Rather odd.  Total concentration.  Left turns are the easier, the roundabouts maddening, and a tendency to drift to the left, as your entire perspective in driving changes.  But at day's end I counted a few love taps on the curb (kerb) and a couple of rather sharp turns as the only mistakes.  We returned the car intact.

On Tuesday we were off on three-day trip to Ireland.  Our taxi driver was an engaging fellow, so much so that we enaged him to appear at trip's end for a return to the airport. 

Ah, Ireland.  If only we had met more Irish people.  The country is filled with Russian and Eastern European emigres who work in the hospitality industry (wouldn't be my first choice if I was running the career counseling here) and Dublin itself seems to cater to the large number of American tourists who return to the Auld Sod in search of their roots and a pint of Guinness. 

Make no mistake, the Easter Rising of 1916 is still a current event in the collective consciousness of the Irish.  Walking past the Post Office, the G.P.O., on O'Connell Street and viewing the bullet holes in the columns and facade makes you a believer.  During our three days we saw the following:

• Trinity College and the Book of Kells (an illuminated manuscript from the 8th century, penned by Scottish monks at the abbey on the Isle of Iona)
• Dublin Castle
• The Garden of Rememberance (remembering those who died to help create the Irish Republic)
• The Writer's Museum (Jonathon Swift, James Joyce, Brendan Behan, Samuel Beckett, James Kavanagh, William Butler Yeats, etc.)
• The National Gallery
• The Guinness Storehouse (an a "free" pint of Guinness atop the Gravity Bar at tour's end)
• Kilmainham Jail (where the leaders of the 1916 Rising were taken, and 14 of them executed...one of those eerie  places where history is palpable)
• Grafton Street
• St. Patrick's Cathedral

What we didn't see were vast numbers of native Irish.  What we did hear were numerous renditions of "Danny Boy."  If I hear the song again, I will go mental...one of my new favorite terms.

We returned Thursday evening at midnight and then we were awake and out the door to meet John at 4:45 a.m. for the sixteen hour plus day to the Isles of Mull and Iona.  In Iona we visited the abbey where the Book of Kells had been written, putting a nice finish to that endeavor.  We rode four ferries and covered nearly 300 miles by car.  We toured Duart Castle on Mull, a rather interesting mix of Disney and modern photography.  The castle is the home of the Chief of the Clan Maclean.  The crest for clan Maclean includes an emu and a seal (as in the type you'd see at a Sea World show.)  This caused us to imagine how those symbols were selected.

"We'd like an eagle on the clan crest."
"Sorry, taken."
"All right.  A hawk then!"
"Sorry."
"An osprey?"
"No, but we do have an emu available.  If you select that, then we will add a seal at no charge."
"Brilliant!"

We spent the last few days of Jerry's and Debbie's visit wandering around Glasgow, usually in a pub, expanding our knowledge of single malts, ales, and porters.  There was an interesting bit of larceny on Saturday afternoon, that will remain unpublished, though it will be a tale oft-told upon our return.

We bid Jerry and Debbie farewell this morning and are regrouping for another week.

The wee things

Tomorrow marks the end of the fourth week of our Glaswegian adventure.  To say we have settled in is an understatement.  It's all the little things that make for a semblance of truly living abroad.

We have eased into a routine.  I am now a member of the athletic club at University of Glasgow, so I make the walk in the morning to torture myself on one of the elliptical machines.  We also make a daily visit to the grocery store.  There is a news agent where we buy the paper.  I have a library card (more on that later).  We're good customers of Oddbins, our wine and whisky connection.  We've had our second meal at The Wee Curry Shop.  We have expanded our circle of friends from the Lucy and Callum nexus point.  We take the time to speak with the merchants and clerks.

Scottish hospitality found us at Callum's birthday barbeque party last Saturday, arriving at 5:00 p.m. and leaving just past midnight.  We followed up that celebration by accompanying him and another 10 friends to The Stand, a comedy club for "Sunday Services with Michael Redmond."  Redmond, a Glasgow fixture, emcees a Sunday smorgasbard of four comics.  The last two comics were brilliant, a Glasgow-born first generation Pakistani and The Boy with Tape on His Mouth. 

Since our return from Spain we have visited the Kelvingrove Museum for the third time, wandered through Glasgow's Cathedral, went through the Hunterian on the campus of the University of Glasgow. 

Highlights of the week:

• We were met by a kilted docent at the Cathedral who offered a tour.  John Geddes, a retired professor of music, who taught for a year at University of Oregon along with lectures at Berkeley, Stanford, and other US universities, led us through the Cathedral.  Surprised that we didn't want to blitz through, we spent abaout 90-minutes with him.  We saw battle glags from the Indian campaign, the Napoleonic wars, the purported burial place of St. Mungo, an explanation of the four symbols of Glasgow, and much more.
• At Jelly Hill my Univeristy of Glasgow identification card caused quite a stir.  Callum: "Jim is planning on staying longer than he let on!"
• John Rae when he happened to see my library card, "How did you get that?  I pay bloody taxes to get one of those!"
• We were among the first customers of a new butcher shop that opened on Byres Road, and found the best Italian sausage I've had since my days in Chicago.

Tomorrow we'll be back at the airport to pick-up my friend Jerry and his girlfriend, Debbie.  We will be cheering for the USA against England in Saturday's World Cup football match.  Rumor is that we won't be able to buy a drink.

Return from France, Two Myths Destroyed

As Andrew dropped us in the wee hours of the morning at our flat, we had a sense of actually coming home.  The flat looked gigantic in comparison to our room at Hotel Agora St. Germain, where you couldn't swing a chat.

Let me debunk a couple of French myths before chronicling the week.

The first, the food.  Granted, we didn't eat at Argent or any three star Michelin restaurants, but the ravings about French food seemed to us to be a bit overdone.  Our best meal was at The French Open, followed closely by a wonderful meal at La Maree Verte.  Granted, grabbing a baguette and a hunk of cheese was a fine alternative to lunch.  And we nearly died drinking hot chocolate at Ladurre and Les Deux Magots (think drinking a liquid candy bar and you get the right idea), ditto the macaroons at the forner locale.

The second myth is the rude Parisian, or the rude French in general.  Didn't see it.  Not once.  The only man who didn't speak any English to us couldn't speak English.  Now, we did go to France armed with a few rudiments.  Bon jour, bon soir, sil vous plait, pardon, merci, and a few useful phrases.  We managed to order most of our meals in French.  The efforts were appreciated, and rewarded with hospitality and warmth.  The Parisians are a bit more formal.  Monsieur, Madame strongly recommended.  But everyone, from our waiters to the hotel staff, to people we met casually were all quite nice.

Here is an overview of the week:

• Luxembourg Garden
• The Church of St. Sulpice (ah, The Da Vinci Code)
• The Pantheon (Victor Hugo, Alexander Dumas, Emile Zola, Andre Malraux all buried there)
• The Louvre (yes, Mona Lisa is smaller than you'd expect, yet no less magnificent)
• Pompidou Center (rather violent feminist temporary exhibition tempered by the icons of  modern art, Picasso, Gris, Calder, Chagall, et. al.)
• A Seine river cruise (skip it, skip it, skip it)
• Musee d'Orsay (bridges the Renaissance and Old Masters of the Louvre and the modern art of Pompidou with an stunning collection of Impressionists, Gauguin, van Gogh, Renoir, Manet, Monet, Cezanne)
• The Arc de Triomphe (disappointing, and not only because the grave of France's unknown soldier does not have a permanent honor guard)
• The Champs d'Elysees (soon to be festooned with the cyclists of Le Tour)
• Musee Rodin
• Versailles (the palace, the gardens, the Triannon area)
• Montmartre (including Le Bateau Lavoir, the Laundry Boat, where Picasso and a hoard of other artists lived)
• Notre Dame

...and, The French Open.

Thanks to our friends from Vinci Park, we had wonderful seventh row seats at Court Suzanne Lenglen and admission to Club Des Loges, a clubhouse that featured a full bar, several restaurants, and its own gift shop.  Because of the weather we spent too little time in the former and far too much time in the latter.  It was, as our friends here in Glasgow are found of saying, "pissing down rain."  Oban and Sancerre for yours truly and Lynn did a lot to assuage the disappointment of seeing barely five sets of tennis.  We saw Andy Roddick beat a determined Blas Kavcic in four sets, and then Marion Bartoli and Olivia Sanchez begin their match, soon to be suspended due to darkness.

One of our most memorable moments at the Open was lunch at Club Des Loges.  Our waiter was simply spectatcular.  After my halting explanation of allergies, in French "Je suis allergique aux oeufs et aux noix" he went out of his way to find subsititutes for the fixed menu.  Of the items on the fixed menu, I could eat exactly none of them.  "Do you trust me?" he asked.  I did, and he delivered.  He was assisted by two 15-year old boys who understood much more English than they admitted to, often laughing at the conversation we were having with our new best friend. 

Our only sniff of any anti-American sentiment came from patrons at one of the restaurants.  A German couple and a Canadian couple went on about America a bit.  While I held my tongue, I did not refrain from what I hoped was a withering glance.  Their comments were stereotypical and demonstrated their shallow grasp of our immensely complex country.  The chiding soon stopped and they moved on to other subjects. (While at the Open, in the rain, I wore a baseball cap from one of my reunions, the cap has 75 USNA and an American flag on it.  Wore it proudly.  Received not a single comment or rude stare.)

While I am not suggesting that Parisians or the French absolutely love America, it is rather apparent that they do love Americans, and they adore the American dollar.  The language we heard most other than French as we walked the streets, ate breakfast at our hotel, sat in restaurants or cafes, was English.  And American English.  The tourist is even more valued now, driving a moribund economy.  We come and we spend.

The list of single malts sampled has expanded to seven. 

The quest continues.

Note: Our visit to The Louvre was greatly enhanced by The Teaching Company's course Museum Matserpieces: The Louvre, taught by Professor Richard Brettell, University of Texas at Dalls.

Scottish hospitality...nae myth!

Since the last post we have visited the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum again, this time to see the exhibition, The Glasgow Boys.  The Boys were a group of painters and artists who trained, worked, painted, and exhibited together.  Their heyday was 1890-1900. 

We also visited the Botanic Gardens twice.  The Kibble Plantation is a cast iron and glass enclosure filled with exotic plants, many from Australia.  An interior rainforest.  The wide expanse of the park also included a rose garden, a chronological group of plants and trees from various centuries, even an herb garden.  On Saturday, when the temperatures were in the low to mid-70s, the park was filled with sun-starved Glaswegians.

The weather has been perfect.  Our last bit of rain was five days ago.  Temperatures have been in the high 60s and low 70s.  We have been warned that this will not last, the clouds will return, as will the rain and the chill.  For now the entire city is enjoying this sunny respite.

On Friday, at 4:00 p.m., I walked to Jelly Hill and met Callum and some of his friends.  Thinking this was a stag event, Lynn remained in the flat and wandered about our neighborhood doing a bit of retail therapy.  We finally convinced her to join us and she arrived at 7:30 p.m.  Our plan was to have one more drink and then push off for dinner at The Wee Curry House.  I was now two Hobgoblins (a dark ale) and one Monkey Shoulders (an Islay malt) into the evening.  Our dinner plans were derailed by the suggestion that we could order take-away from Tom and Marion's house. 

When you are invited into a Scot's home, you go.  No questions asked.  Tom and Marion's daughter Iona is a bagpiper of some reknown and she was convinced to give an impromptu concert that evening.  Along with the twin sisters, Morvin and Naomi, the clan lives in a sprawling Georgian manse.  Naturally, a dozen of us crowded into the smallest room, Tom's den, and listened to Iona play a number of songs, including "Scotland the Brave."  Three of us were invited to attempt the bagpipe, Iona handling the fingering while our job was to fill the bag with air and pressing down, keep that air flowing.

Not as easy as it seems.

And to shame of the country, the man from San Diego's produced the most sustained effort, six or seven notes of "Scotland the Brave."

We returned to our flat at 1:00 a.m. on Saturday.

That evening Callum, Callan, John and I met at The Aragon to watch the Champions League final.  Bayern Munich versus Inter Milan.  A wonderful game. "It's hard to cheer for the Germans," I offered.  "Aye," was the general reply, "unless they're playing England, and then we're huge supporters."

The German side and fans were disappointed, much to the delight of most of the crowd at the pub. John put the capper on the evening when he said, "My grandfather told me that the Germans were really disappointed in 1945!"

During the game, Chris, the owner of Jelly Hill walked into The Aragon, announced that he loathed football and couldn't bear to watch a minute of it, and then pointed at me and said, "You, you're coming to my barbeque tomorrow."  And then he left.

So, Lynn and I found ourselves as guests at yet another example of Scottish hospitality.  Old friends and new.  We've noted that our Scottish friends don't seem to be too concerned about "the time".  A 3:00 p.m. start is more of a suggestion.  And they approach life with a bit of serendipity, pulling things together in a rather haphazard manner.  And it all works.

We are off to Paris, the French Open, the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Metro, and certainly Deux Maggots.

Until next week, then.

In Search of the Perfect Shortbread

Today marks the end of the first week of our travels.

We were met at the airport by Andrew Kevan, Millenium Executive, the man who drove us to the airport on our return to the United States in January 2006.  Andrew drove us to Glasgow's West End where we were met by Bill, one the of associate's at Nancy Smillie's shop.  Our flat is directly above her wonderful home goods/decorating shop.

The flat is absolutely fabulous.  The location is perfect, or "pair-fect" using a touch of the local argot.  We are a block from Waitrose, a supermarket, and in the other direction, Marks & Spencer.  Think Dean & DeLucca's.  We are also a short distance away from Hillhead station on the subway route.  The station itself is directly across Byres Road from Oddbins.  Oddbins specializes in adult beverages.

Our first day was spent in getting our flat together.  Visits to Oddbins, the grocery store, getting the lay of the land.  We unpacked our five bags and found a home for all our items.  While unpacking I remembered that I had not packed the mic and headphones for our Rosetta Stone French language program. 

The Internet provided the location of the nearest Rosetta Stone kiosk, Silverburn Shopping Centre, and young Owen, the computer whiz at Nancy Smillie's shop gave us the public transport directions to get there.  When we arrived we discovered that the kiosk had been closed since January.  We were then directed to Argos. 

Argos is an interesting operation.  Limited seasonal items are on display with the vast majority of the inventory behind counters.  Using a laminated catalog you select your item, fill out a wee order sheet, stand in a queue to pay, and then wait for the items to be delivered to the counter.  We purchased the needed headset and also a coffee pot.  The coffee pot, on offers (read "on sale") cost £7.79, about $10.00.  Not exactly a Cuisinart but it makes coffee.  (Our French press was a bit wobbly, and I admit to not being the best barista when the French press is my only tool.)  With success on the retail front, we celebrated with a dinner at Cafe Andaluz, a tapas restaurant across the alley from the flat, and the scene of our best dinner in our previous visit to Glasgow.

On Monday we settled in to do some sightseeing.  This required mastering Glasgow's version of the Tube.  It was fiercely complicated.  Essentially it runs in a circle, with an Inner and Outer route.  No matter how bad things get, you'll eventually reach your destination. Painted with autumnal hues reminsicient of the 1960s, the system is dubbed The Clockwork Orange.

During the week, we visited The Glasgow School of Art, the Tenement House, the Willow Tea Room, the Lighthouse Building, the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, and in Edinburgh, Gladstone's Land and the Georgian House.  With the Royal High Commissioner in residence at Holyrood Castle, we were unable to tour the Royal's home away from home. 

Glasgow's favorite son (though he became that only after his death) is Charles Rennie Mackintosh, architect, artisit and designer whose work predates the genius of Frank Lloyd Wright.  (While Wright might not have been accused of cheating he was definitely looking over Mackintosh's shoulder for inspiration.)

Our neighborhood boasts a large number of coffee shops.  I'd wager that we might have the most concentrated collection in the world.  We have Atrium, Beanscene, S'mug, Starbuck's, Tinderbox, Cafe Nero within a stone's throw of the flat.  This caffeinated confluence has led me to my quest to find the perfect shortbread.  So far the front runner is the wonderful shortbread served in the Willow Tea Room.  A close second is that old standby, Walker's.

We also met with our friends, Lucy and Callum, at their home pub, Jellyhill, in Hyndland, a ten minute walk from the flat.  We joined them and a group of their friends for a three-hour conversation that included a few jokes, a few stories, and more than a few laughs.  Lynn did her best to empty a bottle of merlot, and my evening was a 5 whisky event.  Bunnahabhain.  I walked home like a soldier.

Global Brand Domination in 6 minutes 27 seconds

In order for you to fully “participate,” you must first watch “The Man Who Walked Around the World.” Your choices: www.youtube.com/watch?v=MnSIp76CvUI (especially if you need subtitles in order to understand someone speaking in a Scottish brogue) or you can go directly to the Johnnie Walker website, www.johnniewalker.com/en-us/home/. I’ll wait.


Done?

An entertaining dram of corporate history, something that at first glance you might shrug off as a longish commercial. Closer study, however, reveals a blueprint on how to achieve global brand domination.

The story of John Walker and the creation of the Johnnie Walker brand of blended Scotch Whisky is a study in entrepreneurship, global brand management, founding a successful family business that evolves into a legacy business, and packaging.

Category Killer: Young John Walker opens a grocery store with the proceeds from the sale of his late father’s farm. Among his wares, locally distilled single malt whiskies. Fretting about inconsistent quality and selling an inferior product to his customers, he mixes a number of single malts and creates a blended whisky. And in doing so, an entire industry is born. As with any new category, competitors abound.

Controlling critical links in the supply chain: John Walker brings his sons into the business, and already at the pinnacle of the industry, the family buys the distillery at Cardhu, securing their own supply while denying this particular “silky single malt” to their competitors.

Create customer evangelists: After dominating local markets the company casts its sights on the world by enlisting the seafaring captains of Glasgow to act as its sales force.

Unique shelf-friendly packaging: In order to reduce breakage and save space, the whisky was packaged in a square bottle, and the tilted label offered a larger type for the name. This unique packaging earned shelf space, always a concern for those who sell products to retailers. Although the word has been used to the point of being trite, the Johnnie Walker bottle is truly iconic.

Updating the brand and expanding the offering: The grandsons updated the label by asking a young illustrator to sketch the famous walking man seen on every bottle of Johnnie Walker. They also expanded the product line: Red Label and Black Label.

Omnipresence: The market expanded to 120 countries and even more labels (Green Label, Gold Label, and Blue Label) were introduced, widening the appeal while creating cachet value. More importantly the brand weaves its way into the fabric of society.

Messaging: Look at the presentations that Steve Jobs makes at Apple. Not a PowerPoint slide to be seen. No bullet points. Images. A message told in images. Visually this short film is stunning, and technically it’s quite breathtaking. Actor Robert Carlyle delivers his monologue walking in the Scottish hillsides in a single-take. Every prop appears when needed, giving visual punch to his story. There’s even a bow to the master of the long, extended film shot, Alfred Hitchcock.

Carlyle walks through the centuries, the tale spanning nearly two-hundred years. Walking purposefully. The traits of the entrepreneur also span those two-hundred years, and longer. A single-minded focus, courage, being able to see beyond today into tomorrow, creating a vision, achieving what others think is impossible, ambition…all are as necessary today in business as they were in 1819 Kilmarnock.

All this from the decision to create a consistent product to meet customer expectations.

A family business that becomes the most recognized brand in its category. Now that’s a story to “stir a Scottish heart,” and the American one as well.