Rupert, put down that cantaloupe!

If I ever have a daughter I want to name her Mrs. Wadsworth. Mrs. Wadsworth Brockway. She'll be the coolest girl in school.

The more we get together the happier we'll be

I haven't written in a while and, if you're madly in love with me, I know that that must have been hard for you. If you have only average affection for me, it probably didn't affect you too much, but now that you've read that presumptuously indirect apology to my imagined admirers, your feelings toward me and this blog have taken a distinctive turn south (toward Satan and Hell and overcooked cabbage, along with other unpleasant things). Anyway, I've been busy exploring the city and living in my head along with thoughts too serious or nonsensical or downright shameful (Oh to dare to dream a vision so sweet/ Of shoes on hands and hats on feet) for public broadcast.

I bought a throw-away camera the other day and have finally taken some pictures. I will post them soon in order to prove once and for all (to those who brandish overly imaginative suspicions--Rachel Percival, etc.) that I am in fact in Scotland.

As compensation for reading this post, I leave with you a Churchill quote that I quite like and a picture of a dog in sunglasses:

"Soon, very soon, our brief lives will be lived. Soon, very soon, we and our affairs will have passed away. Uncounted generations will trample heedlessly upon our tombs. What is the use of living, if it be not to strive for noble causes and to make this muddled world a better place for those who will live in it after we are gone? How else can we put ourselves in harmonious relation with the great verities and consolations of the infinite and eternal?"

Prayer in Schools, Scott Brown, Chicken McNuggets

Stream of Consciousness: Grasshopper door knob hanging from a tree of gilded horseradish touchtone nino chewbacca running from a talking lamppost incredible incroyable tomato milk porcupine she-bear wondering why it keeps going-me too-tree sap marmalade juice box phenomenological reduction correlated 1000 metres spiraling sideways a fork a chalkboard a black box with nothing in it but how would you know because it's locked monkeys dancing on a raft mesmerizing promulgating hope is a delusion: no hand can grasp a wave or a shadow-that's voltaire (i don't particularly agree) forklift green samurai Massachusetts fun to sumersault.

A week has passed since my last post, so I thought I owed it to my many readers (Hi Mom...) to post something. That (see above) is what came to mind. Forgive me.

I went to a ceilidh the other day. It's a gaelic dance event at which people (many of them in kilts) dance in big groups in a number of different arrangements accompanied by Scottish fiddle music. It was fantastic! I've never considered myself an impassioned lover of dance, but that may have all changed.


Here are some pictures of beautiful Edinburgh:

...taken from Google Images.

The one on top shows my favorite street. It's g-reat.

Being insane is one of those many things that seem romantic when you imagine them but are less so in reality, like growing up, having a career, and porridge. Sure you get to talk to yourself, write on whatever you want with whatever you want, and address people as your royal subjects, and that's seems great, but it takes a degree of sanity to enjoy it. I long maintained a boyhood dream of being an old, slightly insane polemic, and now I blame television, video games, and modern advertising techniques for making me want what only really disappoints. So much of our lives are spent in pursuit of that which we believe will make us happy--money, fame, sex, power, really soft hair, a goat (different strokes for different folks)--but it always falls short. "Vanity of vanities! All is vanity."

This was my first sunny day in Edinburgh. It wasn't really that sunny, but it didn't rain either. I hiked up a mountain in the center of the city, called Arthur's Seat. It was beautiful--both the mountain itself and the amazing view of the city the summit (one really should use that word as often as possible) offers. On the mountain's highest point--marked by a 3 1/2 foot white pedastal supporting (don't you love mankind) an ashtray--I stood and felt, for perhaps the first time, glad that I'd come to Edinburgh.

I've been on a steady diet of bread and nutella. Nutella is the spread of the gods. (I know for a fact that Morgan Freeman eats a jar a week.) I've been really hungry, too, so come 11 or 12 at night I typically toast myself 3 or 4 slices of bread with nutella and get ready for a good time. Something about having a toaster and the power to spread something on a slice of bread whenever he wants really makes a man feel like a man.

Now, I may have depressed whatever reader settled his or her mind upon the discussion which introduced this post, and that reader may now feel rather melancholy, having considered the notion that real life often falls short of our fantasies' grandeur, but let me end on a note of optimism. Not all things are worse than they seem. Not all our expectations presume too much. There are things in life--some great, some small--that are better than we could ever dream, imagine, or expect, and these are things that ought to make us stop and wonder at the world, to make us thankful for the short time we have on it. One of those things is meat pie. I really can't overemphasize this point: Meat pies are delicious. You wouldn't think it. Putting steaming stewed steak between layers of buttery crust, considered by our malformed Americans minds only fit to envelop fruit filling or chocolate, sounds disgusting. But it is heavenly.Truly heavenly. I think I'm going to make some toast.

Day 4 of 160

Recently, while in the back seat of a Chevy Suburban on its way to Colorado, I viewed the movie Julie and Julia, an endearing story of love, food, ambition, and feminity based on a novel of the same name. Needless to say, the film inspired me.

I've come to Edinburgh, Scotland to study abroad. In an attempt to document my experiences for posterity, to engage the 21st century world of Blogg and Interweb, and to mimic the actions of great men and women who have traveled and internetted before me, I start this journal.

As did Julie (see movie mentioned above), I now embark upon an adventure of culinary experimentation and independency, and, like her, I know not into what forest or down what valley my commitment will lead me. Essentially, I'm doing the same thing Julie did in the movie, except instead of cooking 524 Julia Child recipes in 365 days I'm going to do whatever I feel like doing for 160 days. It's quite the challenge, but I'm going to give it my all.

Whether I succeed or fail, I'm confident that the spirit of Julia Child will pretty much remain in whatever state it was in before I began. God bless you Julia. And God bless America.