I found a podcast this afternoon that is an offshoot of a podcast I listen to from time to time: Science from the Sporran from the Naked Scientists. Each episode appears to be a short video of something sciency, presented by someone in a kilt. Science and Scotland, combined!

One of the most frequent questions I am asked is along the lines of how well-suited the piper’s uniform is to cold weather. I happily remind people that the weather in Scotland is on the cool side (though certainly not as cold as it is here right now…. brr), and insist that it’s not as bad as they think. In fact I find the parts of my body most susceptible to the cold are my hands and fingers, because piping doesn’t go so well when wearing gloves. I’ve played several competitions and countless parades where I couldn’t feel my fingers, and while never a pleasant experience I’ve managed to survive with all of my digits intact and mercifully unbitten by frost.

The question of temperature provided by a kilt apparently was raised on the X Marks the Scot forums recently, and one of the members decided to investigate how much insulation was provided by several types of kilts on a cold night. The link includes the complete report of a nicely scientific experiment, and it makes for a fun read, even if it is a bit long.

I received an email with the link to the site from a friend, who had in turn received it from the company that manufactures and distributes the temperature probes used in the experiment. We use the probes, and others as well, in several of our science classes, though I must say the thought of borrowing these to use in an experiment like this never crossed my mind. A general description of the experiment and results follows.

The experimenter tested three different kilts: a regular wool 8 yard kilt, a wool 4 yard box-pleated kilt, and a poly-cotton blend fake kilt. He sewed two temperature probes onto a pair of boxer shorts (one in the front and one in the back) and mounted a third probe on a stick that was mounted horizontally on his hat to measure the ambient air temperature (a brisk 28° F). Each probe reported the temperature four times per minute for fifteen minutes, at which time the experimenter switched kilts and repeated. For the first ten minutes of data collection the experimenter was standing in an outdoor area sheltered from the wind, and he spent the final five minutes walking up and down his driveway.

The results? Surprising, actually. Once he started walking, all three kilts measured approximately the same temperature in the front sensor, but the heaviest kilt (the only real kilt if you ask me) was the one that suffered the greatest loss in temperature from the standing measurements. The conclusion was that this kilt provided the least amount of thermal insulation while walking, even though the temperature reached was similar to the other kilts.

I offer two suggestions for how the experiment could have been improved. The first is to control for the fact that after conducting the experiment with one kilt, he changed the kilt and immediately began another test. Seems there could be some skewed data in putting a warm kilt on an already cold experimenter, so I suggest conducting the entire experiment a total of six times, altering the order of the kilts each time. The second suggestion is to have a control trial to see just how much insulation any of kilts provides, so conduct a 15 minute data collection time wearing only the boxer shorts.

Am I making too much out of something that no one should really care about? I will leave the answers to those questions to the reader.

I’m not about to run outside myself to try this experiment, and it’s not because I only have one kilt (though that is part of it). The real reason is that right now I’m sitting inside, wearing a sweater and comfy slippers, and sipping a mug of hot chocolate. In other words, I’m warm and cozy, and I’m going to stay that way.

Trader Joe’s was pretty crowded for 7:00 on a Friday night (I know, I’m a real social butterfly), and I pulled my hat off when I walked in the door. (The fur-lined aviator hat is warm, but a little goofy.) Since my hair has gotten longer, it’s really itchy to wear my wig, so although it looks awesome, I’ve started going out without it. My hair is reeeeeeeally short, and it’s still pretty obvious that I’m growing it back from nothing; at Target today it got a lot of curious looks. I was a little self-conscious about it, but what the heck. My head is cute, my makeup is good, I’m rocking it. So people were doing double-takes tonight as they caught sight of my close crop. (I’m learning to live with the attention.)

Down at the end of the fresh foods aisle, a solidly-built gentleman was looking at cheese. Salt-and-pepper hair, Henry Rollins build, basket of groceries, and a kilt. With a sporran. And knee socks with the little ribbons. Big black brogues, a vest, and a bow tie. Awesome. He had a furrowed brow, as if he couldn’t remember what he was there to buy, or couldn’t find the right aisle for it. He looked very serious, and although I tried to catch his eye to smile, he was focused on his task.

I finished my shopping, checked out, and as I was pushing my cart out of the store, I noticed him walking across the front toward the register I had just left. I decided to take a chance that he had a sense of humor under that fierce demeanor, and as I rolled past him, I leaned over and said, “I’m glad you’re here – I thought I was going to be the one who got the most stares tonight.”

His face lit up and brightened from the center outward, revealing a radiant smile and twinkling blue eyes. He laughed as I rolled out to the parking lot.

Chuck has a colleague at the university from Belarus. Andrej is an enthusiastic folk musician, which is why I contacted him to find out about local cultural events in Auckland. I missed the dance party he told me about a few months ago, so I was determined to attend this one-day festival.

Andrej

That’s how I ended up at the 34th Auckland Highland Games & Gathering on Saturday. You see, Andrej is a Scottish piper. Word is, he and his brother piped their sister down the aisle at her wedding back home in Belarus. They disrupted the other marriages happening that day at the registry office, as brides skipped out to get their photos taken with the men in plaid skirts. We often hear the skirling of Highland pipes coming from the nearby Auckland Domain and wonder if it’s him practicing.

As a former British colony, New Zealand has plenty of claims to Scottishness. The village of Waipu in Northland was settled by 1000 Gaelic-speaking Highlanders fleeing the Highland Clearances, by way of Nova Scotia. At the other end of the country lies the Edinburgh of the South, Dunedin, named in Scottish Gaelic after that northern capitol. The founders sought to emulate the layout of downtown Edinburgh, so you’ll find Hanover Street, Moray Place,  and Dundas Street here, too. Reportedly, the Southlanders from places like Dunedin and Invercargill bear remnants of the Scottish rolled ‘r’ in their speech, although I haven’t heard evidence of this yet.

One of New Zealand’s most famous folk heroes is Scotsman James ‘Jock’ McKenzie. This highland shepherd is famed for driving 1,000 stolen sheep alone across the wilds of the South Island in 1855. McKenzie’s Scottish collie is as famous as he is, whose skills at mustering sheep are legendary. What is known is that the man and his dog Friday (really, that’s his name!)  led the entire flock over mountain passes undiscovered by non-Māori settlers. When apprehended, McKenzie was able to escape, fleeing 100 miles south to Lyttelton before he was caught. Alas, man’s best friend turned informer, cheerfully identifying his master when brought into court. Jock’s explorations were acknowledged belatedly, giving his name to the region of South Canterbury he roved – Mackenzie Country.

On a side note, I heard just this evening from my Māori teacher’s husband that there’s been much intermarriage between Scots and Māori. He reckons that most of the common Scottish family names are well-represented among the local tangata whēnua (“people of the land”).

I’ve now attended Highland games in the USA, New Zealand and Scotland. One thing that immediately became apparent at this one was that the New Zealand version leans more towards the US style than the Scottish. The Auckland Highland Games had the character of a diaspora population’s focus on culture and identity, with sporting events on equal footing with bagpipe competitions and clan tents.

In Scotland, the Highland games revolve around athletic competitions.  Everything else is secondary, although it’s admittedly pretty hard to sideline a bagpipe band that much. At the games I attended in Glenrothes, Fife, the audience sat around the margins of a track field, watching everything from the traditional caber toss to bicycle races. The Highland dance and bagpipe competitions were squirreled away elsewhere in the area and took some work to locate. And I don’t remember any clan tents encouraging fairgoers to find out where their ancestors came from. Because people in Scotland already know that they’re Scottish. And they know – which apparently lots of Americans and New Zealanders don’t – that not all Scots are Highlanders or belong to a clan.

At this Games, there wasn’t much chance you’d forget where you were, as the grounds resounded with the constant skirling of the Phìob Mhòr, the big Highland pipes. I can’t count how many times I heard Scotland the Brave. Auckland mayor John Banks missed his cue to officially open the games but stood to review a record 10 pipe bands marching in tight formation. I saw Andrej’s Otahuhu & Districts Pipe Band in the lineup, but missed their call in the marching band competition.

Adorably-dressed girls competed in the Highland Fling and Sword Dance, as they do at every Highland games in the world, watched by intent judges and doting mothers. I chatted with some friendly Scottish country dancers who attempted to recruit me and pointed out that the scene in Auckland is less stodgy than what I found in Edinburgh. Clearly, the community is welcoming, as they were able to stage a demonstration with over 72 people!

A Sisyphean Task

The NZ ‘s Strongest Man competition saw some hefty guys carrying two 100kg pipes across field and moving five rocks weighing from 95-155 kgs onto large barrels. I was sad to miss the caber toss, as it isn’t often you get to see men attempting to flip a phone pole end over end. I also missed the parade of the West Highland terriers, but you could see the little white pooches all over the place.

Eventgoers joined in Scottish country dancing and tossing the sheaf (not tossing the sheep, as a few people misheard). I swear the MC had exactly the same accent as Sean Connery,* which added extra flavor to the announcements asking more ladies to sign up for the haggis hurling contest!

Taste o' the Haggis?

It wouldn’t be fully Scottish without a recitation of Robbie Burns’ Ode to the Haggis. And we got to taste the infamous delicacy, too! I heard some gasping when the Polish guy next to me in the tasting line referred to it as Irish food. We got that cleared up before he got into too much trouble, but I refused to tell him what was in this honored Scottish food until he tried it. Man, that was some good haggis, even without neeps and tatties on the side. It made me miss a good plate of it at The Last Drop in the Grassmarket in Edinburgh. The Polish fellow and his French friends liked it, too. Even after I told them it was meat, onions, and oatmeal cooked inside a sheep’s stomach.

Kilted kiwi

Part of the fun of attending the games was looking for particularly Kiwi touches. Of course, you could get a flat white at the coffee tent and the NZ flag flew next to the Cross of St. Andrew. And the New Zealand’s Strongest Man competition was a real crowd pleaser. But it was enjoyable trying to spot more subtle NZ flair. Like the tent selling jandals (Kiwi for “flip-flops”) and beach towels designed to look like kilts. Or the camaraderie between the kilt-clad Master of Ceremonies and a muscle-bound Polynesian, sharing a cigarette break. A personal favorite was the mascot of the Scottish country dancers from Waitakere – a kiwi bird dressed in full tartan regalia.

It was time to go when the weather got a little too “Scottish,” as James Bond’s voice double called it. Even the pipe bands garbed in their clever raingear weren’t enough to keep me there. No problem, as Amazing Grace and Flower of Scotland will be ringing in my ears for days.

More photos at: Auckland Highland Games by jocuteca.

Short video clip at: Auckland Highland Games 2009 on YouTube.

—-

* I was tempted to ask him whether he was also from Fountainbridge, Edinburgh, a place I strongly associate with the malty scent of the now-defunct McEwan’s brewery.

One of the hazards of working sets is the occasional unfortunate eyeful, so to speak.

For many years, grips and electricians have loved to wear really baggy shorts – usually of the cargo variety – to work sans underpants. Which, of course, is fine if you like a breeze around your unmentionables (and who am I to say that’s wrong?), but sometimes all of us have to climb a ladder.

Normally, when one climbs a ladder on set to mess with or hang a light one is leaning out over the side of the ladder, thus throwing the load off-center, so one requires assistance in the form of a co-worker ‘footing’ said ladder, which is basically just standing on one of the lower rungs to add some weight to prevent tip-over (which is funny, but usually ends very badly).

The hazards of footing a ladder can include getting tools dropped on one’s head, getting smacked in the face by an overthrown cable (which then swings back towards the thrower and raises one hell of a welt on anyone who happens to be in the way), and looking up at a co-worker who happens to be going commando in a pair of billowy shorts or worse, a kilt.

Lately there has been a dramatic increase in the number of guys wearing kilts to work with no underwear – don’t ask me why. They usually wear Utilikilts, but the end result is the same. A dude in a dress with the family jewels swinging in the breeze. Look up at your own risk*.

I’m not sure which is worse – the shorts, where everything’s squished into one leg so it looks like chewed gum or the kilt, where everything’s got room to swing around for easier viewing by unfortunate colleagues.

When I get the inevitable view I usually loudly mention something about a rash that needs immediate medical attention, but today we were on set and there were important people milling about, so there was nothing I could do other than try really hard not to look up, which made taking the unwieldy Kino Flo from my underpantless colleague much more difficult.

And guys? They really all do look the same. Trust me on this one.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Enjoy your meal.

*Unfortunately, sometimes one has no choice but to look up – such as handing up a light, or a tool (stop snickering. I’m referring to a wrench), or tape, or being handed something that’s coming down out of the rig.

…in which I continue my quest to become 100% Scottish by venturing into a Scottish Shoppe in Salem, Oregon

My pace slows as I register the wail of bagpipes filling the synthetically bright, subterranean-level shoppe with their insistent drone. I am instantly sobered by their sound and assailed with sudden doubts about my ability to complete this quest. I really don’t know if I can. It doesn’t seem quite such an amusing endeavour now. I had underestimated how much piping I might have to suffer in order to become a proper Scot. Maybe I don’t really want to become Scottish. Maybe 86% is good enough. Maybe the Kilt and Thistle Shop has a stock of fetching tartan earmuffs in my clan colours.

I’m not a fan of much traditional Scottish music. Like many things, this is my sister Orla’s fault. Her involvement with the Caledonian Strathspey and Reel Society as a teenager meant the rest of us were subjected to an annual fiddle and bagpipe-drenched CD, placed on heavy rotation for several months after each release by our proud parents. Shuddering at the memories and distinctly less jubilant, I slink further into the shop, but before I make it as far as the kilted mannequin, I catch the eye of a smiling woman in an off-white cable-knitted sweater behind the counter.

When she hears my accent, Cheryl Duncan immediately calls through to the back and her husband William lopes out. They start chatting about Scottish-American social shenanigans, making the assumption that I know what they are talking about, and are stopped in their tracks by my sheepish admission that I have no idea what my tartan looks like and that I am actually a bit hazy on the specifics of precisely which clan I am. Some kind of MacDonald, I knew. I called my Dad on the way here and it turns out that we’re MacDonnells, descendants of Sommerled MacDonald, Lord of the Isles.

Before setting out for Salem, I regaled Erin with highlights from the Kilt and Thistle Shop’s websites, Kilts.com and FeatherBonnets.com. I wanted to know who wears feather bonnets. Who even says “feather bonnets?” Back home, black bonnets with what looked like pheasant feathers tucked jauntily in their brims were worn for a short-lived and much-mocked stint by Ryanair’s surly check-in staff at Prestwick Airport. I am curious as to who might don such headgear now. Looking at the Duncans, impeccably dressed in their kilts and matching fisherman’s sweaters, I think that these are the people to explain the intricacies of traditional Scottish attire and complete my knowledge of such stylish shenanigans. I foolishly mention that I feel underdressed.

Within seconds the mannequin in the window is absent from her post and it’s me who is wearing the floor length kilt, puffy white blouse and tight, black velvet waistcoat. They fit me remarkably well. Disconcertingly well. In fact, a middle-aged customer who hadn’t noticed my existence until now starts giving me the eye. It is as if I have suddenly stepped onto his tartan radar.

My eyes light up when I see William approach with what looks like a foot high, black feathery nest.

“I figured you’d want to try this on,” he says with a smile. “This is called a feather bonnet. It’s made of ostrich feathers. This was actually the Highland military helmet for almost 100 years. This is what they actually wore into battle.”

Did they think they’d frighten their enemies away by wearing nests on their heads? By modeling toupés made from feather boa beehives? I try and cram the scary hat on and get a straggle of ribbons in my eyes.

William corrects me, “Ribbons in the back. Tails on the side.” He adjusts my black streamers and surveys his handiwork. I have the pose of an immature seal trying to pull off its very first nose-ball balancing act at the leisure park pool in-crowd initiation ceremony. I try very hard not to laugh. I fail.

“Not very scary,” decides William. “But with these, six-foot fellas became seven feet tall and very ominous.”

It’s more comfortable than you’d think, and as long as I manage to maintain the posture my mother wishes I’d maintain in public, my ominous millinery should be fairly safe from cascading floorwards. I flounce about the store deploying a brisk martial trot. I suspect that William thinks I’m enjoying myself too much, either because I’m cackling like a demented goose or because I haven’t stopped grinning since I tucked a fluffy two-foot sheep under my arm to complete the look.

William cuts in, “Wait till you march in them and they fill up with water. They really get heavy.”

He says this with the voice of experience. I make a note not to do any marching. Flouncing will have to suffice.

Ik ben helemaal weg van deze bruidegom. Ik weet alleen niet zeker of mijn originele rockabilly-label wel allesomvattend genoeg is om de stijl van deze BG te omschrijven.
Rockabilly-biker-stoer met een kilt, misschien? In ieder geval is het hell yeah!

foto’s genomen door Eagle Eye Photography via Wedding Cabaret

Dearest Interwebland,

How are you? I hope this blog finds you well.  Sunday I went to a day spa with some old work friends, which was apparently hilarious to one of my friends when she informed me of the paper g-string thing. If I were ever to have any kind of Simolean trait it would be a Nevernude. I like to be clothed. Constantly… i’m not like some weird shower in my underwear kind of person but I subscribe to the rule that if my house burns down in the middle of the night i don’t want to be that naked sturdy woman standing in the middle of the street with nothing on.

So yes, the treatment was coffee body scrub (smelt so good I wanted to eat it) foot treatment, massage and facial.

The coffee scrub was amazing. Unbelievable scent, unbelievable feel and my skin is still redunkulously soft from it. The lady went to do my foot and I nearly kicked her in the face. Then I laughed hysterically.

The massage I probably could of done without. It was long and not aggressive enough to really work out my upper back tension.  The legs were good, but I really just wanted some really angry knuckles in my back, not some sort of ‘push away the bad toxins – bring in the good energy’ kind of thing.

Also realligning my chakras was a weird experience. At one point she just stopped moving and I started thinking that she was going to punch me in the face.  Then i thought she was a Russian spy sent to get information from the unsuspecting masses and that she was attempting a data transfer from my brain.

It was a good day. I probably wouldn’t do it again. If I want to relax i’ll do it the old fashion way, mindless time management games and pizza.

My boss keeps going on about how ladies can wear skirts to work but he isn’t allowed to wear shorts. Now i want to know if there’s ever been zip off business shorts or a business kilt. I think there’s a market for them. Only 4 more months till I can get a sewing machine.

Business zip off shorts would be hideous, but aren’t all zip of pants hideous?

Also if anyone finds pictures of a business kilt i owe them candy. But it can’t be the Utilikilt on Thinkgeek. I’ve already seen that!

Within a few seconds left in the first half, Edinboro blocked a field goal kick and ran it back for a touchdown, to put Edinboro in the lead.

It was pretty incredible, and even though YourBoro never reports on sports going on around Edinboro, maybe this is a sign that we should?

Nevertheless,

Check out the stylish hat

Jeremy Brown was visiting! Within five seconds into the interview he spouted out the slimy fucking catchphrase “Great Things Happen Here!”

He also stated that he will be wearing a kilt for Tartan day to recognize the schools heritage (Even though he’s English), and he admitted that enrollment is looking even higher for next year.

I just realized I haven’t been on here in what seems like ages.  I totally apologize for that, and I will try to keep my blog a little more up to date,

One type of fashion I have been seeing more and more of is made from Duct tape. My little sister recently created the coolest belt and pair of clogs out of lime green duct tape. And did you know that they make every color duct tape you can think of now??? It’s totally sweet

Some people have taken this hobby to a whole new level…check it out!

This lovely alien made from duct tape isn't exactly fashion, but was so creative I couldn't resist putting it up

These people really have too much time on their hands. It’s not like they are going to continue to wear this stuff, there is no way it can be comfortable!

Duct tape kilt....ummm...ok

Hey! It's my knight in shining duct tape!

Ok, here are the last two

Wow! That's actually really pretty!

Acum ceva vreme am scris un articol intitulat Chloe , pentru ca m-a inspirat o rochie vazuta intr-un magazin. Numai ca rochia accea frumoasa a fost doar o metafora pentru viata pe care mi-o doresc, pentru cel care imi va schimba universul. Vladuts a inteles asta,  si a comparat sentimentul asta, vital pentru mine, cu Football Manager-ul lui.

Multi insa mi-au reprosat ca ma las orbita de un simplu material stralucitor, ca nu poti sa ridici o textila la rang de arta.

Si atunci va intreb: Cine e John Galliano ? Un simplu croitor?

Marc Jacobs – un gay cu o obsesie ciudata pentru kilturi?

Karl Lagerfeld – un batranel care nu zambeste?

Ei sunt oamenii care imi creeaza mie zambetul, care scriu in fiecare zi un pic de istorie pe paginile aurite ale ultimului numar din Vogue, care ma fac pe mine sa am mai multa incredere in mine, atunci cand ma ia de brat Ladybag-ul meu.

Pentru mine, sunt niste genii pentru ca munca lor de zi cu zi ma transforma in fiecare dimineata, din tipa aia care vrea sa mai doarma in cea care stie ca arata genial azi! Si pentru cei care n-au stiut nici de aceasta data sa citesca printre randuri, nu ma refer la brandul care te imbraca, pentru ca trust me, si geanta aia pe care tocmai ti-ai luat-o din Obor a plecat de la una din ideile lor, sau daca nu a fost ideea  acestor 3 designeri, a fost a altora ca ei..

Morals: inainte sa iti pierzi timpul judecand/blamand industria modei pentru “superficialitatea” ei, gandeste-te cu ce esti tu mai bun decat o industrie care functioneaza de sute de ani? Esti mai bun decat oamenii care au gandit chilotii pe care ii porti acum?

今日11月8日はRemembrance Sunday（休戦記念日曜日）、Remembrance Day（リメンバランス・デー／戦没者追悼記念日）の記念式典が行われた。Poppy Day（ポピーの日）、Armistice Day（第一次大戦の休戦記念日）、Veterans Day（退役軍人の日）とも呼ばれるRemembrance Dayは、第一次世界大戦とその後の戦争の死者を追悼する日で、1918年11月11日に連合国とドイツ帝国の間で休戦協定が締結されたことに因み、11月11日と定められている。当日11月11日にも2分間の黙祷が捧げられるが、通常、Remembrance Sundayと呼ばれる11月の第2週目の日曜日に、ロンドンのWhitehall（ホワイトホール）にあるCenotaph（慰霊碑）前で、王室関係者や政府要人が参加して行われる国の追悼式典のほか、各地の戦争記念碑（war memorials）で慰霊祭が行われる。

今日の追悼式典では、小雨まじりの曇り空の中、20分の宗教儀式の始めに、コモンウェルス（イギリス連邦）高官、首相、世界の宗教代表、軍隊のリーダーたちが見守る中、エリザベス女王を筆頭にポピーの花輪が次々と捧げられた。そして午前11時に2分間の黙祷。その後7500人もの退役軍人と1600人の一般人が、慰霊碑前でパレードを行った。→BBCニュース

この時期、イギリスでは、胸に紙製の赤いポピーの花をつけている人を多く見かける。これは、1921年にRoyal British Legion（英国在郷軍人会）が、戦没者への募金を集めるために赤いポピーを売ったのが始まりで、第一次世界大戦の激戦地・西部戦線（フランドル戦線）のあった、フランダース地方に多く生えている赤い芥子の花（フランダース・ポピー）に由来しており、赤い色は戦争で流された血を意味する。この紙製のポピーは、退役軍人によって作られており、英国在郷軍人会の名の下で、街角での募金活動やスーパーなどの店頭で販売され、収益は退役軍人のサポートに当てられる。上の写真はオックスフォード・サーカスの街角での募金活動。下の写真は、Angel（エンジェル）の街角で、赤いタータンチェックのキルトに身を包んで、道行く人と楽しそうに話しながら募金活動していたおじいさんをスーパーで発見、こっそり撮影させていただきました。

Today is Remembrance Sunday and the Remembrance Day national commemoration was held in London’s Whitehall. The remembrance day, also known as Poppy Day, Armistice Day (the event it commemorates) or Veterans Day, is a day to commemorate the sacrifices of members of the armed forces and of civilians in times of wars since the First World War. It is observed on 11 November to recall the end of World War I on that date in 1918, when German signed the Armistice. Although two minutes of silence are observed on 11 November itself, but on Remembrance Sunday (the second Sunday of November), ceremonies are held at local war memorials nationwide, and the national commemoration is held at Cenotaph in Whitehall to remember those men and women who have died in action serving their country.

Under the gray sky at the this year’s national commemoration in Whitehall, the Queen Elizabeth laid the first wreath of poppy flowers at the start of a 20-minute religious service, in front of the prime minister, military leaders, representatives of the world’s religions, and Commonwealth representatives. After two-minute silence at 11 am, 7,500 ex-service personnel and 1,600 civilians marched past the Cenotaph. →BBC news

Around the Remembrance Day, you see many people wearing red poppy flower made of paper, as a sign of remembrance. The poppy emblem was chosen because of the poppies (Flanders poppy) that bloomed across one of the worst battlefields of Flanders in World War I, with their red color which is an appropriate symbol for the bloodshed of trench warfare. This artificial poppies are made by veterans and are sold on behalf of the Royal British Legion on the street by volunteers or at the stores. The sale go towards supporting former soldiers. The photo above is the fund raising at the junction of Oxford Circus. The photo below is the old gentleman in red tartan kilt, who sold the poppies at the street corner of Angel and enjoyed chatting with a passerby. I happened to have a chance to take a picture of him (secretly) at the Waitrose supermarket.

I wanted a short, easy no-brainer.  I got everything I wanted in this :

Author : Annette Blair

Date of  Publication : December 2006

Publisher : Berkley Sensation  (Mass Paperback)

ISBN-10: 0786296577

ISBN-13: 978-0786296576

No of pages : 389

The Story :

Vickie, a witch in denial, inherits a wardrobe and opens it to find a beautifully carved carousel unicorn inside.  Desperate to pay her grandmother’s medical and funeral expenses, she advertises its sale on TV.  Rory, a descendant of the  once respectable Mackenzie clan now turned community pariah, sees  the woman of his dreams (I mean, literally) holding the answer to restore the good name of his family.

Long ago, his ancestor, a famous carver,  broke his engagement with a beautiful witch (Vickie’s grandmother) who people said, cast a curse upon the Scottish village.  Regretful all of his life, Rory’s grandfather, before he died,  sent his beloved witch his most splendid creation — a carousel unicorn, part of a merry-go-round that brought prosperity to the village;  but one that would never run again until the curse is lifted.

So, Rory goes to find this unicorn, with a mission to take it, bring it back, rebuild the carousel, and restore the community’s prosperity and his good name.  Only thing, he has to contend with the witch and choose between love and family honor.

The Review :

As I mentioned, I just wanted a short easy read, a no-brainer after “Exile“. Well, a real no-brainer is what I got!  I know, I know…the synopsis sounds cheesy and serves me right for picking this out of a sale bin again just because the title was a parody of  “The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe“.  I’m not above reading shallow, fun  lit and I thought this was a cute, little romance with some magic thrown into it.  NOT!

The characters were odd and totally without some self-respect, either.  I don’t know what Blair was trying to accomplish. For instance, I think she wanted everything for her main character, Vickie.  She wanted her sexy, yet dressed her in dowdy vintage clothes;  a bold sex siren yet a frightened virgin (technically speaking since she deflowered herself years ago with dildos all named Brock—*shudder, shudder*–but has never been with a man); bohemian, cluttered, and fun but essentially good for nothing — can’t do business, cook, clean, balance books, etc. to save her life!  So here comes the knight in shining armor, the ruggedly handsome Scot who can do everything!  Cook, clean, balance books, organize, repair anything, and make her and others’ blood  boil for want of this stud. Thankfully, he falls short of being perfect by his hermitic attitude.

With amateurish writing, a main character whose personality ridiculously morphs from one thing into another, and annoying minor characters in the mix, you just gotta be drunk to like this trash.

My Mark :  Poor — Laughable;  Don’t Bother

Para dar um UP nos negócios e ao mesmo tempo lutar contra constantes detrimentos sobre sua forma milenar de vestimenta, escocês move campanha segregalista contra os games.

Aparentemente, quando o proprietário ainda estava trajava seu primeiro Kilt Celta, passava horas chorando por não ter amiguinhos para brincar, quiçá culpando a modernidade por passar o natal sozinho.

Um dos hotéis mais tradicionais da Escócia, na cidade de Crieff, resolveu proibir o uso de videogames pelos hóspedes durante este Natal, alegando querer “restaurar tradicionais valores familiares”.

O gerente do hotel Crieff Hydro Hotel, Stephen Leckie, disse que as crianças não deveriam ficar “grudadas” nos games durante a época de festas.

“Como pai de quatro crianças, tenho consciência da importância que os jogos de computador têm na vida das crianças e, sem dúvida, eles têm o seu lugar”, disse ele.

“No entanto, nos feriados de Natal, sendo eles a oportunidade ideal para que as famílias fiquem juntas, pedimos para que nossos jovens hóspedes deixem seus games de lado por alguns dias apenas e experimentem novas atividades que nunca fizeram antes”, completou.

O estabelecimento, fundado em 1868, é considerado o mais antigo hotel escocês com administração familiar.

O hotel de quatro estrelas oferece mais de 40 atividades para jovens, como equitação, golfe e arco e flecha.

fonte: www.bbcbrasil.com

É ou não é totalmente supimpa!

Apparently pictures of half-naked girls arent spicy or entertaining, so im going to start posting pictures of our male staff. Im just kidding but I am going to pick and chose what I write about even though I feel like there is a lot to write about.

Sunday night was a rough night at the Kilt. After hour after hour of being yelled at by rude customers and staff I thought that I was about ready to change and go home. Thats about the time my strangest customers walked up to the bar. The first set of three were bigger smart asses then myself, if that is at all possible. Two of them decided I was cool and were flirting while the third decided to make my life hell. He called me foul things and demanded princess treatment. I called him princess for the rest of the night. Shortly after I began serving them another group of two men came and sat at the bar. They were a bunch of sweethearts and spent most of their time complimenting me. When the sweethearts heard princess say something nasty to me they decided that they were going to defend me not knowing that the situation was already under control. After twenty minutes of yelling back and forth at the bar all five were kicked out. The cops were called but did not arrive untill after they fought in the parking lot. Unfortunately the sweethearts got the worst of it.

It was my first fight over me, it didnt need to happen, but im glad there are some actual gentleman out there that would defend me.

Driving toward Salem, we seem to be heading straight into a rain cloud. It looms forbiddingly on the horizon. This Salem, an un-witchy one, is the capital of Oregon, home to a population of 140,000, a stately university campus and dozens of imposing government buildings. It also boasts an impressive tally of no less than five prisons and the psychiatric hospital that was the setting for both the book and the film of “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

A couple of years ago I walked down Salem’s Liberty Street and was stopped in my tracks by the sight of an entire shop window full of Scottish-themed Christmas ornaments. Who knew so many people peppered their trees with plaid-clad pooches on an annual basis? Glittery Scottie dogs and a troop of tall hat-wearing pipers adorned a tinsel tree in the Kilt and Thistle shop window. In one corner Santa Mac-ed it up in a kilt. In the other he had a Scottish Saltire flag crossed across his protruding paunch. I was simultaneously delighted and horrified to find this kind of evidence of home so very far away from home, in more ways than one.

Yet this is the place I have come back to in order to learn about the secrets of tartan and other such Scottish sartorial statements. My companion this morning, Erin, who spent a couple of years in Salem (outside the prison and mental health systems, I should add), is being very obliging and supporting me in my quest to attain true Scottish status. I think most of the novelty of my being Scottish has worn off at this stage, but obviously not quite, for here she is. If ever she wants me to accompany her to perfect whichever clichéd skills and abilities are expected of those from her part of the world I’ll happily sign up. Although perhaps I should check what is assumed of those from America’s Dairyland, before I make such a declaration. While, not unlike Scotland, stereotypical Wisconsinite activities seem to revolve around the core activities of alcohol guzzling and the consumption of deep fried items, I have a niggling suspicion that there may also be polka-dancing involved. Whatever, I owe her.

Erin and I park and scamper out of the car. We pass a sign outside the International United Methodist Church that begs, “Lord, Give Me the Persistence of a Weed.” I assume they didn’t have enough SnapLok letters to spell out “Lord, Give Me the Persistence of a Telemarketer.”

There is a terrible moment when we realize that the storefront is vacant. Could the search have gone to seed so soon?  I display a moment’s distinctly un-weedy lack of persistence and am on the verge of sloping back to the car. However, we prospect a bit further and discover the Kilt and Thistle Shop lurking downstairs at the back of the Reed Opera House shopping arcade, a quirky building from 1870, somewhat perplexingly decorated with 1930s swimwear ads.

I halt at the foot of the stairs, barely able to contain my glee at the sight of so much tartan. A female mannequin models a floor-length kilt, ruffled white blouse and black velvet waistcoat. A suit of armour stands to attention by the shop’s doorway in a rather forbidding manner. But what really stops me in my tracks is the row of sporrans.

I squeal with amazement on spying their display case. Luckily only Erin, the knight and the mannequin can see my cartoon surprised face. I have only ever seen Mark’s faux leather Boy Scout sporran up close, and never paid much attention to the few other kilt-accessorising Scottish man-bags that I’ve seen on show at the weddings and the one Burns Supper I attended back home. These sporrans are furry. These sporrans have faces. These sporrans are made from taxidermied animal heads.

“Do you think they’re real?” I ask with astonishment.

Erin does. I am amazed anew. I continue to stare and get a wee start on seeing the beady eyes of a muskrat staring glassily back at me. A red fox looks snappy. A badger has tassels. I’d never really thought of badgers as the kind of mammal that makes that much of an effort. I’d half expect those vampy foxes to camp it up a bit when going out on the town, but I always picture the badger as more of a leisurewear kind of mammal. Perhaps this will teach me not to make such hasty judgments in the future.

Ah, come hanno ragione gli inglesi… Loro dall’altro del loro aplomb sanno che se una donna si incacchia lo fa per davvero. Già perché chi la conosce la evita l’ira funesta di certe donne, quella decantata per intenderci il caro buon vecchio Omero. Quella stessa ira delle tre protagoniste del capolavoro di Russ Meyer, la stessa che spingeva la cara buon vecchia Kelis a cantare frasi come “I hate you soo much right now, I haaate” o tutte le nefandezze che faceva Lily Allen al suo ex in Smile. Lo stesso stato d’animo che dà il titolo parafrasato del post: “L’inferno non ha mai conosciuto una furia paragonabile a quella di una donna disprezzata”. E visto che la causa del mal è stata proprio un cittadino (controvoglia) di sua maestà eccomi costretta a ripiegare sulle parole di William Congreve, che poi perché dannarsi l’anima per un uomo che copre le sue pudenze con un gonnellino…

“As you’ll answer it, take heed
This Slave commit no Violence upon
Himself. I’ve been deceiv’d. The Publick Safety
Requires he should be more confin’d; and none,
No not the Princes self, permitted to
Confer with him. I’ll quit you to the King.
Vile and ingrate! too late thou shalt repent
The base Injustice thou hast done my Love:
Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past Distress,
And all those Ills which thou so long hast mourn’d;
Heav’n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn’d,
Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn’d”.

William Congreve - The Mourning Bride

Per essere solo il 1697 il buon Will ci aveva visto lungo

Ah, l’amour… l’amour

La revanche à l’américaine

La revanche à la française

Laisse tomber les filles
Laisse tomber les filles
Un jour c’est toi qu’on laissera
Laisse tomber les filles
Laisse tomber les filles
Un jour c’est toi qui pleureras
Oui j’ai pleuré mais ce jour-là
Non je ne pleurerai pas
Non je ne pleurerai pas
Je dirai c’est bien fait pour toi
Je dirai ça t’apprendra
Je dirai ça t’apprendra
Laisse tomber les filles
Laisse tomber les filles
Ça te jouera un mauvais tour
Laisse tomber les filles
Laisse tomber les filles
Tu le paieras un de ces jours
On ne joue pas impunément
Avec un coeur innocent
Avec un coeur innocent
Tu verras ce que je ressens
Avant qu’il ne soit longtemps
Avant qu’il ne soit longtemps

La chance abandonne
Celui qui ne sait
Que laisser les coeurs blessés
Tu n’auras personne
Pour te consoler
Tu ne l’auras pas volé

Laisse tomber les filles
Laisse tomber les filles
Un jour c’est toi qu’on laissera
Laisse tomber les filles
Laisse tomber les filles
Un jour c’est toi qui pleureras
Non pour te plaindre il n’y aura
Personne d’autre que toi
Personne d’autre que toi
Alors tu te rappelleras
Tout ce que je te dis là
Tout ce que je te dis là”

France Gall – Laisse tomber les filles

Bisoux,

la fille de poche

What do you call a combination of bagpipes, other more-ear-delighting instruments, Scottish dancers, family crests and God?

The whole community is invited to this yearly event we call Kirkin’ O’ the Tartans full of awesomeness that you don’t want to miss.  Norwegians, Germans, Puerto Ricans and all other non-Scots welcome too!  Kilts not required.

Join us Sunday, November 8th at 9:00 or 10:45am in the Sanctuary at First Presbyterian Church, Fargo.

Blog post number one. I originally planned to start churning out party tales and uni musings straight away but  I’ve changed my mind and decided to ease you into my giddy little stratosphere by posting up some photos of my city. I’m not going to reveal where it is just yet but there are more than enough clues in the pics if you look hard enough.

Got any ideas as to where I am? Comment!